06-04-2021, 01:05 PM
Basilica
She can feel him start to leave.
Just barely.
Just enough to disturb this dream air.
She mourns him already.
But he does not go. He stays. Won’t she grow tired? She is so tired. She cannot even nod. But there is still some sort of dream-smile tying up the corners of her blood-red mouth. (Will the bleeding stop? Will it kill her? Will the magic give out eventually? Which of them is more powerful, the heart or the healing? Her will to survive or her desire to give up?)
“I’m sorry, dream boy,” she murmurs, and then corrects herself, “Orville, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’ve done this to you.” It takes more energy to speak than it does to keep herself alive, she thinks. But you cannot die in your dreams, at least she does not think so. (Or is that part real? Is he the only thing she has dreamed up? Something to keep her company while the blood runs out? While the magic runs out?)
He feels solid when he presses his neck against hers. A real, solid thing. Aren’t dream things meant to feel like dreams? She’s never met a dream thing before.
“You don’t have to stay,” she tells him. She will not make him stay. She’s sorry she’s dreamed him up just to watch her bleed. Just so she did not have to be alone. She never knew she was such a selfish thing. “You brought me the stars, that was so kind,” she continues and turns her head to look at them. How sweetly they kiss her hair, caught there as if by tethers.
She draws in a long breath. A steady breath. Leans on him a bit more than she means to and, in doing so, finds enough strength to stitch together some of her skin. Just enough to slow the bleeding.
Just barely.
Just enough to disturb this dream air.
She mourns him already.
But he does not go. He stays. Won’t she grow tired? She is so tired. She cannot even nod. But there is still some sort of dream-smile tying up the corners of her blood-red mouth. (Will the bleeding stop? Will it kill her? Will the magic give out eventually? Which of them is more powerful, the heart or the healing? Her will to survive or her desire to give up?)
“I’m sorry, dream boy,” she murmurs, and then corrects herself, “Orville, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’ve done this to you.” It takes more energy to speak than it does to keep herself alive, she thinks. But you cannot die in your dreams, at least she does not think so. (Or is that part real? Is he the only thing she has dreamed up? Something to keep her company while the blood runs out? While the magic runs out?)
He feels solid when he presses his neck against hers. A real, solid thing. Aren’t dream things meant to feel like dreams? She’s never met a dream thing before.
“You don’t have to stay,” she tells him. She will not make him stay. She’s sorry she’s dreamed him up just to watch her bleed. Just so she did not have to be alone. She never knew she was such a selfish thing. “You brought me the stars, that was so kind,” she continues and turns her head to look at them. How sweetly they kiss her hair, caught there as if by tethers.
She draws in a long breath. A steady breath. Leans on him a bit more than she means to and, in doing so, finds enough strength to stitch together some of her skin. Just enough to slow the bleeding.
HEAVEN’S GATES HAD SUCH ELOQUENT GRAFFITI
@[orville]