Painting the sky in violet and blue zeal faint were clouds that hungrily ensconced the sky. The span of pinpricked stars mostly hidden from her eyes that ran across its endless sheen. Sometimes, as now, if she stared long enough she had the feeling of being unmoored, that she were being pulled from her body and upwards. Upwards and out, pulled apart like gossamer elastic and reverberated with star sonic shine. Renee' stepped back and hugged herself, likening the chill in her spine to the brisk winds of winter. A feeling that had not been amplified in her Embrace but dimmed; the show lights naked and casting latent shadows. The ones that stick to the eyelids when she closed her eyes, as she did now, and hummed. Praying or searching or hoping for a change.
Since returning the town had a new feeling. Before things between her and the unusual trinity Erin, Gideon and herself belonged to had never been crystal clear, or cut. That uncertainty swamped her romantic life and that of her profession. There was a perpetual murkiness, a warm fog that rose up to her chin and held her aloft. Comforted her. Alleviated the struggle to survive.
Now, that she was a keener hunter and had learnt responsibility for the first time since her immortal kiss, everything was brighter and stung her eyes, stole their colour and filled them in a knowingness, a wealth of knowledge that she pulled from time to time along the trail of experience, encounter. She viewed people from a quiet confidence, held tidings to her chest and prolonged her sense of detachment by working in that bunker of an office alongside a man she knew next to nothing about. In fact, just plain nothing.
Her eyes held a softness, opening again as she turned and walked to her bed and sat down. They were easy like liquid, their phospherence ignited by some internal light, most likely the cold fire that guttered then flared when emotion welled at the crevices in her being; those slack gaping holes, explored and furred by moss and pouting flowers. Such things she imagined to exist within her personal garden. When she thought fantastic and lucid and freely.
Little by little she loved this Home. Paris and Boot Hill back drops and storyboards that held no appeal. She had meant it when Gideon had offered her England, to run away awhile and yet she had forbade it, shaking her head and encouraging the conversation elsewhere.
She had changed. And only now the world was a dance she knew the steps to.
A child like, crooked smile and she lay back straight out on the bed. She pictures steeples and broken thatches on a French roof, turreted skylines and rigging ascending from some putrid coloured lake as she had been thrown from the Gallows and across to Paree'.
Lids falling and she let out a breath. Hands straight out by her side and she silently hoped for a visitor. Someone old to see straight, anew, in the coloured shadows of her light, as that Nouveau lamp threw panes of almost holographic shine across the walls and reflected shadows upon the ceiling.
Since returning the town had a new feeling. Before things between her and the unusual trinity Erin, Gideon and herself belonged to had never been crystal clear, or cut. That uncertainty swamped her romantic life and that of her profession. There was a perpetual murkiness, a warm fog that rose up to her chin and held her aloft. Comforted her. Alleviated the struggle to survive.
Now, that she was a keener hunter and had learnt responsibility for the first time since her immortal kiss, everything was brighter and stung her eyes, stole their colour and filled them in a knowingness, a wealth of knowledge that she pulled from time to time along the trail of experience, encounter. She viewed people from a quiet confidence, held tidings to her chest and prolonged her sense of detachment by working in that bunker of an office alongside a man she knew next to nothing about. In fact, just plain nothing.
Her eyes held a softness, opening again as she turned and walked to her bed and sat down. They were easy like liquid, their phospherence ignited by some internal light, most likely the cold fire that guttered then flared when emotion welled at the crevices in her being; those slack gaping holes, explored and furred by moss and pouting flowers. Such things she imagined to exist within her personal garden. When she thought fantastic and lucid and freely.
Little by little she loved this Home. Paris and Boot Hill back drops and storyboards that held no appeal. She had meant it when Gideon had offered her England, to run away awhile and yet she had forbade it, shaking her head and encouraging the conversation elsewhere.
She had changed. And only now the world was a dance she knew the steps to.
A child like, crooked smile and she lay back straight out on the bed. She pictures steeples and broken thatches on a French roof, turreted skylines and rigging ascending from some putrid coloured lake as she had been thrown from the Gallows and across to Paree'.
Lids falling and she let out a breath. Hands straight out by her side and she silently hoped for a visitor. Someone old to see straight, anew, in the coloured shadows of her light, as that Nouveau lamp threw panes of almost holographic shine across the walls and reflected shadows upon the ceiling.