09-28-2011, 03:36 PM
The swing of her own arm jerked her as Shawchert caught her wrist, and she looked down in surprise. At first sight of the almond fingers wrapped around her own white wrist angered her, and she scowled even deeper, but then she looked up into Shawchert’s face and what she saw there made her rage melt. Then he started talking.
Her brow furrowed and she looked angry – but this time her anger was far more childish than dangerous, like a pup that didn’t want to listen to their parents. She wanted him to shut up already, to let her throw the book into the pool and be done with it. Yet as he talked, her primal rage fettered away, replaced by nothing more terrifying than the emotiveness of a saddened child. ‘ To write something down, it's usually permanent.’ This was true, but that didn’t mean not writing it down could undo the eternalness of what had been done either. Her eyes dropped, catching the sight of the gentle ridges the water made as it wriggled against the land.
“There’s no power in writing,” she countered, but the vehemence that once peppered her voice was all but gone now. “You only waste your time writing things down, a bunch of things nobody ever reads. And even if they do, nobody every believes it so it doesn’t matter anyway.”
She looked at the book in her hands as she righted it and closed the cover. Her eyes fixed solemnly on the cover, but she didn’t really have to look at it. She knew ever last crinkle and scar on the cover and for the first hundred pages; she’d seen this thing so many times. But now, instead of being the promise of a beautiful future, the tome just felt like a reminder of a horrible past.
“You keep it,” she said, holding it out to him. “Put it someplace safe.” She hoped he would do that. She didn’t want to destroy it anymore - maybe he was right, maybe it should be saved – but she didn’t want to keep it for herself either. Every day she looked at it it would implore her, she would feel the driving urge to update the pack’s history, and every day she would feel that electric storm cloud forming in her heart when she would have to walk away, powerless to manifest the words about her son’s murder.
She wiped at the corner of one eye with the back of her hand, and then looked over at the spread Shawchert had laid out. She was itching to change the subject. Her voice was still a little low and meek when she said, “I’m sorry. I’ve ruined our dinner.”
400+
Her brow furrowed and she looked angry – but this time her anger was far more childish than dangerous, like a pup that didn’t want to listen to their parents. She wanted him to shut up already, to let her throw the book into the pool and be done with it. Yet as he talked, her primal rage fettered away, replaced by nothing more terrifying than the emotiveness of a saddened child. ‘ To write something down, it's usually permanent.’ This was true, but that didn’t mean not writing it down could undo the eternalness of what had been done either. Her eyes dropped, catching the sight of the gentle ridges the water made as it wriggled against the land.
“There’s no power in writing,” she countered, but the vehemence that once peppered her voice was all but gone now. “You only waste your time writing things down, a bunch of things nobody ever reads. And even if they do, nobody every believes it so it doesn’t matter anyway.”
She looked at the book in her hands as she righted it and closed the cover. Her eyes fixed solemnly on the cover, but she didn’t really have to look at it. She knew ever last crinkle and scar on the cover and for the first hundred pages; she’d seen this thing so many times. But now, instead of being the promise of a beautiful future, the tome just felt like a reminder of a horrible past.
“You keep it,” she said, holding it out to him. “Put it someplace safe.” She hoped he would do that. She didn’t want to destroy it anymore - maybe he was right, maybe it should be saved – but she didn’t want to keep it for herself either. Every day she looked at it it would implore her, she would feel the driving urge to update the pack’s history, and every day she would feel that electric storm cloud forming in her heart when she would have to walk away, powerless to manifest the words about her son’s murder.
She wiped at the corner of one eye with the back of her hand, and then looked over at the spread Shawchert had laid out. She was itching to change the subject. Her voice was still a little low and meek when she said, “I’m sorry. I’ve ruined our dinner.”
400+