no comm; slow burns
❧ slow burns
▶ Original, unnamed male and female character
PG & 327 words
"Tell me you love me. Say that you need me."
He gives her this look, so direct and straight at her-straight through her. The cigarette in his mouth comes away from his lips, and the words that come next are so quiet and soft, like they'll dissipate into the smoke. "I don't tell lies."
The laugh she gives is sharp and bitter. Really, it's probably an insult to the word to call that sound a laugh. When she walks to him, she straddles him and starts running her fingers through his hair. He is her child, her pet.
"I guess," she says then, still twirling and idle lock, "you used to tell a lot of lies."
"Bad habit," he replies, his mouth pulling into a half-grin like he's joking. She might believe it, too, if it weren't for the fact that his eyes were still as dead as her heart. It was unnerving, seeing herself reflected in them-in more ways then one.
They stay like that, entwined and entangled but still so far apart, for a good long while, and as she looks at him, looks at his eyes trained on the hands of the clock and breathes in the smoke he keeps blowing out, she thinks Where is the person who lied to me so readily, who smiled like an idiot who thought that a show of joy would solve everything? Where is that person? Where is he now?
Finally, he throws the cigarette onto the ground and moves to push her off carefully. She does not make the mistake of confusing carefully for gently.
"Time to go," he says, like he hasn't already left. Like he isn't so far away from her, even now.
"That time," she whispers, not so much seeing but feeling him walk away; she can't even bear the sight, not when her dead, dead heart is slowly being erased, "was already a long time ago."
He doesn't even hear.
▶ Original, unnamed male and female character
PG & 327 words
"Tell me you love me. Say that you need me."
He gives her this look, so direct and straight at her-straight through her. The cigarette in his mouth comes away from his lips, and the words that come next are so quiet and soft, like they'll dissipate into the smoke. "I don't tell lies."
The laugh she gives is sharp and bitter. Really, it's probably an insult to the word to call that sound a laugh. When she walks to him, she straddles him and starts running her fingers through his hair. He is her child, her pet.
"I guess," she says then, still twirling and idle lock, "you used to tell a lot of lies."
"Bad habit," he replies, his mouth pulling into a half-grin like he's joking. She might believe it, too, if it weren't for the fact that his eyes were still as dead as her heart. It was unnerving, seeing herself reflected in them-in more ways then one.
They stay like that, entwined and entangled but still so far apart, for a good long while, and as she looks at him, looks at his eyes trained on the hands of the clock and breathes in the smoke he keeps blowing out, she thinks Where is the person who lied to me so readily, who smiled like an idiot who thought that a show of joy would solve everything? Where is that person? Where is he now?
Finally, he throws the cigarette onto the ground and moves to push her off carefully. She does not make the mistake of confusing carefully for gently.
"Time to go," he says, like he hasn't already left. Like he isn't so far away from her, even now.
"That time," she whispers, not so much seeing but feeling him walk away; she can't even bear the sight, not when her dead, dead heart is slowly being erased, "was already a long time ago."
He doesn't even hear.