A/N- inspired by this lyric: "I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad / The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had" and the really pleasant bath I took because my apartment was freezing. Lovely.
Warm.
The blood that flowed was warm and steady, but as it drained she only felt colder. It was June, and normally she would welcome anything that made her feel cooler. Perhaps she should have been more discerning when she decided to welcome the bullet, though. She knew everyone worn out face, every bullet-pocked building. No one knew her there. They looked right through her. No expression. She tried to imagine the sticky warmth that covered so much of her torso was really warm bath water. She closed her eyes and forced herself to ignore the pain. All she wanted to feel was a cocoon of hot water all around her, making her drowsy and clean. She imagined using a clean rag and some lye to wash with. Wash away the thick, stinking blood, the dirt of the past nine years. She imagined scrubbing so hard she cleaned all the way to her muscles, all the way through, right to her conscience.
She would submerge herself. Drown her sorrow. Everything was warm and clean. She immersed herself in the dream. She would leave the bath and cloak herself with a robe that had been heated near the fire.
No tomorrow.
Not another day to soil her. She would go ahead and die, but she would die clean. She would crawl into a bed of feathers and let death visit her like sleep. It would be painless. It would caress her, rather than assault her. Death would come to her like a tender emissary, not like a greedy lover. She could almost make herself feel it. Her hair in soft plaits, the warmth all around her, and sweet death whisking her into charmed oblivion. She had waited her whole life for the day she could feel good. It was a dream so pleasant she almost didn't hear.
On the outskirts of her conscious mind someone was shuffling around the smaller barricade where she lay. She opened her eyes, surprised that she was still there, still alive. And death was as omnipresent as it had been in her dream, only this death was blinding and filthy. She could scarcely see for the pain, but she took a chance and shouted in a whisper, "Monsieur Marius!" He came to her. He lifted her polluted frame, wiped matted hair from her forehead. Dreams of a clean death kept on at her. She felt such guilt. Here, she had sullied his clothes. Perhaps he would forgive her. Sit and listen. It was hard to tell and harder to take. She just wanted to go.
"I've a letter for you. In my pocket."
Warm.
The blood that flowed was warm and steady, but as it drained she only felt colder. It was June, and normally she would welcome anything that made her feel cooler. Perhaps she should have been more discerning when she decided to welcome the bullet, though. She knew everyone worn out face, every bullet-pocked building. No one knew her there. They looked right through her. No expression. She tried to imagine the sticky warmth that covered so much of her torso was really warm bath water. She closed her eyes and forced herself to ignore the pain. All she wanted to feel was a cocoon of hot water all around her, making her drowsy and clean. She imagined using a clean rag and some lye to wash with. Wash away the thick, stinking blood, the dirt of the past nine years. She imagined scrubbing so hard she cleaned all the way to her muscles, all the way through, right to her conscience.
She would submerge herself. Drown her sorrow. Everything was warm and clean. She immersed herself in the dream. She would leave the bath and cloak herself with a robe that had been heated near the fire.
No tomorrow.
Not another day to soil her. She would go ahead and die, but she would die clean. She would crawl into a bed of feathers and let death visit her like sleep. It would be painless. It would caress her, rather than assault her. Death would come to her like a tender emissary, not like a greedy lover. She could almost make herself feel it. Her hair in soft plaits, the warmth all around her, and sweet death whisking her into charmed oblivion. She had waited her whole life for the day she could feel good. It was a dream so pleasant she almost didn't hear.
On the outskirts of her conscious mind someone was shuffling around the smaller barricade where she lay. She opened her eyes, surprised that she was still there, still alive. And death was as omnipresent as it had been in her dream, only this death was blinding and filthy. She could scarcely see for the pain, but she took a chance and shouted in a whisper, "Monsieur Marius!" He came to her. He lifted her polluted frame, wiped matted hair from her forehead. Dreams of a clean death kept on at her. She felt such guilt. Here, she had sullied his clothes. Perhaps he would forgive her. Sit and listen. It was hard to tell and harder to take. She just wanted to go.
"I've a letter for you. In my pocket."