NaBloPoMo: Your Very Eyes

Album Artwork for Everybody Knows – The Young Gods

November 6th – Wiki a Story

Today’s daily prompt didn’t pique my interest. So I decided to come up with something myself… I went to Wikipedia, clicked the random entry button, and wrote about what came up. Or well… once I’d found something that inspired me. I settled on this, it’s an article about an album by some band I don’t think I’ve ever heard of. Should I be ashamed of that? I don’t know… But anyway, the title of the album gave me an idea so I went with it. And then I found some of the songs on YouTube and listened to them as I wrote. Actually quite helpful. I even worked in some snippets from the lyrics. And it totally twisted the story from the original idea into something that was completely and utterly insane, and though it has a rough plot it is kinda very subtle. I don’t know… But I think I’m happy with it. I guess we’ll see what you all think. 

Also S told me that as this story isn’t actually very joyful I should tell you all to imagine our blog has a different name, just for whilst you’re reading this.

Ready?

Here goes.

Can I tell you a story?

Secrets are dangerous things. They wrap around everything you touch, like a never ending string. I had lots of secrets, once upon a time. But that was many years ago, when I was older.

The problem with having lots of secrets is they get tangled around each other. Sometimes it can be real difficult to keep them straight. The slightest misstep and you’ll be sent sprawling across the landscape, across the pages of the story, until you’re right back at the beginning with no one left at your side and everyone under your feet.

The thing about secrets is that they are strings.

I think I said that already.

That’s another thing with secrets. They talk you around in circles. And just when you think you’ve got them deciphered the tail of another comes along and lures you to its lair.

I’m not making much sense, am I?

Well let’s see.

It all began one sunny day in the middle of November. Yes, November. The diamond covered leaves cracked underfoot. It was morning.

I saw her by the lake. The one, the one who jokes.

I think someone must have had a bonfire burning. The smoke blurred the air. It smelt hot against the frigid breeze. The children played without making a sound. Their loudness tore at my soul.

She was by the lake.

Her dress was long. Its colour was the same steely white as the sky above.

The sequence starts.

First she shivers, clutching at the dress with fingers of ice. Her heart pitter patters in her chest. The wind picks up and her hair tickles at the sky, the sky.

She looks up, and then…

Before my very eyes, your very eyes.

Her gaze stabs me. I feel the blood dripping from my temple. It lands ruby red on the frosted grass at my feet. I stare at it fixated. I feel I know it from somewhere. Is this my destiny?

When I look up she is gone. The lake ripples. Ripples and spreads.

I went home to the home. Back to the belonging place, where no one would meet my eyes. Her eyes were the last I would ever see.

The next time I saw her was December. December, yes, that snow-covered month. The month that tastes like sherbet with too much sugar. Too sweet, too short.

The snow was not a carpet. It was a flood. A flood of truth, to hide the lies. A flood of buzzing breathing snowflakes. An army invading.

And there she was. The one, the one who jokes.

Her feet were bare, the snow scrunched between her toes.

The sequence starts.

A shiver; dress clutched in icy fingers. Pitter patter, a butterfly caged within. The wind, the laughing sky.

Her eyes. Your very eyes.

The blood.

She’s gone, save for the ripples in the lake. Ripples of ice. Thick as the taste of orange on my tongue. I reach my hand out to touch them; they feel like velvet and darkness.

The string tightens. No one will meet my eye.

Months past. Months and years. Weeks and days. The hours click and the seconds slip through my fingers. I can hear the clock winding backwards. Perhaps soon I will be unborn.

Each time she is there. Each time the same.

The sequence starts.

Shiver; dress; pitter patter. The wind, the sky.

Oh the eyes, the very eyes.

Blood. Ripples.

I’m in no land’s man.

I haven’t eaten for months. Every step I take I find another string in my path. Every step I have to calculate carefully. Don’t trip the trap. Don’t take the bait.

I can taste her on my tongue.

I stop going to the park, but it doesn’t help. I see her from my window.

Shiver; dress; pitter patter.

I move a hundred thousand miles and still I see her. From miles away I’m watching you.

The wind, the sky.

I block off all the windows but still she finds me. There’s something in the air that wants you there.

Before my very eyes, your very eyes.

Even when I close my eyes, squeeze her out, nothing changes. Her icy fingers pry their way between my lids, forcing them open. And I see her, I see…

Blood.

Her silent scream assaults my senses. It burns my skin, rends the air. Hear me, she screams, feel me.

Ripples.

The thing about secrets is they are inescapable. Hide amongst the stars. Hide under the floorboards. Climb the highest mountain or dive into the deepest ocean. Still they will catch up with you and when they do…

You know the worst part?

It doesn’t even have to be your secret.

I am her secret. I belong to her. Like a toy train on a rope she pulls me along behind her. No matter how fast I run, no matter how deep and dark and dank my hiding place, still she pulls me behind her. I cannot escape.

And everybody knows.

Here in the place of home. The belonging place. The home where I belong. With its battered walls to sink into.

I can’t move for all the strings twisting around me. Every time I see her, another string joins the dance. Twirling and entwining me.

A shiver makes the strings vibrate around me. Their music fills the air with the sound of butterflies pitter patter against the ice coated window through which they watch me.

I haven’t felt the wind in years, but I still hear the sky laughing as her hair caresses, tickles.

She is the one. The one. The one, the one who jokes.

She is my life. My death. My insanity.

And oh her eyes. Your very eyes.

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2 thoughts on “NaBloPoMo: Your Very Eyes

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