Death Decked Out In Motley
It seems history is to blame. On me and my words, darling.
As far as eternities go: she looked so beautiful in that dress, although so lost. His seacold eyes met hers—so distant, so formal, but all so lost. He smiled because they were both suffocating. She tried to teach me—I banged my shin on the piano—we tripped over each other, crashed into the Major and his wife—laughed—we were only children, after all.
(Her family had never been in the habit of receiving army officers, as in their family the daughters did not marry army officers. Out of principle and money and other considerations besides. As a result of which she went through life believing in the military as—some sort of a parade, maybe.)
It strikes me sometimes we're all like that. All huddled up in our holes, worrying about these stupid things when there's really something much bigger lurking on the horizon. (The rose has thorns but then again barbed wire does too.) Do you feel it? This power twining around us, pressing closer all the time?
She feels it only when she writes. The hard, cruel genius. She will rise above herself, let their Downfall be her uprising. Her cold laughter warms herself. She would only believe in a God that knew how to dance.