Juliet (Grell Sutcliffe) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
esoteric_rose) wrote2011-04-12 07:06 am
esoteric_rose) wrote2011-04-12 07:06 am
Record: 54 / Dreamshare / open to all
[ooc: Warning for masochism.]
Hands locked tightly together, eyes to the wall. Never looking behind, because that would only make this worse. It's the tension that kills, though, the anticipation of the blade, feeling it trace ever so lightly across the skin of her back.
Choosing...choosing...why do you wait? why don't you just go for it?
Because this anticipation is almost better than the actuality of the feeling of embracing the metal so closely, it bringing such a sweet burn closer and closer to the core. Better than kisses, such sterile, freezing caresses...the thought could make her drunk on her own fantasy, trembling from recently revealed beauty. Without warning, it sinks in, and she feels herself yield to the sharpness, what would be pain instead bringing such clarity, a beautiful high point. She is aware of everything, is everything, but yet still just her. Oh. She shall rescind her previous statements, anticipation is only half, a quarter as good as the actual feeling.
Maybe she'll just forget this complexity and let it change her into an ecstatic for now. It's certainly worth it...please stop hesitating.
And they hear her silent request. Now it's repeated over and over, lucidity and the fog exchanging places rapidly with each new twist of the blade, back and forth until it hits such a nerve that makes her jump, jerking her arms and shattering the bonds, so that she drifts upwards. She knows what to do, stroke by stroke, and even without the slight weight of glasses her world is completely clear as she glides through the water, it soothing the pain that beats steadily through her chest and outwards through the wounds. Grateful, cool oblivion that soothes the fire that is by necessity intertwined with her blood, up and up and up without a single breath drawn
until the surface breaks with a sound like glass and she's free, tossing her hair back and pulling herself out of the dark pool, water settling on her face into the glasses and she's breathing, drinking in the air like she was drowning although oblivion was such a nice place to be.
There is a rose, red as blood, as passion, as life and death, and it beckons her closer. When she is so close she could touch it, it folds back in on itself, then outwards, until it is a violently red butterfly, landing lightly on her nose. A moment passes, five heartbeats, and it gives itself over to wind, transforming into a rich dress, altering itself to flatter her and tying up her hair. After all, where they were to go it would do no good to look sloppy.
Through the hall, through the white cool walls, until she reaches the empty cathedral. It is dark, almost black, but she sees well enough not to trip in it. Her steps echo off of each other in the vast silence, and she is solemn until she is at the front, stepping onto the altar and regarding the vacancy. In her pocket is a thin book, and she opens it. Past all until she reaches the dog-eared page, and regarding the words, straining her eyes to see the first lines, she begins to sing. She knows this song, could sing it without the words at all, but they are a comfort.
As she sings, small bits of light illuminate the darkness, tiny candles ignited by her words alone, the light but not the warmth of the place growing in size at a steady rate. She smirks a touch at the verse lightly circled in pencil. Of course the eleventh would be marked out, and when she comes to that verse, she would swear the fire flickered in response.
She shuts the book at the hymn's conclusion, and regards the now thousands of flames burning around her, the building drenched in firelight and shadow. It is beauty, it is a testament to her and the many she knows she has seen, it is a memorial on the level they do deserve, a drop of respect and a quiet moment. That at least she can give them.
From the other pocket she exchanges the book for a lighted candle, similar to those around her, except that it burns purple. Drawing it up, she takes a last look at what she has created for them, for her, for both of them.
"Dona eis requiem sempiternam," she whispers, then blows out her flame.
The candles die with hers, and darkness reigns in the cathedral again.
Hands locked tightly together, eyes to the wall. Never looking behind, because that would only make this worse. It's the tension that kills, though, the anticipation of the blade, feeling it trace ever so lightly across the skin of her back.
Choosing...choosing...why do you wait? why don't you just go for it?
Because this anticipation is almost better than the actuality of the feeling of embracing the metal so closely, it bringing such a sweet burn closer and closer to the core. Better than kisses, such sterile, freezing caresses...the thought could make her drunk on her own fantasy, trembling from recently revealed beauty. Without warning, it sinks in, and she feels herself yield to the sharpness, what would be pain instead bringing such clarity, a beautiful high point. She is aware of everything, is everything, but yet still just her. Oh. She shall rescind her previous statements, anticipation is only half, a quarter as good as the actual feeling.
Maybe she'll just forget this complexity and let it change her into an ecstatic for now. It's certainly worth it...please stop hesitating.
And they hear her silent request. Now it's repeated over and over, lucidity and the fog exchanging places rapidly with each new twist of the blade, back and forth until it hits such a nerve that makes her jump, jerking her arms and shattering the bonds, so that she drifts upwards. She knows what to do, stroke by stroke, and even without the slight weight of glasses her world is completely clear as she glides through the water, it soothing the pain that beats steadily through her chest and outwards through the wounds. Grateful, cool oblivion that soothes the fire that is by necessity intertwined with her blood, up and up and up without a single breath drawn
until the surface breaks with a sound like glass and she's free, tossing her hair back and pulling herself out of the dark pool, water settling on her face into the glasses and she's breathing, drinking in the air like she was drowning although oblivion was such a nice place to be.
There is a rose, red as blood, as passion, as life and death, and it beckons her closer. When she is so close she could touch it, it folds back in on itself, then outwards, until it is a violently red butterfly, landing lightly on her nose. A moment passes, five heartbeats, and it gives itself over to wind, transforming into a rich dress, altering itself to flatter her and tying up her hair. After all, where they were to go it would do no good to look sloppy.
Through the hall, through the white cool walls, until she reaches the empty cathedral. It is dark, almost black, but she sees well enough not to trip in it. Her steps echo off of each other in the vast silence, and she is solemn until she is at the front, stepping onto the altar and regarding the vacancy. In her pocket is a thin book, and she opens it. Past all until she reaches the dog-eared page, and regarding the words, straining her eyes to see the first lines, she begins to sing. She knows this song, could sing it without the words at all, but they are a comfort.
As she sings, small bits of light illuminate the darkness, tiny candles ignited by her words alone, the light but not the warmth of the place growing in size at a steady rate. She smirks a touch at the verse lightly circled in pencil. Of course the eleventh would be marked out, and when she comes to that verse, she would swear the fire flickered in response.
She shuts the book at the hymn's conclusion, and regards the now thousands of flames burning around her, the building drenched in firelight and shadow. It is beauty, it is a testament to her and the many she knows she has seen, it is a memorial on the level they do deserve, a drop of respect and a quiet moment. That at least she can give them.
From the other pocket she exchanges the book for a lighted candle, similar to those around her, except that it burns purple. Drawing it up, she takes a last look at what she has created for them, for her, for both of them.
"Dona eis requiem sempiternam," she whispers, then blows out her flame.
The candles die with hers, and darkness reigns in the cathedral again.
no subject
That dream was not like him. Too rich, too colorful. And the woman, of course, who was very definitely not him and not anyone he knew, not even a passingly familiar fragment of memory. He's dreamed strangers before, of course, it makes sense - he isn't that devoid of imagination - but she was different. He feels... filthy somehow by having experienced her pain mixed with pleasure. For some reason, the pain is a profoundly alien feeling to him. And mixing pleasure into it is twisted, twisted...
He will not be able to fall asleep again tonight. The song echoes in his head and he can't place its language. Slowly, Ilyigan sits up, then kicks away the covers and stands up. It's four in the morning.
He pulls on a pair of trousers, nothing more, and goes out for a run in the night, hoping to sweat the clinging, smoke-like sweetness of the dream out.]
no subject
It's not his dream. He knows it's not now. Pain and the thrill of pain were in some sense familiar but it's foreign. He does not embrace it.
Black is up onto his feet with a hand smoothly gliding to his back and he walks towards the rooms in the corner. Hand on the doorknob, his praticed movement opens it without a sound of that usual click. She's still sleeping and dreaming. He's at her bedside, black nailed fingers reaching towards her forehead. He doesn't touch but pulls away instead. The door shuts and he's gone.]
no subject
Yet something spoke softly, called her up through the fog of sleep, and she managed to pull her eyes open enough to catch the tail end of a shadow slipping out her door, silent and dark. Wait...what? She sat up, but by the time she had her glasses, it was gone. Nothing was disturbed, nothing gave any sign that she hadn't been alone for any amount of time.
A hallucination? An aftereffect of the dream? Something else? She couldn't tell, and now it would pick at her for the rest of the night. Sighing, she tried to lay down again, working on willing the image out of her mind.]
no subject
[Why did he think of Juliet? The dream-world darkened as he thought of Silent Hill, but before ash could start to fall he controlled it again. He wasn't thinking about it. He was thinking about her.]
[She was a mystery. Alien enough to have an unreadable sense, at first; perhaps their experience had been enough to change that, perhaps not. He hadn't seen her more than fleetingly since.]
[Maybe he should change that.]
no subject
Grant them eternal rest forever. Who? Did it matter? Likely not. The dream served its purpose, she felt. She could not lose sight of what little she knew of enjoyment and herself in the days to come.
She rolls over and drifts back to sleep.]