12-23-2008, 04:33 AM
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She was silent again, only thinking over what he said for a moment. They couldn't change the past, that was true. Hindsight was always in perfect vision, even when they had eyes that faltered and lost their sharpness. On a side note, the minute she processed that notion, she was thinking of the literal reasons why people lost their sight. Age. Genetics. Injury. His request to take the guitar was met with a grunt, though she turned to eye his form curiously, almost daring to ask why. Her mouth parted, lips pinching and tongue curling to shape the syllable out, but nothing came out. Instead, her expression wrinkled up at the wrong smell of alcohol as the bottle broke, caught up in what he was doing and what he was saying.
“What,” are you doing, was the question that started to tumble out of his mouth when he had lit the rag. She didn't need much more than that to surmise what he was doing, and she slipped off of the stool with more grace and control than he had. He staggered towards the open door and she blindly followed him, meeting the cold and harsh sting of the bright snow and day through a squinting gaze. And she watched the slow arc of the bottle as it sailed through the air, seconds ungodly slow, and listened to the triumphant sound of glass breaking and fire spreading. And the smell of alcohol permeated her senses. Glancing from the car to her father and the ground, she wasn't sure that she followed anything at that point.
“And what exactly does burning a car accomplish? It changes the scenery, but not the world,” she asked him, wondering if there was enough clarity between them to figure that out. Maybe it didn't take much to change the world, but the world changed regardless of what they did. They didn't have to apply much influence to it to have it change rapidly. But not all of them dealt with change in the way that they should have and Corona was one of those people. She abhorred change, but went through it anyway. Apathetically at times, at that. And just like the skeleton fingers of frost that creeped up her spine, she thought maybe she felt it creeping up on her again.
“Are you planning something?”
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“What,” are you doing, was the question that started to tumble out of his mouth when he had lit the rag. She didn't need much more than that to surmise what he was doing, and she slipped off of the stool with more grace and control than he had. He staggered towards the open door and she blindly followed him, meeting the cold and harsh sting of the bright snow and day through a squinting gaze. And she watched the slow arc of the bottle as it sailed through the air, seconds ungodly slow, and listened to the triumphant sound of glass breaking and fire spreading. And the smell of alcohol permeated her senses. Glancing from the car to her father and the ground, she wasn't sure that she followed anything at that point.
“And what exactly does burning a car accomplish? It changes the scenery, but not the world,” she asked him, wondering if there was enough clarity between them to figure that out. Maybe it didn't take much to change the world, but the world changed regardless of what they did. They didn't have to apply much influence to it to have it change rapidly. But not all of them dealt with change in the way that they should have and Corona was one of those people. She abhorred change, but went through it anyway. Apathetically at times, at that. And just like the skeleton fingers of frost that creeped up her spine, she thought maybe she felt it creeping up on her again.
“Are you planning something?”