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when twiggy met daisy (nocturne)
Jul. 23rd, 2012 05:43 pmThe sky flips from bright to dark down here, with no regretful twilight to soften the blow. When it does, only Daisy is left to cast light.
She has moods, Matt learns. One night she breaks a wineglass and grinds the jagged edges into his hand. One night she lights candles, and insists that he dance with her to languid jazz. Matt has always been a lumbering dancer, the kind of lumbering you'd think was impossible from seeing him walk, but Daisy whispers that he has forever to learn.
One night, she begins with his fingernails. She follows with his teeth and ears, and part by part the pieces begin to pile up-- if anything is worse than the pain, it's the sight of them. Daisy is charmed when Matt begins to plead with her.
"What's the matter, sweetheart?" she croons.
Matt only has the sense to scream, but the screams mean don't, please don't take me apart, I won't come back.
He always comes back. But at the same time, he's convinced he doesn't-- not as himself. He's like a character in a video game, a sinner in Dante's hell. He was always growing when he was alive.
Welcome to the eternal moment.
This, actually, makes him grateful to Daisy. She is sharp punctuation in his existence; she gives meaning to the landscape. She's a knife twisting double helixes into his bones.
Seriously, he has got to stop with the metaphors.
One night, however, he doesn't, and it gets him in trouble.
He can tell he's about to pass out, which is always when he wakes up again-- Daisy has told him she gets bored, and would rather kill him to start fresh than go through the trouble of reviving him-- and one of the lines he has kept locked behind his lips manages to slip out.
Daisy halts. Blood gleams on the scissors in her hand.
"What was that, honey?"
Matt can't recall it at first. He's not sure what he's thinking, if compliance is becoming a thing that bypasses his brain and lands straight in the muscle memory he's not sure he can develop anymore.
But he says it-- Dante, fittingly. It's beautiful in Italian. Matt ruins it a little by choking through it.
"Love that in gentle heart-- is quickly learnt, entangled him by that fair form--"
Daisy is instantly delighted.
"That sounds romantic," she says, and he can't tell her not really because the blood loss is getting to him.
"I didn't know you were a poet, sweetheart," she murmurs. "A girl could get used to a boy who reads her poetry."
Daisy leans close, kissing his cheek as the scissors jab under his ribs. Matt screams.
"How about you tell me some more."
She has moods, Matt learns. One night she breaks a wineglass and grinds the jagged edges into his hand. One night she lights candles, and insists that he dance with her to languid jazz. Matt has always been a lumbering dancer, the kind of lumbering you'd think was impossible from seeing him walk, but Daisy whispers that he has forever to learn.
One night, she begins with his fingernails. She follows with his teeth and ears, and part by part the pieces begin to pile up-- if anything is worse than the pain, it's the sight of them. Daisy is charmed when Matt begins to plead with her.
"What's the matter, sweetheart?" she croons.
Matt only has the sense to scream, but the screams mean don't, please don't take me apart, I won't come back.
He always comes back. But at the same time, he's convinced he doesn't-- not as himself. He's like a character in a video game, a sinner in Dante's hell. He was always growing when he was alive.
Welcome to the eternal moment.
This, actually, makes him grateful to Daisy. She is sharp punctuation in his existence; she gives meaning to the landscape. She's a knife twisting double helixes into his bones.
Seriously, he has got to stop with the metaphors.
One night, however, he doesn't, and it gets him in trouble.
He can tell he's about to pass out, which is always when he wakes up again-- Daisy has told him she gets bored, and would rather kill him to start fresh than go through the trouble of reviving him-- and one of the lines he has kept locked behind his lips manages to slip out.
Daisy halts. Blood gleams on the scissors in her hand.
"What was that, honey?"
Matt can't recall it at first. He's not sure what he's thinking, if compliance is becoming a thing that bypasses his brain and lands straight in the muscle memory he's not sure he can develop anymore.
But he says it-- Dante, fittingly. It's beautiful in Italian. Matt ruins it a little by choking through it.
"Love that in gentle heart-- is quickly learnt, entangled him by that fair form--"
Daisy is instantly delighted.
"That sounds romantic," she says, and he can't tell her not really because the blood loss is getting to him.
"I didn't know you were a poet, sweetheart," she murmurs. "A girl could get used to a boy who reads her poetry."
Daisy leans close, kissing his cheek as the scissors jab under his ribs. Matt screams.
"How about you tell me some more."
