Title: 'rI[th]
Author: Winking Tiger
Rating: PG-13
Timeframe: Season Two; "Truth Takes Time"
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the words that have come off of my keyboard.
Summary: Writhe: to suffer keenly
Author's Notes: This was originally intended for the CM March Challenge. However it didn't get finished on time, nor did I pay attention to the spoiler limitations. Hence, the birth of this piece, now. It's weird and confusing. And I'll be happy to clarify anything if asked. But I'd really love for people to take a look at this, and tell me what they think. Thanks for your time.
But before you go, I must thank the amazing Kyle Prescott, for all that he has done and all that he has helped with.
'rI[th]
Looking back and forth at you/ Should I, should I/ Pay no mind now? — Audiovent, "Back and Forth"
It's hard to forget pain. It sears through your body and soul and it tears all your strength away in one fatal swoop. Everything hurts and that's all you can think, see, hear. All you feel is pain.
All you thought you feel—all you thought you could feel—is pain. Because that's all you've ever been able to feel, before. Before.
Before:
Before when your finger bent back playing baseball and the pain went away with a frigid ice pack, a hug from your mother, a pat on the back from your father, and scoop of vanilla ice cream.
Before when the dark cars were parked outside of the house, after being instructed that you were leaving home early, and the wind was knocked out of you and nothing made the pain subside and you could not catch your breath no matter how hard you tried. Until time made it a dull ache you allow yourself to remember sometimes or cruel coincidence forces you to remember and the tears still threaten to spill.
Before when Emily Roberts said that she didn't love you and you could literally feel your heart stop beating, shatter, and rise up in your throat. And that only took four long years of looking for other girls to fill the hole she'd left in the thing taped and nailed together, flailing in the wind, you called a heart. But you realized that the hole would always be there. But you don't need to find another Emily, settle for a poor man's Emily—because there wasn't another Emily, a duplicate, out there—for you. And then one day the pain stopped, became masked, by another poor man's version, when the sound of "I'm Alice," from her lips made you feel dizzy instead of the familiar sensation of writhing in agony.
Before, all before Her. Before: Previous to the massive change in your life, the alteration that makes everything different and nothing old.
After Before is long over. Now on to the After, when you already knew things had changed, couldn't stop any of them, but you still knew. This, now, is the After.
After:
After you felt your heart break before you'd even told Her your name, because you know she'll break it, if she ever does, before she even knows she has it. And there's a dizzy feeling, again. When did it go away—when did it start again?
After your heart pulses and pounds in your chest, when your thoughts go back to Her. You think it may just lurch out of your chest—but it doesn't. "I'm Alice," shoves you to the side and asks, "who the hell are you?" And there's the silent, 'where the hell are you'; because you're sure as hell not with her. The pain's there, now, dull, again—but the dizziness has started to get stronger. Yet the pain is becoming less dull, more potent, every moment and you're not sure if the dizziness is strong enough to overcome the pain.
After "I'm sorry," said the doctor, "but your symptoms, such as bleeding beneath the fingernails, are occurrences associated with 'Mysterious Red Ball Syndrome'." And everything really began to collapse, but all you could think about was Her, and how She would never know anything, and your heart would break once more, truly break and be unable to be repaired, this time, because there just isn't time enough. "I'm Alice," wasn't on your mind, only Her, and you felt bad for that, because the time that was no longer yours should have been given mostly to Her, at least partly given to her. To tell her that She made me dizzy again, but you, "I'm Alice," made the pain come again. Tell her that you don't care if you're "I'm Alice," or Emily, or a poor man's excuse, because you've found the rich man's unattainable want and there's Her, and all you want is Her. The other time, still not yours, Her time, should be given to Her, to tell her. Let her know that your heart has escaped from your rib cage and has broken the glass on the window, fallen the two stories to the ground, and is bleeding profusely as it beats, pumps—without you. It doesn't need you, you haven't held possession of it for too long, and you know who it beats for. And it beats and pumps and gives you life, or not, for you, for Sydney. For You.
Time's up, stop writing, and put your pencils down, girls and boys—there is no more time.
Your time ran up, and then you were given the gift of borrowed time. Time you shouldn't be having, shouldn't have had revoked from you in the first place, shouldn't have been given back to you. Eric said, he's been to the end, there is no white light, there's just darkness. He shouldn't have to tell you that, you've seen that same darkness, you saw that darkness way before he ever did. Yet when the freedom of the light comes back to you, everything seems like heaven and hell—all at once; overwhelming. You didn't know if you should celebrate with cake and balloons or huddle in the corner with your fingers in your ears. No matter in the darkness or the light She always haunted you, and then it became Now, and something had to be done—before it was done for you.
But now, Now, not After, or Before, Now is unique and different. Because now, Now, for the first time, there is pain, but it isn't everything and there's something else besides, beyond, the pain. And you've never experienced this before, anything other than pain. You know of the pain, pulsating in your chest. It's easy to forget, maybe, at least a little bit of the pain.
Not all of the pain is forgotten. The bullet may not have pierced the skin, but its deflection and prevention from allowing it to fulfill its purpose isn't a walk in the park either. There is no way of not knowing about the pain that accompanied the bruise that will take up residence and set out the welcome matt, stay for a week or two. But not all of the pain is from this bullet's final words, or effects.
You're battered and bruised and this bullet might as well have had the name Sydney on it, because She hasn't helped your health much recently. She has kept you up at night, not with her, but thinking about her. You wonder in between awake and dreaming the thoughts you almost refuse to admit exist. You know you love Her. You've loved Her for too long. Longer than you should have, longer than She might think, but not long enough. But you do not know that She loves you. You have no idea how long She's loved you. All you know is the dizziness that came back again one day. All you know is that when Sydney came into the picture, not a lot else mattered.
You turn over, look over towards your left, and whisper, "Sydney."
A book lies open on the floor, the thunder looming in the distance. The wind dances over the pages, blowing over one after another. The storm moves, changes, and the looming thunder soon becomes a steady rain. The wind dies down; the book remains waiting, the pages still, one lies facing up, its contents waiting to be read:
WRITHE
Pronunciation:
'rI[th]
Function: verb
Inflected Form(s): writhed; writh·ing
Etymology: Middle English, from Old English wrIthan;
akin to Old Norse rItha to twist
Date: before 12th century
transitive senses
1 a : to twist into coils or folds b : to twist so
as to distort : WRENCH c : to twist (the
body or a bodily part) in pain
2 : INTERTWINE
intransitive senses
1 : to move or proceed with twists and turns
2 : to twist from or as if from pain or struggling
3 : to suffer keenly
- writhe noun
the end