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Post by patrick josef galloway on Sept 8, 2009 13:48:36 GMT -5
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -YOUR SACRED SILENCE, LOSING ALL VIOLENCE,
STARS IN T H E I R [/color] PLACE, MIRROR YOUR FACE. [/size][/font] ʻ i need to seek my innervision.[/center] I
[/color][/size][/font] n the moment directly after Clarissa told him her age, a small flicker of a grin formed on his lips, but was still able to avoid detection. His assumptions had been correct, of course. When one lived as long as he had, and working over bodies for a living, one became familiar with the development of bone structure at certain phases in a human's life. Clarissa's biggest tip off had been her jaw, something easily missed if one were not familiar with the human anatomy. He would have had to examine her molars more thoroughly for an approximation, but nonetheless his target had been within that ball park range. Patrick liked women best at eighteen. At eighteen, it seemed to him, that women were at their finest, their most flexible. They were sturdy, at this age, having already most of the muscles and tendons that the average human grew in their lifetime, but more importantly that the aging process seemed to be frozen in mid-cycle. At twenty-five was when a woman began to show her age, and at sixteen, other organs and tissues were still forming. No, no, eighteen was the ideal age for Patrick, when he chose to be picky, which rare now seeing as he'd drained most of the eighteen year old women of Dublin, if his sons had not gotten to them first. It was, after all, the ages that he chose to freeze Aisling and Aileen in, after all, and look what resulted of his wisened decision.
His grin became more visible as he listened as she paid him a compliment, somewhat amused. The morning was turning out to be more... interesting, that Patrick could have ever given Dublin credit for. For the most part, Patrick preferred to keep to himself, and simply make a check list of the women he saw that passed through the cafe, making a mental note to find out her lodgings later if he could. But usually, he just liked to keep up his very rare appearances and trips to town. It wasn't good, you see, to have the citizens thinking that he spent all of his time up at the manor, but came out just rarely enough to keep them intrigued. Sure, the public saw a good bit of his Aisling at two of her jobs... a good, good bit; and the others as they patrolled the streets like their eighteen, nineteen year old peers. But it was Patrick that kept the Galloway mystique alive.
This was why Clarissa's compliment bemused him so. Given that she was in fact new to the Dublin area, made her completely unbiased to the opinions of the wisened humans, which gave Patrick a fighting chance to have his idea play out perfectly in the end. Clarissa wouldn't know that Patrick wa a man who appearances were far and few between, and of his misdeeds involving several women who show up to funeral services. She'd be told eventually, he assumed, when someone would finally spot her in his company, but at least if Patrick was able to get to her first, to show her otherwise, she'd be less inclined to believe the tales and lore that circulated through Dublin society. It was like isolation in its finest form; it was so easy to manipulate the human mind that Patrick really saw no complexity to it at all anymore. Anyone could be trained to think a particular way, it was all about the execution and the manner that it was done. Patrick would have his way, meaning Clarissa O`Bryant would believe him over the public any day... bringing her closer into his inner circle, under his thumb, just the way Aisling had been, before he changed her. And then, eventually, he'd take her as his own. The option would not be open for refusal, he'd already decided, but at this point, he had Clarissa reeled in, intrigued, interested that he doubted he would get a refusal out of her. No one refused Patrick Galloway, because they weren't given the option to dislike him or what he was; not those that he'd marked for his own.
Patrick became serious again, like he often had a tendency to do. He would have his lapses of good humor, occasionally chuckle or laugh a bit if whatever it was had humored him enough. Clarissa should have felt fortunate, he thought to himself, that he found her amusing enough to acknowledge the comment, that she managed not to bore him. "Then that settles it?" he inquired, his voice dropping lower than his usual tenor... almost trancelike, one could call it. Like a snake charmer of sorts, one could probably compare. "You find me deceptive, apparently. Though I don't suppose I should blame you; after all, it does not necessarily look 'proper' for a man of my age to be talking to a woman whose only fresh into her adulthood. I imagine that... Frankie, is it? Peculiar name for a woman... probably sees me more of a venus fly trap, yes. Beautiful in feature, but dangerous if one gets to close... I've no idea where she came up with that assumption, I assure you." He added humorously, poking his fork into his scone and bringing it to his lips, the fork hovered at his lips, before the first bite was taken, very temptingly in nature.
His face made no fluid transition into an inquisitive stare, for it was enough by simply staring into the blood red pools he called his eyes. His pupils narrowed slightly, his turning slightly so that he was now looking at Clarissa technically through the corner of his eye. "I'm intrigued to ascertain why you feel that way, Miss O`Bryant--" he stated, purposely mimicking the formal address that she made to him. "But then I feel that everyone has a unique idea of an adjective like lively. You appear lively to me, yet you're obviously oblivious to it. You come into a cafe, a cafe you've never set a toe into, address your waitress informally as though she were an old friend, and you sit here now, conversing with a total stranger... a much older stranger, at that. So that means you are either seeking a scandal, or that you are lively. Personally, if I were a young individual such as yourself, I'd prefer the latter." His words came out smoothly, creating emphasis partly in the middle just to make sure that he had her undivided attention. "You aren't seeking a scandal, are you? I'm sure most citizens of Dublin would most certainly think I'm the man for the job, if you were. I would think surely you're brighter than that?"
He could feel her inching closer to him, not physically, but picture a marionet with strings, and Patrick being the puppetier. Clarissa, he assumed, would not be so easily controlled... then again, neither was Aileen after her transformation. But his profile of the brunette in from of him seemed that if she were inclined enough, she may be able to be molded easily, manipulated, violated so to speak. And Patrick loved violation. But even as she spoke, whose sentences tried to imply rebellion and antisocialism, to Patrick she was little more than above a child. Reason number two that he loved eighteen-year olds. Those who thought they knew the way of the world, until a decade or two of cold harsh reality finally opened their eyes to the true inner workings. Clarissa could protest that she preferred to be by herself, that it was easier than becoming close to someone, but she would not have sought out Patrick's company, now would she have? She implied rebellion, but was her wardrobe not a worn contradiction? Did others her age not dress in this fashion, though few, but still. The girl wasn't looking to stand out, and if she was she was looking in all the wrong nooks and crannies. Until Patrick could sink his claws into her that is. After a week with him, she'd have no problem standing out.
He did love the bid about mortality in her speech, however. Inside his head erupted laughter, cold, cruel laughter. Mortality? What idiot wanted to be reminded that they someday might die? Not Patrick, nor either of his children. What Patrick had been given was better than salvation, far better. He'd even go as far as to compare it to heaven, if such a place existed. People like Patrick didn't have to worry about each passing birthday, or age wrinkles to remind him of his age, for Patrick stayed the same. It was just that everybody else aged. Several women came and went for Patrick, but the delicious fact was that he and those like him were the only constants in the world. They would remain, forever, without ever decaying or without side effects of time. Who needed to live their life in fast forward when they could live out each day, one baby step at a time, slow and steady.
When the laughter in his head stopped, Patrick was finally able to level his head on his shoulders clearly again. "That's one thing we can both agree on, then." he replied honestly, his eyes flitting now directly to her face. "Should you choose to accept it or not, it is actually a rare event that I choose to present myself in public; people, they... aggravate me, I suppose is the proper term. And it seems as though you've caught me on one of my good days, too. Usually the only company I entertain are the dead, whom I sometimes get a wheeze from," he added dryly simultaneously morbid at the same time.
[/blockquote][/blockquote] my pupils dance, lost in a trance ,1609 WORDS | CLARISSA | STYLIN' | AVOCA CAFÉ | LYRICS by SYSTEM OF A DOWN. |
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Post by clarissa lucille o'bryant on Sept 8, 2009 18:20:05 GMT -5
*LISTEN WHEN I SAY [/color] when I say it’s real
real life goes undefined
why must you be so missable?
everything you take
makes it more unreal
real lies are undefined
how can this be so miserable? "But don't you see?" She questioned, finally breaking her long silence, having let him continue from topic to topic quite comfortable in his own transitions, her gaze focusing in on his, her head tilted to the side, her tone a mix of quizzical and accusatory, a hand rising to gesture, to indicate the other people in the cafe, and beyond. "Don't you see, that they are all already dead, most of them, almost all of them, in their own way? What is it that you had said, that without manners we were all mutts, at best managing a trick? I think, in all truthfulness, that it is manners, politeness, the constriction of social niceties that has turned us into mutts, sitting up, shaking hands, rolling over, playing dead. Every day, the same thing, the same routine, because it is what we are expected to do, it is what we are told to do. We are born, we are given name and rank, serial number, conscribed to a life set within the mold of our parents, our families, our heritage, our history defining our future, be it through the color of our skin, or the faith of our religion, or the land of our fathers'.
From as soon as we know that there are such things as words, we are told what to say, what is allowed and what isn't. You can't say that, Clarissa, people will think that you are strange. You can't say this, Clarissa, it's rude, even if it is the truth. We go to school, we learn what we are expected to learn, some of us better than others, some of us even being so bold as to seek outside what someone else has deemed the appropriate schedule and protocol, but only as much as we can muster the time to, or the money to. We learn more words, the way they should be put together, history written in blood and fire, molded to fit whatever state or country it is that teaches it, as best as any one can remember, or recall.
We get older, and we go to school some more, where social cliques and prejudices of every kind separate us, define us into those that are popular, and those who are not; those that are talented, and those that are too smart for their own good; those that will be nothing, and nobodies, and we sit back and let it happen. We challenge nothing, because it's just not what people do.
We get older still, and if we're one of the lucky ones, we go to school some more, where we are taught the finer details of whatever craft or trade we settle on, are smart enough for, or talented enough for, or dumb enough for, or strong enough for, according to someone else's structures.
And then we are thrust into the big wide world, to sink or swim in the ocean of the workplace, each one of us molded into some task, or role, a small and inconsequential piece of the machinery that is an office, or a school, or a pub, or a factory, or a hospital, maybe.
And someday, if we happen to to be lucky enough to find someone with whom we fit together in some fashion, we settle down, we have a family of our own, to teach them as we were taught, what is allowed, and what isn't. What can be said, and what can't. And the whole time, through our whole existence, we lie. We fake it. We pretend. We live our lives in fear of what other people think, or what other people expect, because society and its mores and strictures have tightened around us, for a thousand years, two, sculpting us into something that is 'acceptable'.
Even now, with the so called freedoms granted, taken, seized in the last hundred years, two hundred years, we are cowards. We pretend that we are happy, claiming to be content in our lives of solitude, because that's all it is, no matter how much we might converse, carry on, be... what was it, lively? We are alone, each and every one of us, because we are nothing, we aren't real, we are a mask, a facade that we present to the outside world, even to those that we claim knows us the best, what do they really know? Five, eight percent of us?
How many things do we never say, because it might hurt someone's feelings, or it might injure someone's perception of us. How many things that we never do, out of fear of the repurcussions, for good, or ill, how many hurts sit and breed in our hearts and souls, if you believe in such things, because we are too afraid to air them, and their poison spreads, tainting us, coloring our opinions of the ones we love, the ones we want to love but are afraid to, the ones that we hate but can not tell anyone, because it isn't acceptable to say so, to admit how much you want to hurt them, to watch them suffer as they've made you suffer?
How many dreams have been quashed in the millenniums past, because society said it wasn't acceptable, said it wasn't possible? How many dreams die, now, even in this day and age, because we are afraid? How many people suffer, terrified of admitting that there is anything, no matter how small or how grand, no matter how terrible or beautiful, or wonderful, anything about them that is different, knowing that if they dare to show themselves, to open the coffin that we have hidden ourselves into all these centuries, that they will be mocked, ridiculed, judged, tested, probed, weighed by those that would call themselves their peers but are nothing more than sheep, and cowards?"
A ragged, almost raspy breath is taken in, as the tumble of words comes to a stilted pause, the frustration of a lifetime poured out like sand through the edges of a broken hourglass, her face flushed, her gaze bright and gleaming, though whether with pure emotion or unspilt tears, even she couldn't tell for sure, but never had her words risen, never in that tumultuous flood had they risen more than a whispered, or seethed conversational tone, even in her rant against the expectations of society she sought to keep the attention of the rest of the room turned away from them.
He was wrong, in his assumption, that she wasn't looking to stand out, looking to be seen, but to be invisible, to hide beneath the tired and worn cliches, the expectation of trouble or social enmity in her attire that shielded her, that coaxed that extra bit of distance between her, and the rest of the world, and all the pent up poison and lies and hatred, lusts and envy, that none of the world saw, or heard, but her. "You say that I am lively, Mr. Galloway, and forgive me for being a hypocrite to my own words so rashly and rapidly spoken, but with all due respect, I say that you are wrong. I am not lively, I am not a creature that craves social interaction, or seeks to live life to its fullest, I am everything that is the opposite of it. I want nothing more than to be left alone, to wrestle with my own demons and not yours, not hers," She says, a hand rising again to gesture in the general direction of Frankie, the waitress. "I am just as much a coward as all of those that I hide from, all those that I fear, and hate, and love, and... we are all deceptive, Mr. Galloway, every woman, every man, every child, but please understand that when I tell you your time would be better spent pursuing the woman with whom you shared your coffee rather than my own company, it is for your own sake as well as mine."
Somewhere in the last words, she had been moving, though she couldn't quite tell where, or when, finding her feet in a surprisingly calm, steady pace, her hand rising to pluck the skulls from her ears, to twist the ring of entwined roses and bramble that wound around a skull from her finger, and even with a forceful twist, plucking the skull emblem that dangles from her belt, coiling them in her hand and leaning in to deposit them on the table next to the plate with his barely touched scone.
"You are right. They are crass, and obnoxious, and outdone, and they have utterly failed to serve their purpose here, today. And I, I am not what you are looking for, Patrick." She says, still her words almost whispered, feathery soft as she looks back to him, her gaze meeting his. "I am not a fly to be lured in with vinegar, or honey, or a bumbling fool to be lured in with the promise of Ambrose, and I am not a bubbly, vivacious and empty headed girl that can be drawn in until you have sated your hunger and moved on. I hope that you see that I am, in fact, brighter than a girl like that, and cleverer than the fly, and I do hope that I have not spoiled your appetite with my rather ... impolite spiel, and I do wish you a good day, but I think that perhaps I should be taking my leave."
Her head pounded, her throat was dry, she felt as if her tongue was thick enough to choke her, her heart beating rapid and staccato in her chest as the words continued to fall, continued to flow, the pressure at the nape of her neck intense enough to almost be dizzying. She didn't know where it had come from, this steady trickle of words, she knew they were hers, most of them, at least, urged on by ... by what, she couldn't say, couldn't tell, entirely, but they were there, they were spoken, they were voiced, and there was nothing she could do to take them back, and she wasn't entirely sure if she wanted to, even if she could.
She had meant them, all of them, that was certain, so many things she had thought, that she had bitten back, that she had never said, spilled out to this man, this stranger, and why? In some vain hope that he was something like her, that he had some concept of what it was to carry it all, to see it all, but no, it was more than that, too. There was an arrogance, a superiority, a possessiveness and hunger in him that she could almost taste, that bled into her thoughts from his, even if she could only make out... pieces. Images. Fragments, but enough, either to bolster her own ... what, arrogance?... or maybe it had just been too much, he was too much, pushed too far, the pressure at the nape of her neck was near tangible, her hand rising, again her fingers pressed, pushed, pleaded with the tension in silent treatise to ease itself, bargaining with it that she would go, she was trying to leave, see, she had already said her farewells, couldn't it just... stop building, stop screaming.
this is the fall; this is the long way down, and our lives look smaller now, and our lives look so small leave me here crying this is the fall; this is the long way down and our lives look smaller now, and our lives look so small [/right] -------------------------------------------------------------- [/color] status: complete | word count: 1940 | outfit | lyrics: summer shudder by AFI | tagged: patrick! |
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Post by patrick josef galloway on Sept 14, 2009 18:17:16 GMT -5
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -YOUR SACRED SILENCE, LOSING ALL VIOLENCE,
STARS IN T H E I R [/color] PLACE, MIRROR YOUR FACE. [/size][/font] ʻ i need to seek my innervision.[/center] H
[/color][/size][/font] e felt the lip of the saucer that he had been holding crumbled to little more than ash against his fingertips, the porcelain slipping off of his hands as though it were granulated sand, nothing more, and a whole lot less. Patrick had been aware of the force and grinding he had been putting into the plate, at first only have been doing so to avoid the scraping of steel enamel on enamel on his mouth. He figured his jaw grinding and an obvious noise that sounded like metal being stripped off of an automobile would be more noticeable than caressing a plate... What Patrick had not been aware of that each moment and breath that Clarissa took, made his fingers press harder and harder, dying to challenge their partners.
This... this... infant (or so she was in comparison to his own person) had a lot of nerve, talking to Patrick the way she was. Perhaps he should have emphasized the warning and danger of his bite, he soon realized, or that maybe Clarissa was getting far too big for her britches. No, it wasn't like she was getting too big for them; instead the bite and sting of the comments that sleuthed through her mouth fitted more along the lines of a baby shitting its diaper, then her proceeding to rub it in his face. It took him a lot of self-restraint not to flip the fragile table over right now, or pin her to the cold, hard, unfeeling floor with the legs of his chair, it was taking far more practice and control than Patrick had the experience for. Whatever thoughts he had previously been thinking of with large curls and alarming bright red eyes, had quickly vanished into little more than Clarissa's head rolling casually off her shoulders, clean, and expertly done as to not leave much evidence of the weapon used.
He had been looking down at the grain of the wooden table, when his eyes flitted dangerously to hers, his nostrils flaring in an unpleasant manner. Aisling had often remarked that it was remarkable the way that his moods could shift on a dime, and she'd been right. Patrick could practice a lot of patience when he wished, which usually only existed when dealing with clientele, or he was trying to keep up good appearances in public. And it was also true that it took a lot to get under that granite hard shell of his, but it didn't mean that he was invulnerable. So many years of being obeyed beyond a shadow of doubt, with the exception of the Volturi of whom with he proposed compromises never surrender, had suddenly been flung out of the window and murdering a nearby innocent bystander. Patrick set the shattered saucer (or what remained of it) to his right so that he could fold his hands together, pressing so hard that they almost seemed to totally merge into each other. "There's a difference between most people and me, Miss O`Bryant-" his words had lost their smooth luster, now sounding more like a blade being dragged down a cinder block, the emphasis of her name coming out in a thud, "Unlike people like you, who claim to champion anti-humanism and anarchy, I am the catalyst that makes it possible, and it's individuals like me, that people are afraid to make and watch people suffer. I am the Boogeyman, and I am Freddy Kreuger. I'm Michael Myers, and Chuckie; all five wrapped into one, sweetheart. You ask how many people lay down and let themselves be ridiculed and tortured? Because they know that karma's a bitch, and that the damned can't hide from fellows like me. Call me the Anti-Christ, whatever you fucking prefer, girlie, but you'd be smart to watch what you say to me and how you say it," though his voice was below adult roar, there was an unmistakable threat in his tone of voice.
Patrick didn't care what kind of a pull that Clarissa had to him, he wasn't about to allow a long, rambling comment like that go unnoticed. And he wasn't afraid to make anybody an example either... Or that had been his intention, until he became acutely aware of her threat to leave that only seemed to anger him more. What did this girl think she had that Patrick could not easily out do? Or maybe he had already begun to go soft... the second option not being the one that he would have preferred over the first, but he didn't like to think that any female, let alone an eighteen year old human female, could out-perform him in any way, shape, or form. Still fuming from his own rant, Patrick failed to properly excuse himself from their table, making a clear connection to the issue of words she'd spoken to him.
"The woman that I shared my coffee with?" he asked her, shooting a metaphoric at the woman with his eyes as they quickly pulsated back to Clarissa. He didn't much like the expression she was wearing now, when ordinarily a look of submission such as that only enticed him all the more. On her it was far less appealing, almost making him feel regret for the smackdown he'd dealt her. Almost. "That woman is so goddamned wrapped up her book, that nobody probably knows that she's living on the same planet as them. That waitress, Frankie, is it? How many people do you really think are going to remember her other than the fact that it's one less person to pour them a hot cup of coffee? Maybe if you're lucky, I'll choose to forget your face, so human, so arrogant, thinking you know the ways of the world when you've only begun to live. So before I do something that you'll regret, I have clients to adhere to." With little more than a snatch of his peacoat, Patrick had stormed out of the cafe, pretty sure he ruined the gyzmo that controlled the door and how fast it came to a close.
[/blockquote][/blockquote] my pupils dance, lost in a trance ,1010 WORDS | CLARISSA | STYLIN' | AVOCA CAFÉ | LYRICS by SYSTEM OF A DOWN. |
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Post by clarissa lucille o'bryant on Sept 16, 2009 19:21:26 GMT -5
*LISTEN WHEN I SAY [/color] when I say it’s real
real life goes undefined
why must you be so missable?
everything you take
makes it more unreal
real lies are undefined
how can this be so miserable? She knew that she had overdone it, she knew that she had said too much, but she hadn't been able to stop, hadn't been able to clamtp her lips shut and hold back the flood of frustration and the tirade had gone on, and on. She had done her best, tried at the very least to keep her expression composed, her voice quiet, her tone calm and collected so as not to draw the attention of every set of eyes in the room, but even still she had been left in something of a state of shock at the unexpected reaction.
It had to be him, it was him, though she'd be damned if she could figure out exactly what it was that worked every inch of self-control and composure that she'd spent most of her life working on and shattering it as if had never existed. It wasn't just his thoughts, the images of her, or even what she had managed to gather of his fickle mindset... it might be the whine, the buzzing at the nape of her neck, almost like a saw or a drill scraping against bone, metal, she almost expected to find her eardrums bleeding from the pressure of it, that had only been growing the longer that she lingered in his presence, or his in hers.
Her head draws up, her gaze locking onto his as he speaks, as he finds his words even as she loses hers, a flare of nostrils echoing, mirroring his. She should have said she was sorry she should've apologized, again, and turn and fled, returning back to the hole that she crawled out of, falling back under the piles of blankets on her bed and plugging in her earbuds and turning up the music loud enough to make her teeth ache, but she didn't, she couldn't. Part of it, she knew, was that she didn't want to give ground... she knew it wasn't fair, he couldn't really be held responsible -- shouldn't be, at least -- for the thoughts that he had entertained, his desire bold and blazing, fiercer than any that she had ever felt, but he hadn't voiced it, hadn't acted on it, it was hypocritical of her to judge him for what he had thought, rather than what he had done, and said, but... it was something more, she didn't want to leave, she didn't want to go, she wanted to hear what he had to say, even if it was.... appalling, cruel, tantamount to declaring himself the devil incarnate.
He didn't understand, she knew, she knew the words had come out wrong, her intent not to offend him, but to try and... explain, to show her distress, her despair with the crude and temporary band aid that manners were, that she was just so... tired, of lies and fake smiles... but how do you explain, how do you tell someone you don't know, someone you can't trust, don't know you can trust, don't know anything about, that truth? Her gaze drops, steals away from him, as he rises to his feet, her fingers curling in against the edge of the table, metal digging into her fingers and palm where the jewelry and skeletal ornaments had been cast aside during her rant.
In so many ways, he was right, she knew it, she was still young, still in so many ways perhaps nothing more than a child... but he didn't know, he didn't see, he didn't see what she saw, hear what she heard, the sickness, the anger, the hatred and bitterness, the hurts and desires, the loss in the people that passed each other by, so many of them like the woman he had referenced again, alone in a world full of strangers.
And here, again, she was alone, frozen, still, as he stormed past, and she couldn't help but flinch at the distinct 'crack' of metal pushed past its standardized allowance as he finds his way out. Alone, and... and what. Angry, wounded, and above all else silent. Silent, as always, wrapped up in her own fear and denial, no better than all of those that she sought to pass judgment on, or had it been herself, had the words, the rant, the tirade, had it been about her? She blinked back tears, refusing to give him, or herself, that release, a hand rising to angrily shove back the strands of hair that wind loose from her braid, her jaw tightening as she pulls a fold of bills from a back pocket, a twenty dropped onto the table.
A moment's pause, as her hand unclamps from the side of the table, the imprint of the skulls woven into her flesh, as fingertips trail, scrape across porcelain dust left in the remnants and shards of what had once been a saucer, before her attention is drawn to the stony faced and belligerently minded Frances, who was casting a glare between the door and Clarissa that left the distinct impression of 'I knew that wasn't going to end well'. Clarissa's eyes narrow, again, a flare of anger rising once again, before she turns to yank her hoodie off of the seat and thrusts her arms into it even as she pushes the door open, almost happy for the too heavy resistance that it offers, the slight ache across her shoulders a comforting contrast to the ache at the nape of her neck, the burning in her eyes, the tighteness in her throat as she wheels away and stalks off the closest and most direct course to home.
this is the fall; this is the long way down, and our lives look smaller now, and our lives look so small leave me here crying this is the fall; this is the long way down and our lives look smaller now, and our lives look so small [/right] -------------------------------------------------------------- [/color] status: complete | word count: 949 | outfit | lyrics: summer shudder by AFI | tagged: patrick! |
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