IP: 86.179.166.238
Posted on March 24, 2010 at 03:37:57 PM by * c a r y
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cary * it's empty in the valley of your heart; chaz found you via uforia!! whoo! nom de plume cary, of irish origin, from the anglicised form of the gaelic ó ciardha, "descendant of ciardha ("black, dark"), hence "dark one." AND CARY IS 'DARK' IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE. THERE IS THE DARKNESS THAT SOMETIMES LINGERS BEHIND THE BLACK OF HER PUPILS, BUT THEN THERE IS THE DARKNESS OF HER HAIR, HER SKIN, HER VOICE. HER VOICE IS A SLINKY MESS, HOT AND DARING AND INFURIATINGLY BLITHE. sexe female. THERE ARE IMPOSSIBLE CURVES AND DIPS AND SENSUALITY HUNG ALL OVER CARY'S BODY. SHE'S SPICY AND ALLURING AND DANGEROUS. elle a nineteen ans. FOR ONE SO YOUNG, SHE IS BOLD. "STUPID GIRL," HER MOTHER HAD WHISPERED WITH UNRESTRAINED FEROCITY AT HER BACK, "YOU KNOW THAT YOU WON'T LAST FIVE MINUTES WITHOUT ME!" AND CARY HAD BRUSHED HER HAIR BEHIND HER EAR, AND TURNED SLOWLY, HER NECK GRACEFUL, HER FACE SUPERIOR, AND TOLD HER: "MOTHER, CAN YOU NOT SEE THAT IT'S THE OTHER WAY AROUND? 'Minty,' her hair spills out onto the dashboard like it is bleeding. 'Oi, Latour!' Her eyes snap open and her heart jumps as though she's heard gunshots and her breath is jagged and feral in her throat because for one fleeting moment she'd been scared and when Minty Latour is scared it is a terrible day for humanity. She wants to clutch her fingers to her pounding, beating, trembling heart, but she closes it off [vulnerability, pathetic, she scoffs at it] and presses her eyelids together so tightly that when she starts to see pink and off-white wiggles instead of black she croaks 'what?' and her mouth is full of outright disdain and oh yes, she's so unladylike. And then she pulls at her lower lip with her teeth, bites down hard and tastes blood bubbling in her mouth. She carefully, gingerly unfolds her legs [they had been lying prone and tingling underneath her] and like a yearling moving out of the mist rolling over the fields, she stands. There is an ungainly sort of grace in the way she moves, the way she stretches her arms once she is free from the stuffy confines of the truck, away from the condensation on the sticky leather and the old 'I love you's scrawled into the fogged-up windows. ‘Did you sleep in there?!’ And the words are so venomously incredulous that Minty finds herself rolling her eyes, raising her eyebrows; she can feel the creases standing out stark and crimson on her forehead. She moves a furtive hand to pinch at the bridge of her nose, an insecure gesture, one that's lost on her because she is usually totally upfront, totally abrupt. Something today is telling her to at least try civility on for size: “Uh, yes. Yes I did. S'lot easier than goin' lookin' for a bed somewhere else. Trawlin' into inner-city London, that's not for me. Cabs, buses, horses! Never thought I'd say this, but I had enough of those back home. An' all those sad faces, brings a girl down, y'know?” She knows because she feels it like a knife to the gut every time she sees a burned shell of a home, or a child with holes in their shoes. Blackened faces haunt her nightmares and smoke curls upwards in sinister spirals. Her heart aches when she wakes up in the morning and sometimes when she hears the shrill of the air raid sirens or sees the flames licking up in to the pitiless black of night sky she clutches a shaking hand to her chest and wonders why. But such sobriety does not become the sleek, sloping lines of Minty’s face and instead she replaces it with a smile to knock the sun out the sky; a grin that only widens when she comes across Andy Stanton later in the day, an old foe, and tells him, “baby, I can make this heap purr like a Maserati,” and she gives him a demonstration, patting the seat beside her and saying “hop in,” like a rascal, hints of a devilish smirk flickering on the edges of her mouth. She’s late rumbling back from Southampton because she’d tugged the lapels of his spanking new uniform [the creases from the paper package sat proudly on his chest; the grimace on his face and the way he plucked the khaki away from his skin was acquiescent] and said: “Andy, you almost look better than when you finished last at Thruxton,” and his mouth had tightened and his fingers wound delicately through her hair and there had been new finger-painted messages scrawled onto the windows. ‘Lucky there’s not soldiers in the back,’ he’d said later, brushing his fingers across the curve of her jaw and she’d nursed the engine back to life and smiled when he opened the door, ginger, furtive, at loathe to leave the girl he’d always coveted now that she wore the same scratchy uniform as him and had a smudge of grease bold across her cheek. “You really think you’d have been in here if there’d been soldiers in the back?” and she coaxed the old truck into life, sharp with the accelerator, smooth on the clutch and winked at him; leaving him standing in her wake with mussed hair and swollen lips and a futile ‘write me’ lingering like Vermouth on his tongue. Minty has found solace here before [her Crocker abandoned like a bicycle in some back alley because she knows these streets better than anyone and heck, she’s always been too careless for her own good] even if she, as a child, had always scoffed at the worn, dog-eared pages of her third generation bible, always rolled her eyes when her mother eyed her sharply while her father said grace at the table. She’s missed the service, of course, accidentally-on-purpose, but the choir is practicing and the acoustics are perfect and her hair is spilling over the back of the pew like blood. Her eyes are closed and silver-lidded and somehow she’s found calm amongst the archaic; her heart beats slower with every minute that passes. She drifts in and out of fitful sleep, and recalls Tallulah, her sister, telling her that ‘dark rings around your eyes are fashionable until somebody dies,’ with concern laced into her mouth, her fingers. She feels the Somerset wind blowing through her hair and smiles and when she cracks open her eyes her lips are still quirked at the corners, her rationality restored and her irritability dissipated; the black still circles her eyes like war paint but she rubs at them and they feel looser, on their way to recovery. Minty finds that she can hardly sleep at home anymore and so she lingers here, her neck aching, a twinge of pain in her back; because what's the point of trailing 'home' for yet another night spent tossing and turning and folding her aunts laundry?  |
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