Re: Dream: Selina & Tony
The anvil's behavior wasn't precisely normal, but the dreaming girl didn't seem to notice. Or maybe she did, and it was all just mundane in her slumbering mind. Whatever the reason, the anvil? So not important. The man swinging at it? Very important. Oh, she hadn't recognized him at first. It was like her mind didn't want her to know him, wanted to preserve youth that wasn't real, wanted to extend the nepenthe of not recognizing, of things not lost. But here, in this dream, there wasn't any avoiding reality, and youth was not, and the girl walked closer. Mossy green eyes too old, too knowing, and and Tony - she knew him - sounded as cross as she expected him to.
She ignored his words at first, because they were pesky, and because she wanted to. It wasn't even youth, that willful ignorance. Survival was wound up in her silence, years and years of it, and she climbed onto the opposite end of the stained cot with the scratch blanket in military tones and discomfort. Feline grace, youthful exuberance, and shadows beneath kohl-heavy eyes.
Knees beneath her, she knelt, and those necklaces echoed off the walls of his cave. "You're supposed to have electronics here. Some glass cases for suits belonging to dead little boys." She looked around, scanning the space and looking for landscapes that didn't exist, and then she looked back at him, the fatigue drawing her green gaze. "Oh. You asked me something? Why am I here? Looking for you, I think. Don't tell."
Weakness, see. Looking for him, caring, needing, all of it? Was weakness, and she was already falling to pieces beneath black and netting and necklaces. She leaned forward, the scent of cassia sting-sharp. "You left."