Black Bird: Homecoming
Sep. 3rd, 2005 04:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mistersmith_tm(Continued from here).
He was floating in pain and darkness haunted by brief, fleeting images of illumination. Delirium. Bliss lying on the floor of the temple, soaked in sweat, his feathers molting. And darkness. Kurdy, arms folded across his broad chest, glaring at him in defiance and disgust. Calling him a madman; just another basketcase who believed he heard voices. And darkness. Joan in the arms of the Devil, jeering at him. Darkness. Sister Hannah slamming the doors to the school in his face. He was nothing but trouble. Where we walked death followed. Shades of grey. Rose, pulling away from his embrace. Afraid and angry. You're not my Daddy! I want my real Daddy! Swirling shades of red and black. Aille raging at him, a heavy clock in her hand poised to throw at his head as she screamed her anger. How she never wanted to see him again. How she didn't love him. Had never loved him. He wasn't worthy of her. Had never been worthy . . . Darkness and pain, deep and cold and soul biting. His heart broken in a million pieces. His mind scattered and . . .
Babies crying. The soft brush of tiny wings against the palm of his hand. Twilight through red pain. A gentle voice and cool, soothing touch on his brow. Twilight, high above. Murky, as if seen from a great depth. A small hand slipping into his, squeezing gently. Wake up, Daddy. I know you're in there. Glimmering motes of light, thinning twilight. Voices. Many voices. Sometimes together but sometimes alone, coaxing. Pleading. Encouraging. And her voice, speaking to his heart and his soul. To the very deepest part of him. In frustration. In love. Guiding him closer to . . .
A glimmer of light, as thin as a razor's edge. The Voice. In his mind, always in his mind, but distant. Sympathetic. Almost apologetic. And proud.
Pain, sharp and red and angry and alive filled his body like a fragile vessel, making him moan. The thin white line became a growing dawn on the surface of the darkness as . . .
Mister Smith's eyes fluttered and weakly opened to the living world.
He was floating in pain and darkness haunted by brief, fleeting images of illumination. Delirium. Bliss lying on the floor of the temple, soaked in sweat, his feathers molting. And darkness. Kurdy, arms folded across his broad chest, glaring at him in defiance and disgust. Calling him a madman; just another basketcase who believed he heard voices. And darkness. Joan in the arms of the Devil, jeering at him. Darkness. Sister Hannah slamming the doors to the school in his face. He was nothing but trouble. Where we walked death followed. Shades of grey. Rose, pulling away from his embrace. Afraid and angry. You're not my Daddy! I want my real Daddy! Swirling shades of red and black. Aille raging at him, a heavy clock in her hand poised to throw at his head as she screamed her anger. How she never wanted to see him again. How she didn't love him. Had never loved him. He wasn't worthy of her. Had never been worthy . . . Darkness and pain, deep and cold and soul biting. His heart broken in a million pieces. His mind scattered and . . .
Babies crying. The soft brush of tiny wings against the palm of his hand. Twilight through red pain. A gentle voice and cool, soothing touch on his brow. Twilight, high above. Murky, as if seen from a great depth. A small hand slipping into his, squeezing gently. Wake up, Daddy. I know you're in there. Glimmering motes of light, thinning twilight. Voices. Many voices. Sometimes together but sometimes alone, coaxing. Pleading. Encouraging. And her voice, speaking to his heart and his soul. To the very deepest part of him. In frustration. In love. Guiding him closer to . . .
A glimmer of light, as thin as a razor's edge. The Voice. In his mind, always in his mind, but distant. Sympathetic. Almost apologetic. And proud.
Pain, sharp and red and angry and alive filled his body like a fragile vessel, making him moan. The thin white line became a growing dawn on the surface of the darkness as . . .
Mister Smith's eyes fluttered and weakly opened to the living world.
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no subject
Date: 2005-09-04 10:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-04 10:07 pm (UTC)With Aille's gentle touch on his forehead and the warm weight of Rose's hand in his palm, he closed his eyes . . . and was almost instantly asleep.