MAKING DEMANDS // "stop lying to me. tell me what you did."
in the depth of nocturnes passed, a lighthouse would cut through the fog of war. the weak flicker of something greater, than a man who carried a rotten crown alike his most treasured curse. the ranks of a theatre, not big enough to hold his phantoms. not enough to atone him from what knew no atonement. on his jagged features, naught but the dim flicker of dull curiosity settled, not enough to disturb his soul. but enough to stir his stare upon the countenance of the man before him. guarded whispers had passed through them. between observed devotion that would spill in front of him, an audience with no name. it sticks to him like tar. an ode to his nameless phantoms, it would crawl through the smallest crevice of a rotten heart. hands buried in his pockets. it could pierce him, if he let it. could bleed him out, if he dared. hints of a frown carve themselves into his forehead. yes, he had often found his way through the doors of this theatre. clad in starless zenith, he would rather wish to drown, than to swim through the haze of dust whirling in the headlights. tony would breathe them in, like the absolution could starve his curse, etch it into ashes.
he stands accused, this sainted sinner. taking his seat, in dusted leather. at ease, at ease. except, his hues drop, busy themselves by rolling a cigarette between digits. his leisure wears a false name of peace. never found, never recognised. the lighter clicks, the dry smell of a burn sinks between his teeth. tony clears his throat, his thumb barely grazing own cheek, as the smoke curls around lithe fingers. he has sharpened his knives --- once hues lay themselves onto the other anew. one long second. he is in no mood to cut. two seconds, " what i did. " , he tastes it. bitter enough to disturb his spirit --- concealed with the drag of burning tobacco inhaled. the ink of dismissive confusion colours his tone. hummingbirds inside his chest, brows furrowing. three seconds. it's foreign. tell me. tell me. piled ashes, yet to be flicked off. why elevate himself of something, that would refuse to part with him ? or so he thinks. so he wished. " you want another score to dance to ? " circle his sins. waltz to the absence of a full heart. his tongue wets dried lips, the distaste sits on the tip of it. foolish expectation -- he doesn't wait for an answer. " what i did, doesn't wash off. it continues to live in your chest --- " octave drops lower, it drags itself heavier over lips. the singular shake of his crooked halo of a crown, raised brows, " like they still bleed. like they never died. " held pause. there's more. it's right there, behind his teeth. but he swallows it. his words are as close to a prayer, as he lets them be. breathy, accompanied by morbid fascination awakened in the dusk hidden within own gaze. before body leans back --- and the leather gives in. he flicks the ashes off his cigarette, glance gliding towards the hazy windows. " i've seen you dance. more than once. wondered, if what they say is true, hm ? " his hues snaps back. fixate, on the dancer. the lake freezes, the surface upon scarred countenance cools. past dusk. more than once, but not enough, he wished to add. not enough. how curious.
