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Posted on June 8, 2010 at 02:04:53 AM by cary.
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cary * it's empty in the valley of your heart; Cary is ill at ease with bricks and mortar; they feel cold and impersonal. She hates the way her voice bounces off the walls and how concrete feels cold and dead underneath her feet. Nothing, however, has made such an impact upon her yet as the Core she'd been impressed with Shaman's coastline because of the way it made her belly feel warm and relaxed but this is something else entirely. She's half-intimidated by it, and half-way to awed. Her eyes are wide and set deep into her face and it's painfully easy to tell how new she is here she looks like a child in a toyshop. At Christmas. Still, even amongst inner-city dwellers with their sharp minds and quick fingers, there is nature and gentleness to be found. (Because nothing screams home like the feel of sand between your toes or grass through your fingertips.) One simply has to look, and it's obvious she has there are flowers threaded through the dark curls of her hair, buttercups and daisies, and there's a glow on her cheeks that looks like fresh air. She chews at her lip as she folds her feet underneath her (curling her toes into the grass) and tastes salt. She is an unremarkable creature: only defined by the colour of her skin and the swell of her hips. They press sultry kisses onto the flat curve of her stomach and those hips, those thighs and tell her that she's sexy, that she could come home with them and they'd show her a good time. Cary takes it all in good-humour (though she feels injustice licking at her skin like fire and she wonders sometimes whether or not she has a greater purpose in life) and she tells them not to kiss her on the mouth. She had woken up in someone else's bed today; it's not an unusual occurrence and between lives she'd developed the skill of sneaking from between the covers without being noticed. It is only when she sits still that she starts to think about the fleeting morals that sometimes linger in the front of her mind (and sometimes that's why she tries to hard to keep herself busy, tired, drained), whether or not it's quite proper for her to be doing what she's doing. (She has to make a living somehow what better way could there be?) Sometimes she sees her mothers face when she closes her eyes and the lips on it are white and ashamed and Cary is torn between deep and utter loathing and terror. It's his face that she notices first mostly because it is so vastly unlike her own. There is the softness about it that she so reveres in nature; she does not often find it in the smooth lines of a face, it is more common on daffodils, the babbling steams she dips her fingers into. Cary is bold and often brash, but she would not brazenly introduce herself (partly because she thinks he looks like an angel with the sun pooling around him like that and she hates herself for the thought; it's so... corny) and instead of going straight up to him and sticking her hand out, she moves forwards slightly, as if she's trying to walk around him. And then the sun is in her eyes and she squints up into it, brushing, as she does so, her fingers against the cold line of his forearm as she moves them up to shield her eyes. She is beside him, and she can feel it as his eyes swing down to see who'd touched him and when she tilts her head up to look at him, she's shocked. His eyes are dark and set wide-apart like her own and above anything else, they're the kind of eyes that make her want to make everything better. They're soft and mellow and she feels an urge somewhere in the bottom of her stomach to kiss them. I'm sorry, she tells him, and her voice is soft but broken, like ripping silk, the sun... it was in my eyes. All there is a heavy hole where her heart should have been.  |
Replies:
- But in dreams I can hear your name. - By Simon June 8, 2010 at 05:30:19 AM
- RUNNING TO WHERE HE IS - By cary. June 8, 2010 at 06:25:56 PM
- Beggars and thieves is what we had to be. - By Simon June 11, 2010 at 02:18:20 AM
- RUNNING TO WHERE HE IS - By cary. June 8, 2010 at 06:25:56 PM
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