11-17-2020, 02:10 AM
She has died before, and she should be able to understand.
She does remember being afraid; that part she can relate to. There is fear in the very moment, that instant when the pain is bright and all-consuming, and she wants it to all be over – either because it has stopped and she is alive, or because she is dead and does not have to feel it anymore. She has died many ways – with a skull cracked open by her first born, twice in the sea (once of her own doing, once in a sea crafted by him), and at the frigid top of the mountain when he slit her throat.
But the fear stopped once she was alive again, and was replaced with an exhilaration that remained unmatched.
That strange, electrical jump-start of her heart, that feeling of air rushing back into her lungs and blood surging warm and sure through once-dead veins – it was how she knew, again, that there was something inherently wrong with her.
Because Svedka tells her his story, and while she understands the fear – she thinks it would be a lasting death wish to not be afraid – she does not understand the idea of it lingering.
Because he has brought her back twice, he has burnt her with stars, and ripped her eyes from her face and watched her bleed onto the ground, and still she can do nothing but miss him once he is gone.
Because he tells her this story of dying and the afterlife and being brought back and there is again that blooming feeling of emptiness in her chest, an ache spreading to her core when she wonders why he called someone else and not her.
She listens though, quiet and attentive, and her touch is almost sympathetic as it slides further up his neck, because she thinks it’s how she should act. “I am afraid of him,” she confesses once he has finished, but there is a small, strange smile on her lips when she says, “but not really for the reasons I should be.” She is afraid of displeasing him, she is afraid of him growing tired of her, she is afraid of him never coming back. He had told her – promised her – that he would be back, and they both pretend that the reward is her eyes even if they know it's more complicated than that.
All of this she keeps to herself, not expecting Svedka to understand even if she could find a way to ever put it into words. She was afraid that sharing the memories with anyone else would strip the intimacy from them, and though she might turn every moment over in her mind again and again until the sharp edges are worn smooth, they are hers and hers alone. “I can’t pretend to know or understand the reasons for why Carnage does the things that he does,” she finally says, resting against him once he leans into her. “But I’m glad he brought you back.” Her lily-white lips find the curve of his cheek, her touch still gently, almost exploratory, still remaining in the sweet, helpless part she has decided to play today. “You are a light in the darkness,” she breathes against him with a low, silvery laugh, “and I am an expert on darkness.”
She does remember being afraid; that part she can relate to. There is fear in the very moment, that instant when the pain is bright and all-consuming, and she wants it to all be over – either because it has stopped and she is alive, or because she is dead and does not have to feel it anymore. She has died many ways – with a skull cracked open by her first born, twice in the sea (once of her own doing, once in a sea crafted by him), and at the frigid top of the mountain when he slit her throat.
But the fear stopped once she was alive again, and was replaced with an exhilaration that remained unmatched.
That strange, electrical jump-start of her heart, that feeling of air rushing back into her lungs and blood surging warm and sure through once-dead veins – it was how she knew, again, that there was something inherently wrong with her.
Because Svedka tells her his story, and while she understands the fear – she thinks it would be a lasting death wish to not be afraid – she does not understand the idea of it lingering.
Because he has brought her back twice, he has burnt her with stars, and ripped her eyes from her face and watched her bleed onto the ground, and still she can do nothing but miss him once he is gone.
Because he tells her this story of dying and the afterlife and being brought back and there is again that blooming feeling of emptiness in her chest, an ache spreading to her core when she wonders why he called someone else and not her.
She listens though, quiet and attentive, and her touch is almost sympathetic as it slides further up his neck, because she thinks it’s how she should act. “I am afraid of him,” she confesses once he has finished, but there is a small, strange smile on her lips when she says, “but not really for the reasons I should be.” She is afraid of displeasing him, she is afraid of him growing tired of her, she is afraid of him never coming back. He had told her – promised her – that he would be back, and they both pretend that the reward is her eyes even if they know it's more complicated than that.
All of this she keeps to herself, not expecting Svedka to understand even if she could find a way to ever put it into words. She was afraid that sharing the memories with anyone else would strip the intimacy from them, and though she might turn every moment over in her mind again and again until the sharp edges are worn smooth, they are hers and hers alone. “I can’t pretend to know or understand the reasons for why Carnage does the things that he does,” she finally says, resting against him once he leans into her. “But I’m glad he brought you back.” Her lily-white lips find the curve of his cheek, her touch still gently, almost exploratory, still remaining in the sweet, helpless part she has decided to play today. “You are a light in the darkness,” she breathes against him with a low, silvery laugh, “and I am an expert on darkness.”
R y A t A h
and you can aim for my heart, go for blood
but you would still miss me in your bones
but you would still miss me in your bones