It's raining again, a soft pitter-patter against the window that falls in
time with the rhythm of your snoring. I shiver as I pull the covers about
my shoulders tighter, stretch my legs from their cramped position in the
chair. It's just like every other time. Sex and then sleep.
Somehow it's different.
Perhaps it's the light thrown across your face, emphasizing the hollows under your eyes. It seems sleep has eluded you these past weeks. Or maybe it's the fire burning in the hearth. It's so much warmer than it usually is. It makes your eyes look less like ice when you look at me.
And perhaps it's just the fact that my eye is swollen shut. It truly is a brand new angle; I've always had a bit of lazy eye in my right, and I can't use my left now. It makes you look less harsh in the firelight, like an angel. My vengeful angel. I hope I haven't bruised your knuckles with my face. Mother wouldn't like that.
I talked to her today, while you were out. She hugged me and kissed me on the cheek and handed me flowers for the vase in the left wing parlor, said it was a housewarming present. And when we were away from the reporters outside, she gave me another present.
I bruised her knuckles, too. She was very angry.
The mirror's reflecting the firelight back at me, glinting like a beacon in the dark. It catches my good eye, and I look at myself. It doesn't say anything to me. I charmed it, the last time it woke you up when it hissed about my broken jaw. I see my mother's eyes, my father's hair, my grandmother's nose. There's a stirring from the bed, and I see that you are awake.
"Pansy," you murmur. It sounds inviting, but I know that it is an order. There's the soft rustle of fabric as I kneel by the bedside. It doesn't hurt this time when you twist my face up and force my body against yours.
The silver of your eyes blends into the silver of the mirror as I look at my reflection one last time. "Pansy," you murmur again into my hair. I see mother's eyes, father's hair. But I don't see a Pansy.
Somehow it's different.
Perhaps it's the light thrown across your face, emphasizing the hollows under your eyes. It seems sleep has eluded you these past weeks. Or maybe it's the fire burning in the hearth. It's so much warmer than it usually is. It makes your eyes look less like ice when you look at me.
And perhaps it's just the fact that my eye is swollen shut. It truly is a brand new angle; I've always had a bit of lazy eye in my right, and I can't use my left now. It makes you look less harsh in the firelight, like an angel. My vengeful angel. I hope I haven't bruised your knuckles with my face. Mother wouldn't like that.
I talked to her today, while you were out. She hugged me and kissed me on the cheek and handed me flowers for the vase in the left wing parlor, said it was a housewarming present. And when we were away from the reporters outside, she gave me another present.
I bruised her knuckles, too. She was very angry.
The mirror's reflecting the firelight back at me, glinting like a beacon in the dark. It catches my good eye, and I look at myself. It doesn't say anything to me. I charmed it, the last time it woke you up when it hissed about my broken jaw. I see my mother's eyes, my father's hair, my grandmother's nose. There's a stirring from the bed, and I see that you are awake.
"Pansy," you murmur. It sounds inviting, but I know that it is an order. There's the soft rustle of fabric as I kneel by the bedside. It doesn't hurt this time when you twist my face up and force my body against yours.
The silver of your eyes blends into the silver of the mirror as I look at my reflection one last time. "Pansy," you murmur again into my hair. I see mother's eyes, father's hair. But I don't see a Pansy.