Post by Daisy Mae on Jul 17, 2014 23:53:56 GMT -5
Twenty minutes. She'd counted out twenty minutes. She counted too fast.
Her eyes don't linger too long in one spot. They aimed to sear quartz branches one second, sand grains the next. She doesn't move an inch; Daisy's nestled against the base of a tree. There were better ways to do this, better things to do, she thinks. She could've waited in any city in the world, and a Hollow would've found someone innocent, and if she was there. If she couldn't do anything about it, and just had to watch. It would be so unfortunate, she thinks, looking at the fort in the distance. This felt unnecessary, stupid. The sand bothered her, the wind bothered her. She wanted to close her eyes, but she keeps them open.
Twenty minutes. They didn't see the occupied sleeping bag at her side; not for a single second.
Daisy tried to scold herself, she did. She despaired for a successful self-excoriation. She deserved it. They have people who will mourn their disappearance, just as you do, something said. They didn't earn what it, it's, it'll, louder, whinier. That part was as ineffective as it was familiar. As it was right; as it was dumb. That part did no better than play stage rebellious, resistance-lite. It couldn't stop her when she knocked him out. It wasn't a heaviness plaguing her strong arms and powerful palms, it wasn't the soundtrack thunder of her heart and breath as she shoved him, heavy terrible him he is, into the stolen bag. A portal became itself and died without trace in the entire span of her borrowed man being a silent, literal burden upon her shoulder. None of it worked back then; none of it worked now. Loyalty was a fair-weather friend to her morals. That part knew you could save people from others, but that you couldn't save a person from themselves.
She didn't need to be saved, though.
The physical didn't lie; she couldn't be caught red-handed when no blood had been spilled. Her handiwork was delicate and controlled. She could've made him pulp. He'd wake bruised, at worst. Details mattered, the facts, they mattered. Her prints would be clean when this was over. Her conscience, pristine. She made sense of it in her own awful, childish, roundabout way. The physical worked for Daisy Mae.
There's a blip on the radar, then. She felt like judging it for its looks. She didn't feel like moving.
In retrospect, the worst dilemma she'd faced had been about what he would be put in. (At some point during the night, Daisy was staring down aisle 13's shelves, and she knew full fuckin' well that as much as Glad liked to brag, there was no possible way they produced garbage bags both tough enough to hold an entire body and ones that were actually man-sized. She remembered it, later, while she was zipping up the sleeping bag, and she'd been curious as to Glad having thought of using this as a potential tag-line in their advertisements.)
(She still thought she should pitch this idea to Glad.)
Real time, Daisy shudders.
Ill presence, nearby. She tightened her grip on the bag. Bad vibes, all of them, every last one. Her tongue was an anchor, now. She could talk for eons to anyone, about anything, but this felt worse. You weren't supposed to be nice to these things. You had to do a lot of things you didn't want to, though. This was the point of no return.
"Come here, little thing." She worked double time to sound kind. "Come on out. It's safe."
Part of her expected a hoard to come roaring and raving, rambling at her footsteps like they were after a meal instead of a bite. She would've preferred that. She was a sucker for the attention.
"What's your name? I'm Daisy," her smile edged glacial; slow and cold, "like the flower."
"It's safe," she said again, same tone, just louder, "I promise."
Her eyes don't linger too long in one spot. They aimed to sear quartz branches one second, sand grains the next. She doesn't move an inch; Daisy's nestled against the base of a tree. There were better ways to do this, better things to do, she thinks. She could've waited in any city in the world, and a Hollow would've found someone innocent, and if she was there. If she couldn't do anything about it, and just had to watch. It would be so unfortunate, she thinks, looking at the fort in the distance. This felt unnecessary, stupid. The sand bothered her, the wind bothered her. She wanted to close her eyes, but she keeps them open.
Twenty minutes. They didn't see the occupied sleeping bag at her side; not for a single second.
Daisy tried to scold herself, she did. She despaired for a successful self-excoriation. She deserved it. They have people who will mourn their disappearance, just as you do, something said. They didn't earn what it, it's, it'll, louder, whinier. That part was as ineffective as it was familiar. As it was right; as it was dumb. That part did no better than play stage rebellious, resistance-lite. It couldn't stop her when she knocked him out. It wasn't a heaviness plaguing her strong arms and powerful palms, it wasn't the soundtrack thunder of her heart and breath as she shoved him, heavy terrible him he is, into the stolen bag. A portal became itself and died without trace in the entire span of her borrowed man being a silent, literal burden upon her shoulder. None of it worked back then; none of it worked now. Loyalty was a fair-weather friend to her morals. That part knew you could save people from others, but that you couldn't save a person from themselves.
She didn't need to be saved, though.
The physical didn't lie; she couldn't be caught red-handed when no blood had been spilled. Her handiwork was delicate and controlled. She could've made him pulp. He'd wake bruised, at worst. Details mattered, the facts, they mattered. Her prints would be clean when this was over. Her conscience, pristine. She made sense of it in her own awful, childish, roundabout way. The physical worked for Daisy Mae.
There's a blip on the radar, then. She felt like judging it for its looks. She didn't feel like moving.
In retrospect, the worst dilemma she'd faced had been about what he would be put in. (At some point during the night, Daisy was staring down aisle 13's shelves, and she knew full fuckin' well that as much as Glad liked to brag, there was no possible way they produced garbage bags both tough enough to hold an entire body and ones that were actually man-sized. She remembered it, later, while she was zipping up the sleeping bag, and she'd been curious as to Glad having thought of using this as a potential tag-line in their advertisements.)
(She still thought she should pitch this idea to Glad.)
Real time, Daisy shudders.
Ill presence, nearby. She tightened her grip on the bag. Bad vibes, all of them, every last one. Her tongue was an anchor, now. She could talk for eons to anyone, about anything, but this felt worse. You weren't supposed to be nice to these things. You had to do a lot of things you didn't want to, though. This was the point of no return.
"Come here, little thing." She worked double time to sound kind. "Come on out. It's safe."
Part of her expected a hoard to come roaring and raving, rambling at her footsteps like they were after a meal instead of a bite. She would've preferred that. She was a sucker for the attention.
"What's your name? I'm Daisy," her smile edged glacial; slow and cold, "like the flower."
"It's safe," she said again, same tone, just louder, "I promise."
664 // 13 // 13
