Black
A parallel to R * D
I open my eyes with something of a sense of impending doom.
Fate has smiled upon me this morning and allowed me to awaken a few minutes early, so as to be ready for the musical onslaught about to fall upon me.
There are times when I want to grab her shoulders and shake her, demanding an explanation for her torture. Surely nothing else could be so cruel.
She would not answer me. There are times when I catch her staring at me with those unfathomable eyes, deep enough to drown in. Black, like a night without stars.
What does she want from me? I have given her sanctuary. I put up with her obnoxious piano music. I answer every one of her countless questions about love and humanity and the meaning of life and the reason why we pray before we die.
She has taken over my life, and I can't get it back. Why do I put up with her?
Why indeed.
Sometimes I think Norman knows something I don't, but he's no help-he always takes her side. He's too fond of the redheaded wretch-I catch him watching us argue, a half-smile on his face. He's up to something. Sometimes I think he told me that Heaven's Day was her birthday on purpose, just to make me feel guilty. I'd call him on it, but he has ways of getting back at me. Like suggesting I take her along with me when I leave the mansion. Like conveniently forgetting to tell me he's waxed the floors. Damn near broke my neck.
I squeeze my eyes shut in preparation for my fate. Any minute now she'll start in, the scales like ice fingers up and down my spine, destroying my peace.
A minute passes. Two.
Ten minutes and still nothing, so I open my eyes and instead of slamming the door open as I usually do, I open it a little and look out, eyes shifting from side to side to search the room.
She's perched on the bench as usual, but the lid is closed over the keys. She's looking out the window, but hears my entrance and turns. Our eyes lock.
Normally, this is the part where one of the parties involved would speak, or look away.
Dorothy does not speak and she does not look away, eyes like the sea at night, when even the moon will not look on it.
I swear I can hear the sand slipping through the hourglasses.
*********
This was just for fun, when I was finished with my British Lit final and waiting to be turned loose. Feedback of course is greatly craved. No unreasonable ranting; be constructive, okay?
A parallel to R * D
I open my eyes with something of a sense of impending doom.
Fate has smiled upon me this morning and allowed me to awaken a few minutes early, so as to be ready for the musical onslaught about to fall upon me.
There are times when I want to grab her shoulders and shake her, demanding an explanation for her torture. Surely nothing else could be so cruel.
She would not answer me. There are times when I catch her staring at me with those unfathomable eyes, deep enough to drown in. Black, like a night without stars.
What does she want from me? I have given her sanctuary. I put up with her obnoxious piano music. I answer every one of her countless questions about love and humanity and the meaning of life and the reason why we pray before we die.
She has taken over my life, and I can't get it back. Why do I put up with her?
Why indeed.
Sometimes I think Norman knows something I don't, but he's no help-he always takes her side. He's too fond of the redheaded wretch-I catch him watching us argue, a half-smile on his face. He's up to something. Sometimes I think he told me that Heaven's Day was her birthday on purpose, just to make me feel guilty. I'd call him on it, but he has ways of getting back at me. Like suggesting I take her along with me when I leave the mansion. Like conveniently forgetting to tell me he's waxed the floors. Damn near broke my neck.
I squeeze my eyes shut in preparation for my fate. Any minute now she'll start in, the scales like ice fingers up and down my spine, destroying my peace.
A minute passes. Two.
Ten minutes and still nothing, so I open my eyes and instead of slamming the door open as I usually do, I open it a little and look out, eyes shifting from side to side to search the room.
She's perched on the bench as usual, but the lid is closed over the keys. She's looking out the window, but hears my entrance and turns. Our eyes lock.
Normally, this is the part where one of the parties involved would speak, or look away.
Dorothy does not speak and she does not look away, eyes like the sea at night, when even the moon will not look on it.
I swear I can hear the sand slipping through the hourglasses.
*********
This was just for fun, when I was finished with my British Lit final and waiting to be turned loose. Feedback of course is greatly craved. No unreasonable ranting; be constructive, okay?