Post by The Mouth on Sept 21, 2014 19:42:13 GMT -8
Every time I saw her I got a little rush of panic, I stopped being 'I' and I was the Mouth.
She was the Woman.
And every time he laid eyes on her he heard the cruelty, the disdain, the shame of "1962". The Gentleman knew how to twist a knife, leave a scar, to fester a wound. He was not a man to trifle with.
The Mouth learned this later in life than was wise.
The Woman tried though, she said once, "I... I'm sorry brother-" and the Mouth remembers sayin back "52 years, Woman. 52 years," in a voice like the hurricanes back home; all hot, sticky, wind, and wet. He bled in that voice, couldn't look at her.
The Woman spat back, "Sir! Your own fault for bein caught up like that."
"My fault!? If you would've let me explain-"
"You always have a 'reason' or some excuse, can't you see what you do-"
"What I Do? You mean goin out and makin connections while you sit down here and play with your silly pets?"
The Woman goes stiff with rage. "I would have left you in that hole if I knew how hateful and cruel you would be!"
The Mouth, aghast, he doesn't know how this happened. The Beast tightens in his chest and threatens to break free. "I have to go, Woman." And he leaves.
I leave.
I spend a month, morose. I scream in rage, howls echoing, giving the homeless men in the culverts new tales of ghosts of the dead down below.
Years go by.
I see her, my Sister, The Sister. And she is glorious, dancing among the rats, a pair of little dogs, like she did all those years ago and I have a flash, of a woman, her, alive and delighted as men in uniforms and fancy clothes asked her to dance while I lifted little baubles among the crowd. A wallet in hand when a scaly claw clutches my wrist with impossible strength-
I scream.
She stops dancing, shocked at the Mouth's sudden appearance.
"Brother!" the Woman runs towards me with her horde at her feet.
She's come to kill the Mouth! Her pets, the burrowing, at flesh and gnawing, tugging-
"DON'T YOU PUT ME IN THE GROUND AGAIN YOU BITCH!" and the Beast takes me.
When I come round I have one of her dogs, the little kind that she loves so. It is in pieces around me, jig saw, and I vomit fur and foul blood. She doesn't look at me for a decade.
I want her to know how sorry I am, that I ruined that moment with cruelty and madness. But I can't make the words happen. I carry on, flippant, chill, and cruel because I don't know what else to do.
Years pass.
I can't do it anymore. I have to offer peace, I have to let 52 years go- And the Gentleman's vengeance with it. I dig, I paw through my junk and find nothing worthy of offering her. Then I hear the Marquis listening to his music, a tune from the dance when I saw her years ago, in lamplight and joy.
I remember something, just over here, in a box that I kept for some reason...
A tortoise shell comb, with gold leaf, tiny pearls and rubies. He'd forgotten all about it, but the splendor on her hair...
The Mouth leaves the box by her door, with a note:
Dear Sister,
I recall this once being a pale enhancement to your glory. I hope you recall a happier time when you look upon it.
Yours,
The Mouth
P.S. I have missed you, and I am sorry.
She was the Woman.
And every time he laid eyes on her he heard the cruelty, the disdain, the shame of "1962". The Gentleman knew how to twist a knife, leave a scar, to fester a wound. He was not a man to trifle with.
The Mouth learned this later in life than was wise.
The Woman tried though, she said once, "I... I'm sorry brother-" and the Mouth remembers sayin back "52 years, Woman. 52 years," in a voice like the hurricanes back home; all hot, sticky, wind, and wet. He bled in that voice, couldn't look at her.
The Woman spat back, "Sir! Your own fault for bein caught up like that."
"My fault!? If you would've let me explain-"
"You always have a 'reason' or some excuse, can't you see what you do-"
"What I Do? You mean goin out and makin connections while you sit down here and play with your silly pets?"
The Woman goes stiff with rage. "I would have left you in that hole if I knew how hateful and cruel you would be!"
The Mouth, aghast, he doesn't know how this happened. The Beast tightens in his chest and threatens to break free. "I have to go, Woman." And he leaves.
I leave.
I spend a month, morose. I scream in rage, howls echoing, giving the homeless men in the culverts new tales of ghosts of the dead down below.
Years go by.
I see her, my Sister, The Sister. And she is glorious, dancing among the rats, a pair of little dogs, like she did all those years ago and I have a flash, of a woman, her, alive and delighted as men in uniforms and fancy clothes asked her to dance while I lifted little baubles among the crowd. A wallet in hand when a scaly claw clutches my wrist with impossible strength-
I scream.
She stops dancing, shocked at the Mouth's sudden appearance.
"Brother!" the Woman runs towards me with her horde at her feet.
She's come to kill the Mouth! Her pets, the burrowing, at flesh and gnawing, tugging-
"DON'T YOU PUT ME IN THE GROUND AGAIN YOU BITCH!" and the Beast takes me.
When I come round I have one of her dogs, the little kind that she loves so. It is in pieces around me, jig saw, and I vomit fur and foul blood. She doesn't look at me for a decade.
I want her to know how sorry I am, that I ruined that moment with cruelty and madness. But I can't make the words happen. I carry on, flippant, chill, and cruel because I don't know what else to do.
Years pass.
I can't do it anymore. I have to offer peace, I have to let 52 years go- And the Gentleman's vengeance with it. I dig, I paw through my junk and find nothing worthy of offering her. Then I hear the Marquis listening to his music, a tune from the dance when I saw her years ago, in lamplight and joy.
I remember something, just over here, in a box that I kept for some reason...
A tortoise shell comb, with gold leaf, tiny pearls and rubies. He'd forgotten all about it, but the splendor on her hair...
The Mouth leaves the box by her door, with a note:
Dear Sister,
I recall this once being a pale enhancement to your glory. I hope you recall a happier time when you look upon it.
Yours,
The Mouth
P.S. I have missed you, and I am sorry.