Author: Pickingupthepieces PM
Cassandra; the name is a curse.Rated: Fiction T - English - Romance/Angst - Words: 760 - Reviews: 1 - Follows: 1 - Published: 08-08-12 - Status: Complete - id: 3048736
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: This was a challenge by me to myself to write a 632-word-long story. You know, because 6/3=2
I get random like that sometimes. Oh, and it doesn't include the quote.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
~ Burnt Norton, TS Eliot
You take a step toward the window and if the others were here, it is that that they would see- your precise, circumcised motion. And then they would cling like a limpet, subconsciously desperate, to the painted masterpiece that is your perfection. They would raise a pale, trembling hand to your forehead, reaching out to touch the palpable atmosphere of perfection around you, mistaking it for your life. There was a time, quite long ago, when it was not merely a façade, when perfection was in synchronised harmony with your life. But now, perfection is like a melting ice cube tossed into the raging sea that is your life. Perhaps it always was that way and you never realised it, but now both of your eyes are chillingly wide open and you do not like what you see.
"Nightmare," you whisper to the apparition of the night, your breath rushing into the air and coiling tightly around him for you have seen this. He knows.
Your hair is tousled, slightly manic, nothing like the phlegmatic waterfall that they see. It is crimson like blood, ruby like wine and scarlet like fire, all breathtakingly addictive substances like danger and you. You are his little red rainbow- you are not yours anymore and he has made sure of that.
Oh, this substance he has leached into you is more suspiciously more mysterious and arcane than dark matter. Your love is a paradox, a tapestry of reactions and relationships. You have been gifted with the blessing of a curse.
It shoots across you, around you, into you until you are blinded by the awe of the future and struggling to grasp the present. Yet it is too late to tighten your hold now, for all around you is the echo of the possibility of knowledge- it bounces off the walls of jade, tantalising you and knowing that you never will resist.
"Show me," you beg, thrashing in a sea of agony, consumed by your relentless thirst for what will be.
He shakes his head condescendingly and his eyes shine with the sadistic wish, you realise, to elongate your pain. And you do not refuse for you cannot- this is your curse. Your love is not sporadic, not mercurial in nature and suddenly you are breathless, heartbroken and crying wisps of crystal tears that shatter on the icy marble like your life. Your love is your predicament but your futility is your damnation.
Then suddenly his lips are on yours. The kiss is urgent and packed with fervour, enmity and lust, and energy courses through your veins. For now, you have a purpose. His bite is fierce but the blood that trickles down to your legs is thicker than water and condemnation. His lips trail along your skin, his touch sneering caustic aspersions, but you begin to doubt your helplessness. As if sensing a rare moment of lucidity, he thrusts you into timelessness, where you fumble incessantly for a way out. And then you see flashes of memory, silent screams and strange echoes. You see splattered blood and hear battle cries. You see your fate. You will die tragically, like dramatic sighs and awkward angles. You see yourself trying to warn the others, only met with partially-disguised giggles, disbelief and vituperation. You know that you will not be able to thwart the disaster and the knowledge taunts you, a lukewarm emotion creeping up your bones.
You are kissing him again, drowning in deliria, a sweet scent of caramel obscuring your thoughts. A sudden flash and he is gone.
Your lips are warm no longer and the marks are not there anymore. You wonder if they ever were.
"Cassandra," the wind whispers to you pitiably through your demented insanity.
You take another step toward the window.
A/N: w.h.i.s.p.e.r.s- this might have mentioned a few discoveries/types of technology/phrases only made or created recently and definitely not in ancient times. my excuse, though, is that this story is a half-metaphor. please review if you can find the time. thank you.