→ (signpost) wrote in repose, @ 2016-03-02 13:23:00 |
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Entry tags: | *narrative, matt devlin, wren henry |
[dual narrative]
Who: Wren & Matt
What: A dual narrative thing
Where: Matt's place in the woods
When: Immediately after this
Warnings/Rating: Mentions of blood
The grass crunched beneath her bare feet, and it felt like bones breaking. She thought each twig something small and important in the body of the woods itself. As a bird's wing cracking between her toes, and she felt those small bones fly out behind her, her feet giving their small corpses flight they would never have again.
The moon shone on her shoulders, but she didn't need the glow to lead her. She could see Matt's house in her mind's eye. Ramshackle and old, and she would be able to find it without sight. Her determination was that strong, and her fear was that great.
Fear. It was a new sensation, and she'd claimed to fear nothing, but she felt it beneath her breastbone. It felt like an old friend, a confidant, a lover, and she wondered about that old life, the one she couldn't remember. That life lived in a corner of her trailer, in a bag provided by a friend, and she had yet to pull it out piece-by-piece, to dissect it. Inside, she wondered if she would find fear among the pictures of children's faces she didn't yet know. She hadn't looked. She knew there were photographs in that bag. She knew there would finally be a face to match the voice she'd heard on the lake one night. She knew, and that was why the bag remained closed, there, in the corner of the trailer, and perhaps that was its own kind of fear.
She sought distraction from it, from that bag with its truths, and she bought a business that was still flesh and spread thighs and hair mussed on bedsheets. Running through the woods, those bird wings torn asunder beneath her bare feet, she wondered if it was the right choice.
She reached Matt's door with her heart in her throat. Wild-eyed, she was a thing knocking madly, naked, her skin covered in blood that wasn't her own. No wounds on her body, not even a scratch from the branches, as if the woods knew she belonged to something awful, as if the woods themselves didn't want to risk the Devil's ire.
Her fists landed small and heavy on the wooden door, and she banged relentlessly. Viscera clung to her pale hair, and clumps of clotted red dripped fat from the ends and onto her pale shoulders. She was a dreadful thing there, unashamed of her own body and looking as mad as the entire town believed her to be.
Bang and bang and bang, until the door opened, and then the words just spilled like blood from the mouth of someone hemorrhaging without a visible wound. "In the woods. Near the old tree where children carve their names in summer, layers of love that dies come spring. Where that tree bark bears witness to the falsity of love. There, there, there, on the cold grass that has become a riverbed of ephemera, there, there, there. Vas-y."