05-07-2015, 10:48 PM
I love you. Don't you mind, don't you mind? She can see inside of him as though his skin is made of glass rather than flesh; as though his writhing, screaming, blackened innards are all a piece of some ornate and obscure fine arts display, as though he sits under stage lights in a gallery that no one’s heard of, by an entrance to an alley that no one steps in and a burnt out ‘open’ sign. On the plaque beneath his prison walls would read: ‘The Nature of Existence’. “She is not here,” she says, while looking through his skin, past the yellowed fat and bone. She is not here. She is not here, but he must know this already. He should know it. He should feel it in his bones that she does not exist nearby. He should feel it in his flesh and his muscle and his organs. He should feel it in the air when he moves, how it feels to live life without gravity, but he doesn’t. Or is it just that he doesn’t want to? There is more in the stranger's dark eyes though than those four terrible words. There is more than she is letting him see. She is not sparing him devastation. He has crossed that bridge a long time ago; it gave way under his feet and left him stranded in fire and ash. He thinks she might be kind, anyway, and is reassured of it when she says: “But you are welcome to stay for a while. Barret.” It’s a mistake, but she doesn’t seem like the type for them. It’s a mistake, but she does not falter. It’s a mistake, and maybe she’ll realize it later when there are more bones in his pyre and notches on his built, when he ruins the deserts like he ruined the falls. It will not go any other way. Ruin is his destiny. Ruin is his fate. Margaery saw through his skin once, too. She never looked back. “I don’t remember you,” he says. “Who are you?” He knows who she isn't already. barret --- |