TW: mental illness, unreality, blood, implied murder/death
It’s easy to forget —
(the world likes to shift, when she isn’t looking, although it’s true that nothing has really changed)
–that things haven’t always been this way. Once upon a time, everything wasn’t so loud. She heard the gorgeous images along with the cruel ones, she shaped herself here-there to the flute notes and the drums and all the other things that rushed at her. It wasn’t so hard to keep up.
But then it got so much. And she hid. She hid in her amulet, afraid, afraid of not measuring up, afraid of the hollow empty spaces afraid of breaking and shattering like the vessel she was –
(see what you get when you get what you wished for)
He might have been there in the beginning. She doesn’t know. All she knows is that they are here together, and others too, but mostly him with his silver hair and his mouth of fangs.
“You can just ask,” he whispers to her. He doesn’t like being in control. He only does it when she’s not there, or when she needs him. He doesn’t know how to move her body right. He only knows how to be sharp and jagged, quicksilver-turned-to-steel, changing and shifting their liquid bones into whatever will hit back at the things hurting them the most.
It’s her fault.
“You can just ask for the body back,” he says again, with a note of pleading.
It’s easy to forget-
(that what? that there’s memories drifting around in the undertow of somewhere and sometime when things were different?)
-that he is meant to be her good luck charm.
She drifts ghostlike beside him, watches the blood (could be real, maybe not) pooling under his feet.
“I don’t want it,” she lies.
There’s only cruel thoughts, jagged, around them now. And he shifts their body in response, taking the cue, being the vessel, quicksilver flowing into the empty spaces inside.