06-07-2020, 03:31 PM
when you're dreaming with a broken heart
She cannot remember the last time she heard her name. It has been so long that she is slow to react, thinking it to be some trick of what is surely a mad and addled mind (souls are not meant to live more than once — death was not meant to be temporary, and she is so sure that every time her heart starts to beat again that irreversible damage is further inflicted). His voice comes again, though, and it is then she angles her fine head, her dark eyes turning to take in a face she did not think she would ever see again.
It’s been so long that she doesn’t remember if he was the first or second to tear her apart – she can’t remember if her father raping her or Plume leaving her happened first. In the end, lifetimes later, it didn’t really matter.
She almost laughs at the obsurdity of it all. That life insists on breathing itself back into her, but only so that it can reopen every wound, only so that it can remind her of everyone she has lost.
Reminding her that dead or alive, peace didn’t exist.
“Yes.” A single word, dropped like an anchor between them; heavy as it seemingly hits the ground, but also signifying that by responding she is not leaving, though that had been her instinct. She could have not answered and disappeared, let him think he had seen a ghost. Although, the idea is not too far of a stretch. She is, in nearly every aspect, a ghost. She looks at him with haunted eyes, with a weariness that comes from too many lifetimes of letdowns and heartbreaks — with a strange realization that she doesn’t have the energy to be happy or sad or angry at the sight of him. Just the same indifference she has felt since ending up back here.
“How are you, Plume?” She says his name with a forced neutrality, makes herself say it and makes sure her voice does not waver when she does, even if inside, her false strength is trembling.
It’s been so long that she doesn’t remember if he was the first or second to tear her apart – she can’t remember if her father raping her or Plume leaving her happened first. In the end, lifetimes later, it didn’t really matter.
She almost laughs at the obsurdity of it all. That life insists on breathing itself back into her, but only so that it can reopen every wound, only so that it can remind her of everyone she has lost.
Reminding her that dead or alive, peace didn’t exist.
“Yes.” A single word, dropped like an anchor between them; heavy as it seemingly hits the ground, but also signifying that by responding she is not leaving, though that had been her instinct. She could have not answered and disappeared, let him think he had seen a ghost. Although, the idea is not too far of a stretch. She is, in nearly every aspect, a ghost. She looks at him with haunted eyes, with a weariness that comes from too many lifetimes of letdowns and heartbreaks — with a strange realization that she doesn’t have the energy to be happy or sad or angry at the sight of him. Just the same indifference she has felt since ending up back here.
“How are you, Plume?” She says his name with a forced neutrality, makes herself say it and makes sure her voice does not waver when she does, even if inside, her false strength is trembling.
the waking up is the hardest part
ANONYA
