Post by Kionchi on Feb 1, 2016 21:04:44 GMT -5
He'd long since grown used to the feeling of falling backward, woken only by the sound of his own drowning gurgle. The spume of bubbles, once his breath, swarm hastily to the surface, dancing in the water as though celebrating their freedom from the rest of his pitiable self, pulled deeper and deeper into the black. He kept his head tucked into his knees, a shiver running up his spine as he felt that familiar chill overtake his body. It was as though a tiny frozen chain locked around his heart had coiled itself around his spine, dragging him downward toward some long forgotten anchor he refused to cut free.
He wanted to scream, but he was too afraid of choking, completely suspended in that oily sea. He'd gone a thousand and one nights sinking, only to wake before he was could completely take in that world beneath its surface. He wanted to look out and see with his own two eyes that he'd finally and completely drowned. Yet the more he tried to open his eyes, he found his entire face just squeezed tighter and tighter in protest. He'd spent so long trying to see what was beneath that still black surface. And now that he had no choice but to fall, he had to settle for shapeless technicolor blobs taunting him behind closed eyes.
Even as consciousness returned to the dreamer, he couldn't stand to open his eyes. He had seen her for the first time in over a century, countless reflections giving form to every possible vision but one: That monster he'd used all his life as an excuse for all his misgivings and failures. That demon that existed solely in his own mind, a construct of dogma and doctrine so deeply planted in the hopeless man's mind that he wondered just how he'd managed up to that point. He wondered how anyone he knew survived forced to live in such a twisted fantasy.
He felt silk, but he wasn't sure how he knew what it was. Even at his most extravagant, Kionchi had never felt sheets that soft. Turning just enough to crack his back, he realized for the first time he hadn't been floating. Rather the mattress was softer than any he'd lied on before, a completely different species from the firm futon he slept on at the hovel he lived in at the Fourth. The scent of lavender and perfume relaxed muscles made tense by injury and dream. He still refused to open his eyes, but at last he felt at ease. He slipped into a content smile as he recalled memories as vivid as they were satisfying: a smile as sweet as honey, framed by blonde locks and coupled with shimmering blue eyes.
”Evelynn...”
As for honorifics? He was at a loss.
WC: 466; GP: 9; TGP: 9
