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cognates; pogue [blitz]
Feb 7, 2017 16:59:14 GMT -5
Post by heather - d2 [mylee] on Feb 7, 2017 16:59:14 GMT -5
s h e l b y ♔ l e v i a n e
I think often of what would have happened had Cha Leviane managed to come back to District Eight.
I do not call her or my own place of residence home now, because she did not inhabit it as such. She was a known presence never identified, a mistake never mentioned but always in the back of every mind.
She was the one thing our family could not remember to forget.
If she had returned to our doorstep, my mother would be forced to speak her name aloud. She would be forced to open our bedroom door and face the broken glass of an empty window. She would have to apologize for abandoning all hope of a daughter won in strength and lost in despair.
My father would have to apologize.
He told me once, while in my own state of hysteria, that there was no use in mourning what was forever lost, but oh, how Cha Leviane would have beaten him back with her own hollow bones.
Sister, sister, dearest sister— could we not have found solace in a bottle of gin?
I had, and I was existing with a lack of grace and a cup overflowing with truths. I was no liar for the sake of remembrance, no martyr for past events I was now lucky enough to forget.
At the point at which I exist now, with my head between my knees and my fingers tapping gently against the neck of a bottle, I knew only one thing—
Cha Leviane was dead, and I remember every detail.
But everything past was a blurry vision walking the line of dream and nightmare— his hands holding tightly to my hips, a moment of false bravado, and now, the act of watching the boy from ten met once in red zone seven sliding down to sit beside me, “If we do not remember things, is it fair to say they actually happened?”
I hold the bottle out in offering— c’mon, erase the past, kid.
I do not call her or my own place of residence home now, because she did not inhabit it as such. She was a known presence never identified, a mistake never mentioned but always in the back of every mind.
She was the one thing our family could not remember to forget.
If she had returned to our doorstep, my mother would be forced to speak her name aloud. She would be forced to open our bedroom door and face the broken glass of an empty window. She would have to apologize for abandoning all hope of a daughter won in strength and lost in despair.
My father would have to apologize.
He told me once, while in my own state of hysteria, that there was no use in mourning what was forever lost, but oh, how Cha Leviane would have beaten him back with her own hollow bones.
Sister, sister, dearest sister— could we not have found solace in a bottle of gin?
I had, and I was existing with a lack of grace and a cup overflowing with truths. I was no liar for the sake of remembrance, no martyr for past events I was now lucky enough to forget.
At the point at which I exist now, with my head between my knees and my fingers tapping gently against the neck of a bottle, I knew only one thing—
Cha Leviane was dead, and I remember every detail.
But everything past was a blurry vision walking the line of dream and nightmare— his hands holding tightly to my hips, a moment of false bravado, and now, the act of watching the boy from ten met once in red zone seven sliding down to sit beside me, “If we do not remember things, is it fair to say they actually happened?”
I hold the bottle out in offering— c’mon, erase the past, kid.
