an_alien_sky (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} an_alien_sky) wrote,@ 2005-08-10 17:39:00 |
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Running
Unfinished short...possibly the backstory to "the liver of birds", posted earlier.
-------
I’m scared. I’m tense. I fear for my life, and I don’t know how this will turn out. It’s all I can do to keep from screaming. It’s all I can do to not run into the wind and woods and never be found again. It’s all I can do to not slit my wrists and letting death have its way with me.
What can you do when you’ve messed up this big?
Trembling, I sit, my gaze avoiding the box in front of me. I watch the play of sunlight on the walls and listen to the sounds of traffic outside, rushy airy noises from the freeway across the fence. The sounds would run over me, if I let them. If I wanted. But I can’t, not yet. I’ve messed up, and I have to make it right, somehow, someway.
Even if it means my life.
“What can I do?” I say to my shadow, who stands over me. “What can I do?”
My shadow says nothing, only watches. She is certain of something, I don’t know what. In her hand, I see my knife, a darkened, ghostly dagger. Her hand is firmly on it; she intends to keep it. She will not let me escape so lightly or so quickly.
I huddle before my shadow, miserable and scared. She only watches while I tense and huddle and wait for the certain doom.
Finally, still shaking, I reach out, touch the wooden box that sits before me. My doom, and my life. Inside it...no. Best not think about it. Not if I want to remain sane. I expect a jolt when I touch the box, but only feel the lacquered wood, the bumps and knots of carved clouds and dragons. The wood is dark, as my thoughts. Unlike my thoughts, the wood is smooth and cool.
What can I do?
Inaction will doom me, just as surely as action will. I pull the box close, somehow get to my feet.
Cradling the box in my arms, I stagger out of the room.
#
“The box,” I had said, two days ago, and laid it at the man’s feet.
He had eyed it, as one would a dog turd. “It is yours.”
“It’s what you asked for.”
“Keep it.” He had turned away.
It wasn’t what I’d expected. I grabbed his arm. “You demanded it of me. It is yours.”
“No,” he said pleasantly.
“I’ve done this,” I whispered. “For you.”
He turned away again. “Never for me.”
I stood straight, outraged. “You accuse me of disloyalty?”
“No. Of loyalties improperly understood.”
“I understand my loyalty,” I said. “I understand that you demanded this.”
“Did I?” Over his shoulder, he had looked at me.
“You refuse it!”
“No,” he said. “You do. You created the opportunity. Now you refuse it.” His turning away had been dismissive, final.
Opportunity. Not with this box. Not with... Back in the present, I stand holding the box. I stand trembling on the street corner and watch the passersby. I deliberately look away from all eyes, towards the blue sky above and the ground below.
Unfinished short...possibly the backstory to "the liver of birds", posted earlier.
-------
I’m scared. I’m tense. I fear for my life, and I don’t know how this will turn out. It’s all I can do to keep from screaming. It’s all I can do to not run into the wind and woods and never be found again. It’s all I can do to not slit my wrists and letting death have its way with me.
What can you do when you’ve messed up this big?
Trembling, I sit, my gaze avoiding the box in front of me. I watch the play of sunlight on the walls and listen to the sounds of traffic outside, rushy airy noises from the freeway across the fence. The sounds would run over me, if I let them. If I wanted. But I can’t, not yet. I’ve messed up, and I have to make it right, somehow, someway.
Even if it means my life.
“What can I do?” I say to my shadow, who stands over me. “What can I do?”
My shadow says nothing, only watches. She is certain of something, I don’t know what. In her hand, I see my knife, a darkened, ghostly dagger. Her hand is firmly on it; she intends to keep it. She will not let me escape so lightly or so quickly.
I huddle before my shadow, miserable and scared. She only watches while I tense and huddle and wait for the certain doom.
Finally, still shaking, I reach out, touch the wooden box that sits before me. My doom, and my life. Inside it...no. Best not think about it. Not if I want to remain sane. I expect a jolt when I touch the box, but only feel the lacquered wood, the bumps and knots of carved clouds and dragons. The wood is dark, as my thoughts. Unlike my thoughts, the wood is smooth and cool.
What can I do?
Inaction will doom me, just as surely as action will. I pull the box close, somehow get to my feet.
Cradling the box in my arms, I stagger out of the room.
#
“The box,” I had said, two days ago, and laid it at the man’s feet.
He had eyed it, as one would a dog turd. “It is yours.”
“It’s what you asked for.”
“Keep it.” He had turned away.
It wasn’t what I’d expected. I grabbed his arm. “You demanded it of me. It is yours.”
“No,” he said pleasantly.
“I’ve done this,” I whispered. “For you.”
He turned away again. “Never for me.”
I stood straight, outraged. “You accuse me of disloyalty?”
“No. Of loyalties improperly understood.”
“I understand my loyalty,” I said. “I understand that you demanded this.”
“Did I?” Over his shoulder, he had looked at me.
“You refuse it!”
“No,” he said. “You do. You created the opportunity. Now you refuse it.” His turning away had been dismissive, final.
Opportunity. Not with this box. Not with... Back in the present, I stand holding the box. I stand trembling on the street corner and watch the passersby. I deliberately look away from all eyes, towards the blue sky above and the ground below.
