Altschmerz (Cole + Eve)Weariness with the same old issues that you’ve always had – the same boring flaws and anxieties that you’ve been gnawing on for years.
Caitrin could have been asleep.
Lying, stomach down, on the marble tile, her reddish-blonde hair fanning her shoulders, cheek pressed to the floor. She could have been floating on a surface of water, her thin cotton nightgown rippling slightly in the breeze that stirred through the open bedroom window.
Except there was no steady rise and fall of her chest. Except there was no inhale, and no exhale.
The contents of the counter now littered the bathroom, hairbrush and bobby pins, toothbrushes and toothpastes, soap dish and soap, a broken perfume bottle spreading its cloying scent from a spilled puddle, a capsized pillbox, pills dotted like constellations around her unconscious body.
Their daughter was wailing in her room down the hall.
A tragic accident. Caitrin was so young. So sick.
He never mentioned her after that, unless the topic was forced. Pushed her from his mind. A girl he knew once, twenty something years ago, faded into half-clear and unwanted memories.
The shattered glass skimmed across the kitchen floor, reminding him of that night. The bathroom. Cat, limp and lifeless, her words parroting through his head, I would rather die than stay with you, spoken with such venom and such aversion that he nearly killed her himself.
(Though in a way, he supposed, maybe he had).
“Found someone else, is that it?” his own voice felt foreign, laced with contempt for the implications of his wild accusations. He knew it wasn’t true. He knew that despite his own duplicity, Eve remained faithful. It was a mystery to him why.
He knew what he deserved, and it wasn’t the unyielding, patient look she was armed with now. It wasn’t the tolerance she’s had so far – her attempts to understand what he couldn’t even explain – the mercy she’s treated him with. I’m not a good man, Evelyn – at least he never lied about that. That she was ever capable of forgiving him wound his guilt into self-disdain.
Light glittered off chips of ceramic plates – whatever was left on the table upended with one impetuous swipe, followed by a crash.
He was taking it well.
“Or is this your way of punishing me? With empty fucking threats?” he laughed, a cold laugh, no amusement, no levity. The last thing he expected was to hear the words from her lips, saying the same thing as Cat had, more or less. I think we should get a divorce. What was the difference, really? If he was a monster either way?
“Well you want to know what I think?” he moved towards the door, shoes crunching on broken glass, “I think that’s probably the worst idea you’ve ever bloody had,” in an effort to pinch the conversation off at its nerve, before it could grow another head, become something grotesque. Give her some time to change her mind. Give him some time to cool off. To think.
Morgan’s shrill cries drifted down the hallway, making Cole pause halfway to the door. He turned to glance at Eve over his shoulder, but her blonde curls hid her face – what was she thinking? What was she feeling?
His explosive anger burned through its wick, leaving him spent and empty. If she touched him, she would know, the hurt, the revulsion, but she was too far away.
I love you, he wanted to say, repeat, until it sunk in. No matter what I do, or what I say, that doesn’t change.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
Out. Away. To let his anger breathe. To let the pressure in his chest expand. To rip something to shreds. To not take it out on her, like he so often did.
He knew how to be careful. When he came home, it would be with flowers in his hand, with soft, sad eyes and a voice like gravel, with as many ‘pleases’ and ‘I’m sorries’ as it took, as much obliging required to nudge her conviction. He would be contrite. He would earn his second.. third.. fourth chance.
Cole exhaled, suppressing the worry eating away at him. This wasn’t the end. This was different. He would be different. He would try. Like he said he’d try before.
This time …
( … Until the next time )
“For a smoke.”
Leaving her to Morgan’s bawling, to clean up the mess alone.
Altschmerz (Connie & Maj)Weariness with the same old issues that you’ve always had – the same boring flaws and anxieties that you’ve been gnawing on for years.
“Congratulations.”
She smiled. Excitement breathed into the word, inflating it like a balloon. She hesitated. Poised on the balls of her feet before impulse, panic, propelled her forward. She hugged Chauncey tightly.
This way, at least, she rationalized, with her chin resting on his shoulder and his arms circling her waist, he wouldn’t be able to see the pink blotching her cheeks, her lips faltering while she struggled to maintain the weight of her lie – I’m happy for you.
So easy to say.
Marjorie heard Connie’s, “thanks,” first, as a quiet mumble in his chest. She felt like the proximity might burn her if she lingered too long. Their relationship was limited to accidental hand brushes, collar fixing, tie adjusting, pen sharing, takeout splitting, late night meetings, sometimes – such small gestures, when she thought about it. Nothing compared to this Ursula, whoever she was, all silk robes and romantic gestures, Maj imagined, lazy mornings and tangled sheets and long-weekend Parisian escapades and puppy co-parenting–
She stepped back, tucked her hair behind her ear, “Ral told me this morning,” in between bites of a bagel, in between sips of coffee, casually dropping the news, what? Connie hasn’t told you yet? And her, feeling like she had the wind knocked out of her, needing to sit down at the kitchen table, only replied faintly, no.
No, I hadn’t heard.
Her hand fell to her side, playing with a simple silver bracelet on her wrist, fidgeting to subconsciously mask her guilt. She wanted to be sincere. She wanted to mean it. She wanted to share his happiness (though he didn’t look particularly happy, at the moment, he looked like he might be sick) like any good friend would. But she was tired. Tired of thinking. Tired of overthinking, overanalyzing. Tired of smiling when she wanted to say, no.
No, you can’t marry her.
“We should celebrate,” she offered, stupid, stupid, “maybe dinner… or drinks?” seeming more assured than she felt in her withdrawal. They had been side-stepping one another for years, after all.
If he wanted to dance with her, or maybe, if she was worth dancing with, metaphorically speaking, he would have asked.
(Right?)
Chrysalism (Andy & Sara) The amniotic tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm.
Lightning veined across the sky, somewhere over London, near enough to the flat to engulf the room in a shock of light like a camera flash, briefly illuminating everything before plunging it back into shades of slate and grey.
A crack, a grumble, followed only by the softer tap of rain against the window, steady and insistent, the faint gurgle of the gutter, otherwise quiet, save for the rustle of Sara’s sweater, the peel of a page turning, the grit of a ceramic mug being put down and picked up off the floor next to the window seat.
Andy stayed his breath just to hear those sounds.
He sat, stretched, his back resting against the wall, Sara nestled comfortably against his chest as she alternated between book and tea while he watched, fascinated by her seamless rhythm, her soft inhales and soft exhales, occasionally skimming words or paragraphs to piece together what she was reading.
He glanced outside.
Below them was a trickling parade of wellie-wearing, raincoated people, mushroomed by umbrellas being pulled by the wind, zigzagging to avoid puddles and drops falling from awnings. Andy fought back another yawn, breath misting the glass inches from his face. He could feel its coolness radiating against his cheek.
“Poor Custard…” he laughed a little, words slurred from his half-asleep state, warm and cocooned, “out there in this mess.”
“Hm?” Sara asked.
Neither of them had spoken for a half hour, at least.
He only nuzzled the back of her head in reply.
Kenopsia (Cole)The eerie, forlorn atmosphere of a place that is usually bustling with people but is now abandoned and quiet.
He stalked down the hallway, a predator without prey.
When he thought of home, it was the home from memory, not the home that remained.
The castle was quiet, no thundering gale, threatening wind – even the sea seemed to be holding its breath.
Echoes of footsteps, of laughter, a missing pitter-patter, on stone, on carpet, one of his brothers stealing down the bannister when their mother wasn’t looking. No sounds, no smells, just dust, decay, something stale, something rotting, old wood, the foundation itself.
He wiped the back of his wrist across his forehead, sweat beading his temples. The place felt like the inside of a furnace, air so thick it was difficult to swallow. Sun streamed in through arched windows, mockingly, particles floating listlessly on beams falling over disused, broken furniture, brown boxes of old, once-loved things.
Cole passed by a drawing room (where Chauncey took the blame for breaking blue and white porcelain vase, when it was really the dog), the billiard room (where their father always entertained, a ghost of cigar smoke and whiskey, low voices deep in conversation), the dining room (dinnerware stored in cases and cabinets, empty table and empty chairs, hanging art covered by white sheets, giving the room a gaunt, mausoleum quality), the pantry (where Custard would sometimes wander in the middle of the night, tiptoeing to pluck food off shelves he couldn’t reach).
He found Ailsa outside, in a chair by the knot garden overgrown with thistles and weeds, an ocean of purple and mossy green.
“Another bad day,” she said, glancing up from her book only after finishing the page. Her face was drawn in a waxen smile. If she sensed Cole’s bubbling anger, she didn’t show it – a practiced air of resignation, of abandonment as bitter as the house’s.
Fingertips brushed down along her arms; lips pressed against the groove behind her shoulder. Cole’s touch was warm, warmer than her skin, leaving pinpricks of phantom burns in its wake. Old, faded scars already blistered at her waist, around her wrists, outside her thighs, the base of her neck – the easy to grab, easy to hold places of her anatomy that mapped pleasure and pain, so often indistinguishable from one another.
You look beautiful, his touch said, as the hands grazing her arms moved to her waist. His arms loosely circled her body from behind, bringing his cheek to rest inches from her cheek; her dark curls tickled his jaw, her scent strong – bold, floral, fruit, spice, her shampoo, her perfume, heady.
Priya eased, allowed him to hold her, preserving the fantasy for a few brief moments, maybe habit, maybe an unconscious desire to touch and be touched, love and be loved, like in the beginning when they were secret smiles and tangled sheets, stolen intimacy, fingers brushing beneath tables, kisses behind closed doors.
His ring was gone, a piece of discarded treasure; the sign of another failed marriage, skin paler where the band rested, suffering years of lies and more lies and infidelities. He never expected relief (he begged Eve to stay, to forgive him, offering only excuses and empty promises of change), or buoyancy (the way the word divorced tripped off the tongue was less liberating than he was led to believe). But maybe a lack of forbiddance soured his and Priya’s fun, plunged them into a seriousness they both found difficult to stomach.
An impatient look flitted across her face, once their closeness settled in, took shape, recalling only an hour before, raised voices, flared tempers, practically violent (funny, he barely even remembered how the argument started). He smiled, sharply, feeling her body tense against his.
“Ready?” he asked, pulling away, temperature dropping as he crossed over to the bed, lazily shrugged his suit jacket on, while Priya slid her wrap from the dresser, snaked it around her back, carefully covering a new bruise purpling the spot just above her elbow.
Cole watched the graceful movement, her glance, her nod, with a sudden desire to tie her to the headboard, douse the room in gasoline, sit at the foot of the bed while her flat went up in flames, burning them both, leaving everything charred and ash.
Instead, he returned to her, a chaste kiss, lips barely brushing (not an apology, no, more of a… punctuation). If they survived this, he knew, it would be wreckage. But what other way was there to love?
The modern-day fairytales of Sara Kipin combine digital crispness with classical themes of sacrifice, conflict and undying love. Although her drawing signature is clean and stylized, the elegant character designs and detailed landscapes breathe a magical sense of nostalgia. Sara’s determined lady knights and sassy witches make you wish for them to come to life in an animated feature all their own.
Travel along with Sara on her Tumblr page
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