#1485

I still have nightmares about that night. Sometimes he collapses and hits the pavement before I can catch him, dying even as I drag him into my arms. Sometimes he’s already dead when I find him, lips blue and eyes glazed. Sometimes he’s still alive but when I set my hand on his shoulder he flinches, lashes out, and the thin little blade finds my chest or my throat or my eyes. Sometimes I bleed out on the wet pavement while he stares down at me, lips curled in a scowl. Sometimes I never find him at all, and all I do is wander through the dark city, desperate and alone.

#1482

Daren is like a venomous snake lost in the city. He doesn’t belong here, too wild and dangerous to exist among civilization, yet he has adapted as all predators must. He stays in the shadows, watching and waiting, patient in the way of coldblooded things. Give him a wide berth and he’ll leave you alone; come too close and he’ll strike without warning. No snake has ever shown mercy.

#1481

If my mind is a house full of hallways full of doors, then what is yours? I see an ocean, steel gray water stretching in all directions to touch a steel gray sky. There’s nothing to swim toward but if you don’t keep treading water you’ll slip beneath the waves, choking on icy liquid as you thrash and sink. Horrors lurk beneath those waves, just waiting to pull you down, down, down. No wonder you drink; it must be the only way to keep the chill at bay. To forget about the monsters.

#1480

If my mind is a house full of hallways full of doors, then what is yours? I see a forest in black and white, like a Polaroid taken at night; white snow, black skeleton trees, darkness pressing in all around. A bleak forest through which you move with a predator’s stealth, silent and alone. An empty forest in which the threat comes not from what may lay in wait within the darkness, but the darkness itself; it would be so easy to get lost within its depths, to walk so long you forgot the path back to yourself. Who knows what you’ve already left behind?

#1478

I used to hear your voices as clear as if you spoke directly into my ear. It’s not like that now, though. Now it’s as though I’ve entered a room just after one of you has left, with only ringing silence and clenched fists to suggest an argument took place. Now it’s as though I’ve only glimpsed a few words from a letter left carelessly on the desk, and must use them to piece together a life to which I’m no longer privy. I am trying not to mind. Sometimes we cannot communicate the things we need to communicate in straight, bold words. Sometimes we need to speak in half-truths, in unsent letters, in silences and withheld gestures. I am trying to be okay with that. I am trying to let you communicate how you need to communicate, even if I’m rusty with this language.

#1477

they don’t know that I carry you everywhere, always, but I want them to, I want them to see you flashing behind my eyes, an anger that isn’t mine, a danger I don’t pose, they should see you somehow, I should cover myself in black ink, the stuff of your lifeblood, I should tattoo your words of bitterness and illfate on every inch of my flesh until I’m covered, overlapped, a Rosetta Stone to decrypt the ages you have lived and died a thousand terrible existences, if I carry your weight on my shoulders and your sorrow in my heart and your rage like a firestorm in my blood then why not my skin, why not your thoughts and threats like graffiti on this vessel to show them I am the scribe, the keeper, the conduit for something so much darker and more terrible and beautiful than myself