▾ housingtwo wants to make a deal;
hey, look at me, I’m a middle aged
(dead) white woman !
❝ Hey, honey; does this dress make me look fat ? What about the seams,
here, near my underarms – are they too distracting, too obtrusive ? Does it
make it look like I’m possessed by an omniscient, otherworldly higher
lifeform ? I can’t decide, myself – I might just return the dress. It’s really not
working out. ❞
Her unsteady legs, long leeched of calcium, porous as limestone, wobble
unsteadily at his command, infinite, all encapsulating knowledge of everything
that was, is and shall be drawing blanks in the areas of anatomy, of how to
balance in even the most prudish of heels. He flings the body at the dining
table in a dire need to latch onto something for balance before he topples
completely, gasping and cackling at his insight as he hoists himself onto a
chair. ❝ I had to walk all the way down those pathetic, rickety stairs on
broken femurs ! If you’re going to keep a corpse, I’ve got some words of
advice, for you, ❞ he slurs, saliva twinged green, like the film of an egg yolk,
dribbling from the corners of his vocal orifice.
Catching his hideous faux-pas and daintily raising a hand to smear it over
his borrowed cheek in an effort to swipe it away, he continues, ❝ invest in
some embalming. The second I leave this thing, it’s all going back to dust –
see, you left the moisture in, which lead to bloating, which cracked the skin,
and now this thing’s ruined. I returned its elasticity for the time being, but
nothing can revert a stupid mistake ! I admit, though, ❞ he says, holding up his
left hand, missing a finger at the second knuckle, ❝ I may have caused some …
collateral damage. You know what ? Just send me the bill. ❞ He laughs.
THE SIGHT STIRS a violent terror within him, dormant yet constant,
and he instantly rises from his seat. brows furrow in a forced attempt at
preventing himself from gawking at her appearance as he rounds the dining
table to approach her. trembling arms reach out to hold skeletal shoulders,
his fingers trailing the fabric of her dress. concern settles heavily on his
features. he averts his gaze. it’s just as he feared : her memory is fraying.
❝ Oh, mother...you wore this dress yesterday ! I was going to
wash it for you----now look at the state of it ! ❞
a theatrical gesticulation towards the greenish drivel juxtaposed with
pale floral print, and he releases an agitated sigh. he doesn’t mind
caring for her, nor does he mind spending extra time scrubbing stains
from her clothes ;; the detached finger hardly rattles his conscious
( at least, not like the first time this sort of thing happened. )
it’s the budding frustration, the foreboding fact that he simply won’t be
able to sustain her much longer as the woman she once was. with each
passing day she becomes less like herself, fluctuating into something
unfamiliar...something to be feared.
he pulls a chair for her, urging her to sit before reaching for her left hand.
❝ Please hold still, mother. I can’t help you if you resist me. Now, I
need you to try to remember what happened, or--or the place you,
uhm. Dropped it. Can you remember that, mother ? ❞
yousharknotpass
turnnoffyourmind
janainaart
areudirty
origamiaround
theartofmadeline
dededos
