( AN OPEN POST #2 )

[charmlessness]

 
 
 

you know the drill. pick your poison (not entirely limited to those listed). reply with a prompt in the form of a post, photo, song, text, voicemail, whatever your heart desires & receive a response. simple, right? right.

 
 
 

Comments

[warred]

[ For the both of them, there lies a discrepancy between what they believe to be true and what actually is. Quite possibly, it accounts for a large part of the gap that stretches ever wider between them, despite the fact that there had been a time when they had hardly gone a few days without seeing each other. (They'd been much younger, granted, burdened with much less responsibility, though that does not belittle the existence of sentiment nor how true it had seemed, at the time.) She doesn't mean to take his life — he still does not completely exploit the fact that he knows how to take hers. Both hands stayed, though that does not keep them from poisonous words.

Her voice is soft and then harsh, in turns, and it only twists the knife deeper between his ribs. He lacks vision beyond all-consuming ambition, lacks scope beyond what had been ingrained in him as a boy. (Riches as defined by material possessions and the obedience of others rather than the existence of something to love and be loved by in turn.) That gap had formed early — he had still had nothing while she had grown to preside over the Moors, powerful in a way that would never be accessible to him. As little as childhood games may mean, there is still an undeniable disappointment that comes with winding up last, time after time.

His expression mirrors hers as he steps forward, though he keeps his hands (balled into fists) at his sides. ]

Do you think I don't?

[ There are other answers he could use — and so you curse my daughter to do it — but they escape him, as drawn up as he is in his own preoccupations. ]

I see your shadow everywhere I go.