title: in reverie.
author: jill.
notes: short, vignette-esque. my first gilmore fic.
He sees her ghost everywhere.
Coffee shops and bookstores.
Plaid skirts, coldplay cds.
Smoking on the boardwalk.
His reflection in the mirror.
...moonlight on pink floral bed spread. your hands in her hair. down her back, under her shirt. kisses deeper. deeper. drowning. take her, hold her, use her. achingly innocent, pure and hauntingly beautiful. stabalize yourself, grab hold, regain control. regain control of your circumstance, because its begun to slip away. take her, hold her, use her. use her.
His first night in Venice Beach, and he remembers a shattered mirror, his hand, cut and bleeding. The blinding flourescent light and tiled bathroom floor. Shards of glass reflecting broken pieces of his face and body. His father's eyes, betraying heavy sadness as he reached underneath the sink and grabbed a dustpan and broom.
Things have gotten better now.
He has a job. A bookstore up the street. There's coffee and conversation, and his penchant for literature often overpowers his ability to maintain the cold, calm, closed off facade. He talks briefly with a man on the significance and spirit of the beat movement, convinces a teenager to put back a nameless book from the bestseller list in exchange for The Catcher in the Rye, and smiles warmly when a woman walks out with the latest edition of The Foutainhead.
November. Too warm in California. Being raised in the northeast has him accustomed to plummeting temperatures and schizophrenic weather patterns. Clumps of frozen, dirt-brown snow on the sidewalks of New York. The pure white frost over stars hollow.
The green grass and blue skies of Venice Beach cause him to feel even more out of place...in a time warp of constant summer. He hates it with a passion he doesn't quite understand.
He's made a few acquaintances. A group of guys he sometimes parties with...but only the ones that drive him home when he's drunk. they're the acquaintances. Two friends back in New York he'll call long distance on occasion, and they fill the lines with mindless insignificancies because neither party wants to delve too deeply. They used to be his friends, at least. He remembers as much.
His father and his father's family has accepted him but he isn't accepted. they act unconciously as a unit. Every day, every action is colored with the thought of family, of each other. And he can't understand it. Won't bother trying.
He doesn't love anyone and questions whether or not he ever has. The answer is irrelevant to him.
He knows that Rory came close.
quiet, still. cold, bright sunshine...feet dangling over the edge of the bridge. the water's reflection, smooth and motionless. her hair, straight and sleek. porcelain skin. cheeks flushed. clear blue eyes...a smile. laughter, warm. ringing like bells. achingly innocent, pure and hauntingly beautiful...
The draw by his bedside's filled with unsent letters. Scraps of paper, her name, scrawled across the top...at midnight, torrential downpour outside...countless walks on the boardwalk...on break at the bookstore, in waiting rooms and after too many nights spent drinking. He writes her. Sometimes angry, often frustrated...filled with regret. Some with coffee stains, cigarette holes; ripped corners and torn edges. He's sorry for the shit he pulled. He never asks for forgiveness. Does she really love him? He thinks he could've loved her, too.
He sees her ghost everywhere.
author: jill.
notes: short, vignette-esque. my first gilmore fic.
He sees her ghost everywhere.
Coffee shops and bookstores.
Plaid skirts, coldplay cds.
Smoking on the boardwalk.
His reflection in the mirror.
...moonlight on pink floral bed spread. your hands in her hair. down her back, under her shirt. kisses deeper. deeper. drowning. take her, hold her, use her. achingly innocent, pure and hauntingly beautiful. stabalize yourself, grab hold, regain control. regain control of your circumstance, because its begun to slip away. take her, hold her, use her. use her.
His first night in Venice Beach, and he remembers a shattered mirror, his hand, cut and bleeding. The blinding flourescent light and tiled bathroom floor. Shards of glass reflecting broken pieces of his face and body. His father's eyes, betraying heavy sadness as he reached underneath the sink and grabbed a dustpan and broom.
Things have gotten better now.
He has a job. A bookstore up the street. There's coffee and conversation, and his penchant for literature often overpowers his ability to maintain the cold, calm, closed off facade. He talks briefly with a man on the significance and spirit of the beat movement, convinces a teenager to put back a nameless book from the bestseller list in exchange for The Catcher in the Rye, and smiles warmly when a woman walks out with the latest edition of The Foutainhead.
November. Too warm in California. Being raised in the northeast has him accustomed to plummeting temperatures and schizophrenic weather patterns. Clumps of frozen, dirt-brown snow on the sidewalks of New York. The pure white frost over stars hollow.
The green grass and blue skies of Venice Beach cause him to feel even more out of place...in a time warp of constant summer. He hates it with a passion he doesn't quite understand.
He's made a few acquaintances. A group of guys he sometimes parties with...but only the ones that drive him home when he's drunk. they're the acquaintances. Two friends back in New York he'll call long distance on occasion, and they fill the lines with mindless insignificancies because neither party wants to delve too deeply. They used to be his friends, at least. He remembers as much.
His father and his father's family has accepted him but he isn't accepted. they act unconciously as a unit. Every day, every action is colored with the thought of family, of each other. And he can't understand it. Won't bother trying.
He doesn't love anyone and questions whether or not he ever has. The answer is irrelevant to him.
He knows that Rory came close.
quiet, still. cold, bright sunshine...feet dangling over the edge of the bridge. the water's reflection, smooth and motionless. her hair, straight and sleek. porcelain skin. cheeks flushed. clear blue eyes...a smile. laughter, warm. ringing like bells. achingly innocent, pure and hauntingly beautiful...
The draw by his bedside's filled with unsent letters. Scraps of paper, her name, scrawled across the top...at midnight, torrential downpour outside...countless walks on the boardwalk...on break at the bookstore, in waiting rooms and after too many nights spent drinking. He writes her. Sometimes angry, often frustrated...filled with regret. Some with coffee stains, cigarette holes; ripped corners and torn edges. He's sorry for the shit he pulled. He never asks for forgiveness. Does she really love him? He thinks he could've loved her, too.
He sees her ghost everywhere.
