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konrad-voronin.livejournal.comThe Voronin Estate, January 13th, around Midday
The thing that defined him was always this: that he was dead, and the dead do not come back. This is the seed at the heart of the memory, always this, always this numb certainty, the two things twisted into one, death and the boy, the boy dying, the boy and his death, the boy's fever twinned with the fire in the garden, the horrible slackness of his limbs as his father carried him. The boy is dead.
The boy is dead, and the dead do not come back. This is what the boy is thinking when the silence comes. This is what he forgets. The boy has always been clever.
We forget how her power ebbed into the ash. We forget the last the breath, the last pulse of blood into the embers, the last words which died in her lungs, the ecstasy of pain and how it bore us up. We forget that we are not, were not, the same. We forget that death binds us to the other place where silence rests across our eyes like wax over water. We forget how long we have waited in the house, forget the names for those numbers and their vastness.
We forget that we are not allowed out to play on our own.
Hello, hello mother. Hello Excolo. Hello.
[closed]
The thing that defined him was always this: that he was dead, and the dead do not come back. This is the seed at the heart of the memory, always this, always this numb certainty, the two things twisted into one, death and the boy, the boy dying, the boy and his death, the boy's fever twinned with the fire in the garden, the horrible slackness of his limbs as his father carried him. The boy is dead.
The boy is dead, and the dead do not come back. This is what the boy is thinking when the silence comes. This is what he forgets. The boy has always been clever.
We forget how her power ebbed into the ash. We forget the last the breath, the last pulse of blood into the embers, the last words which died in her lungs, the ecstasy of pain and how it bore us up. We forget that we are not, were not, the same. We forget that death binds us to the other place where silence rests across our eyes like wax over water. We forget how long we have waited in the house, forget the names for those numbers and their vastness.
We forget that we are not allowed out to play on our own.
Hello, hello mother. Hello Excolo. Hello.
[closed]
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