#writes a drabble

[amavitab]

drabble  for  @jedicoded  kylie  did  not  ask  for  but  i  have  no  self  control.

                     IT  FEELS  LIKE  ETERNITY  ---  sliding  between  consciousness  and  unconsciousness,  the  threat  of  sleep  (  OH  DEATH,  WHERE  IS  THY  STING  ??  THE  GRAVE  IS  EMPTY,  EMPTY,  GAPING  .  .  .  )  looming  over  your  head  &  your  chest  aches  with  the  hollowness.       the  wound  does  not  hurt  insomuch  as  the  LOSS  of  a  sense  of  self,  the  LOSS  of  everything  you’ve  ever  tried  to  build,  to  heal,  to  GUIDE.  even  deep  in  feverish  dreams,  where  you  think  of  so  many  things  and  nothing  at  all,  the  guilt  follows  you,  obedient  hound  to  master  pain’s  command. 

                       you  feel  him  hover.  not  always  ---  sometimes  you  wake  and  he  is  not  here,  and  you  did  not  even  expect  him  to  be  ---  but  sometimes  you  wake  to  find  the  shadow  of  him  looming  &  you  wish  you  could  offer  small  comfort,  reach  for  his  hand  to  take  if  you  knew  what  moving  at  all  felt  like.  it’s  an  odd  feeling,  this  floating,  like  being  underwater  and  you  wonder  if  this  is  what  it  felt  like  to  be  inside  your  mother’s  womb.

                      [  &  in  your  dreams,  you  see  grand  shadows,  looming,  BURNING,  their  talons  reaching  within  your  chest  to  tear  apart  your  heart.  you  survived,  they  say,  they  LAUGH.  you  survived.  you  shouldn’t  have.  YOU  SHOULDN’T  HAVE.  ]

                           there  are  moments  in  which  you  pray  ---  words  of  the  old,  forgotten  and  dusted  off,  in  melodious  languages.  you  pray  to  the  deaf  ears  of  ABSENTEE  GODS,  for  life  and  for  death  and  everything  in  between.         (  and  if  your  words  are  PLEADS  FOR  ETERNAL  SLEEP  more  often  than  ones  for  repentance,  you  know  you  should  have  died  with  mandalore.  you  were  supposed  to.  )        but  days  turn  into  weeks  and  weeks  turn  into  months  &  DEATH  feels  a  looming  shadow  over  you,  fainter  with  each  passing  moment  &&  you’d  reach  for  it  with  blood-coated  digits,  were  you  not  so  exhausted.

            you  sense  his  presence  before  you  even  look  up  at  him  ---  what  guardian  angel  appointed  to  a  SINNER  like  you,  to  know  him  in  your  sleep,  in  your  waking  hour,  by  his  breath  alone  feels  like  RAPTURE.  and  yet,  your  soul  seems  to  sing  for  him,  atuned  to  his  &  you  don’t  know  whether  to  rejoice  or  despair  at  having  him  here.  the  med  droid  still  beeps  in  indignation,  even  though  your  vital  signs  have  been  stable  for  the  better  part  of  the  afternoon  &  despite  that  you  raise  yourself  to  be  sitting.               he  looks  at  you  like  you’re  halfway  gone  and,  in  a  way,  you  suppose  he  would  not  be  wrong  in  his  assumption.         you  want  to  touch  him,  in  this  moment,  cross  the  small  distance  and  brush  fingertips  along  his  temple,  over  his  cheek  and  down  to  his  jaw.

                 where  the  impulse  comes  from  you  can  only  imagine  &&  no  matter  the  strength  of  it,  you  resist,  suddenly  self-conscious  of  how  sensitive  you  are.  to  depend  on  him  would  be  too  easy  :  to  allow  his  presence  to  aid  you  in  recovery  ;  but  dependency  would  also  mean  something  else,  something  you  cannot  ask  and  he  cannot  give,  not  when  SELFISHNESS  has  been  the  one  thing  to  bring  you  in  this  predicament.

                        and  yet  you  shift.  the  motion  sends  a  new  wave  of  pain  through  your  whole  body,  makes  you  wince  even  as  you  attempt  to  hide  it  with  a  cough  .  .  .  which  only  rattles  you  further.  the  way  he  moves  closer  to  you  would  be  sweet  if  not  for  the  way  it  makes  you  feel  POWERLESS  &&  that  only  helps  to  infuriate  you  further

                        “  ---  stop  looking  at  me  like  that  .  .  .  ”    your  voice  sounds  rough,  COARSE  for  the  long  period  of  unuse  &  when  blue  eyes  meets  blue,  there  is  a  flash  of  something  within  yours  ---  the  edge  of  ice  is  back  as  if  you’re  shielding  your  heart  from  another  blade  entirely  &  you  wait  for  his  inquiry  before  continuing.            you’re  tired,  you  realise.  the  I  LOVE  YOU  hangs  heavy  atop  your  shoulders,  but  you  thought  you  would  die  then  &  now  you’re  not  dead.

                                “  .  .  .  like  you  can’t  believe  i’m  HERE.  like  i’m  fragile  and   unstable  &  am  going  to  break  at  any  moment  ------   ”    out  of  which  .  .  .  nothing  is  untrue.  your  lips  quiver  with  unshed  tears  and  you  huff.  if  you  were  any  other  two  people  in  this  galaxy,  you’d  ask  of  him  to  close  the  distance  between  the  two  of  you.  but  you  are  not.  and  even  dethroned,  even  without  your  people  to  aid  &  protect,  he  is  jedi  still.                      you  will  ask  nothing  of  him.  you  do  not  think  it  was  ever  your  right  to  do  so.

                       he  says,  i  apologise  and  you  shake  your  head.  there’s  always  an  apology  between  the  two  of  you  --  too  much,  not  enough,  BURNING,  freezing,  soft  &  rough.  a  collection  of  paradoxes  you  hold  dear  in  order  to  not  forget  him.  it  ---  the  time  under  the  stars,  his  arm  a  pillow  and  your  fingers  slowly  linking  flowers  together  so  you  may  crown  him  your  love.

                          he  looks  at  you  and  you  look  at  him.  for  a  moment,  he  is  frozen,  before  he  moves  so  that  he  may  bring  himself  closer  to  you,  but  ---------  his  comm  buzzes  alive  mid  stride  &  you  lower  your  gaze  if  only  to  shield  him  from  the  disappointment  (  for  the  pain  ??  )  therein.

                     IN  THE  END,  DUTY  CALLS.  duty  always  calls.  him  leaving  ought  to  be  easier  every  time  it  happens  &  yet  it  feels  like  with  each  of  his  departure  rips  a  new  piece  of  your  heart  for  him  to  take  along  and  you  would  not  mind  if  you’d  not  risk  remaining  barren  the  more  you  meet.  you  watch  him  hesitate,  watch  him  watch  you,  conflicted  and  all  too  serious  ---  a  boy  weighed  down  by  war  &  so  much  blood  ---  before  turning  on  his  heel  and  leaving  you  with  a  curt  nod.

                            (  if  when  the  exhaustion  pulls  you  back  under,  you  dream  of  holding  hands  behind  the  backs  of  those  long  departed  &  the  feel  of  his  lips  hovering  upon  yours,  the  tears  you  cry  are  shed  for  another  reason  altogether.  )

[deathrocket]

Echoes

Cold, stone walls and tiled floors offered no such physical comfort to the menace. Mud, soot, and blood were tracked onto the floors by filthy boots, dust lined the walls, and gunpowder was sprinkled along every conceivable surface, concentrated in corners where her weapons were generally tossed with hardly a care.

Once, every few steps, an intricate, hand-painted, floral tile was damaged in some way. Chipped, scuffed, stained, or even missing were the patterns along the floor, imperfections strewn here and there from whatever such variety of accidents had met the surface. A hefty blanket of dust gathered in areas that received no traffic, small mounds of dirt and balled-up strands of aqua hair mingling and shuddering when a breeze passed through.

Morever, the imperfections did not, however, rest solely along the floor. The cobblestone walls, aged and weathered, were generously sprinkled with blemishes as well. Connecting the tile to the walls in corners, mostly, were spider webs, the silk considerably thicker than what was usually seen in other webs. Most survived the morbid boredom of the terrorist, though some suffered a curious fate, whether by the tip of a boot stomping into it, a gun poking through it, or a finger swirling around to destroy it.

Every layer upon layer of dirt and grime coated the stone, hugging the walls, clinging to passerby dust. Unsurprisingly, bullet holes marred spots here and there, typically in concentrated areas. One cluster of bullet holes in particular resembled a swirly sort of cloud, a product of boredom and excess ammunition from one unfortunately long day.

Bullet holes were, of course, a sure sign that Jinx had been in any place. They were the very least that could be left behind. Anything more was utter destruction.

A section of the stone had seemingly been replaced with a different variety of cheap brick, cemented in rather pathetically. An amateur had clearly done the job after some sort of incident had taken the section of wall as prey. This deformity, however, was not as recent as the others.

Comfort, however, was not to be found here. None of these grimy surfaces, protected by blankets of dirt and dust, offered any sort of comfort for Jinx. When her pigtails dragged along the floor, gathering small amounts of dust on their tips, and when her weapons, dropped into some corner, stirred up webs and powder, she found no relaxation. There was no warmth to be drawn from the filth, no relief available in the imperfections, nothing in the dirt to soothe her aches after a typical day of chase.

Knowing all of this, of course, there had to be something else for her. What she found comfort in was the room's ability to repeat her words back to her. After seeking solace in her own voice, after a recount of a fun day, after new jokes and insults, the room would repeat her in echoes. Her voice, shrill and unappealing to most, bounced off of tile and stone easily, returning to her with the grand delusion of company beyond her weapons.

Vacantly as it was, when Jinx spoke, she had a friend. She had a friend who would always agree with her down to every detail, parroting what she said back to confirm that they were on the same page. The echo's words never differed from what Jinx had to say, never changed. It was predictable in the most comforting of ways, leaving no room for petty arguments or disagreements. After an especially long day, she could set her objects aside and speak amongst herself.

In any case, an extra friend was always appreciated.