A lie runs around the world.
He'd showered. Twice. Then he'd washed his hands. He didn't feel any better.
Nor had the foul taste faded after he'd washed his mouth out. He could still taste the fiction. The lies.
There was a board in the back of his head, now covered with notes. Every single one was a quote from the weekend. What was worse was that the newsroom of his mind had apparenly modernized, and invested in tape recorders. So certain quotes got played back out loud. Constantly.
What he'd done, what he'd said... he couldn't begin to unravel it, make it so that it didn't hurt any more, so that it was fixed. He didn't think he wanted to. He deserved it. He wondered if he'd be able to hold a normal conversation with Sacharissa ever again. He couldn't see how, and that hurt. He wondered if Maladicta would forgive him, if she should forgive him.
He tried not to wonder if there would be anything he needed to forgive her for. He wasn't good at making things up, but what little imagination he had kicked into overdrive ever time his thoughts veered near the subject.
He was walking because he couldn't think what else to do, the tray of mango tarts Jane had given him in his hands, eyes on the curve of the horizon.
[Dated to earlier on Monday - any time during the day, really - because I was stuck at work.]
Nor had the foul taste faded after he'd washed his mouth out. He could still taste the fiction. The lies.
There was a board in the back of his head, now covered with notes. Every single one was a quote from the weekend. What was worse was that the newsroom of his mind had apparenly modernized, and invested in tape recorders. So certain quotes got played back out loud. Constantly.
What he'd done, what he'd said... he couldn't begin to unravel it, make it so that it didn't hurt any more, so that it was fixed. He didn't think he wanted to. He deserved it. He wondered if he'd be able to hold a normal conversation with Sacharissa ever again. He couldn't see how, and that hurt. He wondered if Maladicta would forgive him, if she should forgive him.
He tried not to wonder if there would be anything he needed to forgive her for. He wasn't good at making things up, but what little imagination he had kicked into overdrive ever time his thoughts veered near the subject.
He was walking because he couldn't think what else to do, the tray of mango tarts Jane had given him in his hands, eyes on the curve of the horizon.
[Dated to earlier on Monday - any time during the day, really - because I was stuck at work.]