That Which We Call A Rose
Summary: Every time it falls out of her mouth, it tastes wrong.
Notes: For r_lee.
Challenge: LJ's 100wordstories
Prompt: Subconscious
Also, this was my answer to grousing about the erroneous information put on Belle's profile, naming her Rose French, based on a graphic found on tumblr. Apparently, even my disbelieving the information and annoyance with "Rum" as a name, turns into fic. Enjoy.
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I: "That Which We Call A Rose"
Every time it falls out of her mouth, it tastes wrong. Like curled milk and amethysty clouds. But it is the closest she can get. It is the shape her mouth keeps forcing out. She doesn't understand why he isn't here. Scoffs that they don't know him, following it with needle pricks.
Everyone. Knows. Him.
Wild, dark eyes. Wild, dark promises.
She can't put the rest into sounds. Can't force her teeth when ice slides through her. Can't explain to fingers letting go of harsh cotton sheets, as the world begins to blur softly, slowly, focus falling apart.
II: "What's in a Name"
She can't articulate the rest of it in her head. The part that comes after that. There's more. There always was. Whenver, wherever 'Always' was. There are more letters, more sounds, more riddles, games, dances, but she can't capture them.
They get stuck in the scream of harsh, high mountain wind. In the crash of china. The rip of cloth. The scent of fresh soap and roses. In the wheel; always, always turning. In a face, staring at her; the uncomprehended riddle. In eyes, like stars of lightnin, so angry, scared.
They won't let her remember; he won't let her forget.