She makes a sweeping gesture to indicate that Jean can sit wherever they want in this apartment, because she has to abandon her tea for a moment. Kneels down in front of the altar, opening it up and reaching into the back, feeling for where she's hidden the Page away, having rolled it into a tight scroll and made it difficult to get to on purpose. Unlikely that someone would break into her house, but not impossible, and she takes it out, still shining, in its roll.
Looking back at Jean, there's something in her face. Something perhaps only they can understand, the sensation of handing someone a knife and gesturing at yourself. Go on. Cut.
"Where will you keep it?"
It's still in her hand. As long as it's in her hand, it's safe.
Jean's eyes linger on the Page; the teacup is unusually still in their hands, steaming gently into the air. For a moment it seems like they perhaps did not hear the question. And then...
Then they touch the bag they took with them. "My Pages stay within my notebooks," Jean murmurs. "And those only leave my person when I am asleep." Beat. "Or, hahaha. Ha. Being intimate."
Before she can second guess herself again, she gives Jean the Page. Takes up the seat in the armchair, and closes her eyes.
This is a story. This is a story with holes in the middle, where every bloody stitch pulls the framework into something like grotesque lace. This is a story where you don't look down. You don't look to the future. You can only take the next step, then the next.
It doesn't precisely make a sound, not at first. One does not read a Page with one's eyes, and Jean has no need for memory aids such as mimicking reading any more. There is the faintest, almost bell-like sound of the Page being touched, the clink of Jean setting their tea down, but mostly they are concentrating. One minute. Three. Ten. Thirteen. Twenty -
To say that there is a shattering sound is to imply a violence that is not there. The Page comes apart like rock candy; it bursts like a bubble on a summer's day, the shards of it go flying across Jean the way a thrown icicle might. A different Page, a Page of a Siren, reforms in Jean's lap, discarded for now, as their body and outfit change to become like Fever as she remembers herself, in red robes of bone, wearing oddly thick gloves with their distinctive arrow designs, a circlet on their brow.
Jean's eyes remain closed as they focus on the story of Fever behind their eyelids.
This is a story where you adapt, where you have to improvise as the world itself is hardly familiar to you, though you know you were born here. You have a name, and something dark and unspeakable, deep in your heart. In your blood. Joy and delight sing to you from every kill, every act of cruelty. And your friends see, and do not hear. They do not hear how sleep turns traitor, how dreams are filled with butchery, how you keep waking up.
The inner eye turns to madness. Your head has so much empty space in it, scraps of meat rotting in brine. Fill it with whatever you find, if it drowns out what your heart sings for, begs for, whispers for. Never stop going. Never stop moving. You will live, and you will live, and you will live. You will live, because you were fashioned that way, from flesh death had once already claimed. You will live, because it's not time for you to die yet. This you know.
This is a story where you stand in a river of blood. Where you see your own reflection, and know what manner of accursed thing you are, what taint courses through your veins, and hold it as your shame. Your truth. Monster. You will never get the scent out of your skin. Fashioned to a sickening purpose. Pour all the world's blood into the abyss. You will obey. You have no choice.
And yet you will try. And yet you are trying. The world is still so beautiful. You want to know it again. You want to know it for the first time. Inch by inch, you are climbing up into the Light. Day by day, you climb. There are things to love. ---
The Page halts there, as if there could be more, the story not precisely drawn to an ending.
And Fever still sits, waiting for what comes next. Wondering what now she's brought upon herself.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2024-10-30 10:05 pm (UTC)She makes a sweeping gesture to indicate that Jean can sit wherever they want in this apartment, because she has to abandon her tea for a moment. Kneels down in front of the altar, opening it up and reaching into the back, feeling for where she's hidden the Page away, having rolled it into a tight scroll and made it difficult to get to on purpose. Unlikely that someone would break into her house, but not impossible, and she takes it out, still shining, in its roll.
Looking back at Jean, there's something in her face. Something perhaps only they can understand, the sensation of handing someone a knife and gesturing at yourself. Go on. Cut.
"Where will you keep it?"
It's still in her hand. As long as it's in her hand, it's safe.
no subject
Date: 2024-10-30 10:44 pm (UTC)Then they touch the bag they took with them. "My Pages stay within my notebooks," Jean murmurs. "And those only leave my person when I am asleep." Beat. "Or, hahaha. Ha. Being intimate."
no subject
Date: 2024-10-30 11:46 pm (UTC)Before she can second guess herself again, she gives Jean the Page. Takes up the seat in the armchair, and closes her eyes.
This is a story. This is a story with holes in the middle, where every bloody stitch pulls the framework into something like grotesque lace. This is a story where you don't look down. You don't look to the future. You can only take the next step, then the next.
She's listening for them to open the scroll.
no subject
Date: 2024-10-31 05:12 am (UTC)To say that there is a shattering sound is to imply a violence that is not there. The Page comes apart like rock candy; it bursts like a bubble on a summer's day, the shards of it go flying across Jean the way a thrown icicle might. A different Page, a Page of a Siren, reforms in Jean's lap, discarded for now, as their body and outfit change to become like Fever as she remembers herself, in red robes of bone, wearing oddly thick gloves with their distinctive arrow designs, a circlet on their brow.
Jean's eyes remain closed as they focus on the story of Fever behind their eyelids.
no subject
Date: 2024-10-31 07:37 am (UTC)The inner eye turns to madness. Your head has so much empty space in it, scraps of meat rotting in brine. Fill it with whatever you find, if it drowns out what your heart sings for, begs for, whispers for. Never stop going. Never stop moving. You will live, and you will live, and you will live. You will live, because you were fashioned that way, from flesh death had once already claimed. You will live, because it's not time for you to die yet. This you know.
This is a story where you stand in a river of blood. Where you see your own reflection, and know what manner of accursed thing you are, what taint courses through your veins, and hold it as your shame. Your truth. Monster. You will never get the scent out of your skin. Fashioned to a sickening purpose. Pour all the world's blood into the abyss. You will obey. You have no choice.
And yet you will try. And yet you are trying. The world is still so beautiful. You want to know it again. You want to know it for the first time. Inch by inch, you are climbing up into the Light. Day by day, you climb. There are things to love. ---
The Page halts there, as if there could be more, the story not precisely drawn to an ending.
And Fever still sits, waiting for what comes next. Wondering what now she's brought upon herself.