diarychan
The Lamb of God, she thought dizzily in the few moments before she fainted.
When she woke hours later, he--excuse her, He--was still standing, waiting patiently in her living room for an audience.
As always, there were three knocks on the wide green door before Clyde let himself in, unannounced officially, but known to all by just this tendency. He was waving a dirty stack of newspapers, as he was also wont to do, easily excited by this political move or the next; but Sarah felt her heart drop as he stopped flailing for half a second and she found herself able to read the huge, bolded titles.
REVOLUTION.
Clara had not, in her life, had a lot of pleasant experiences with blood. This was probably a statement that could be made about any number of people--and, very likely, a disproportionately HIGH number of people--but she felt, on days like this, where red was all she could see, that a compelling argument could be made that she was a special case.
He saw why they called her Bambi the first time he caught her engrossed in work. At the call of her name--her real one, that is--and a tap of the shoulder, she flinched, wrenching her head up from her stack of crinkled paper with eyes literally as wide as saucers. 'Startled' was not a dramatic enough word to describe it.
She laughed silently at the wordplay. "Embellish," it went; the decoration and essential fancification, pardon the fake word, of something, to make it grander and more impressive. But this was emBELLishing, literally. Every time she took a step or moved her head, the little silver bells braided into her hair trilled, and the ones sewn to the hem of her dress uttered a tinkling cacophony.
A billion years ago before shaving is an obligation and sewing is a thing that happens, men and women sit in caves and draw on the walls in berry juice and blood, and wonder of the future; for all that their lives have yielded seems so insignificant.
His wings, when she ran her fingers over them, were not downy and dove-soft as she expected they might be. Instead they were smooth, leathery and tough to the touch; foreign and beautiful and completely unexpected. He must have seen the surprise on her face and felt the lingering in her touches, because he gave her a smile that was half amusement and half resentment. Right, she thought, FALLEN angel.
His face was creased and brown, weathered into a coarse, gritty thing, like the red canyon rocks buffeted by harsh winds in the Midwest. And indeed, he was a harsh old rock buffeted by the winds that came along in life, and his honest, square face was life's canvas.
He grasped at the fruit as it dangled from the tree; foreign and exotic, the color of an indigo sunset, with its inexorable pull and tantalizing, dripping juice. He was distantly aware that this was possibly the worst decision he was ever going to make in his short and insignificant life, and he was strangely okay with that.
Fatigue is the tiredness behind your eyes, when every blink is a call to sleep. It's the sigh that leaves you as yet another task makes itself known within the whirlwind of activity that's left you sapped and exhausted already. Fatigue is what grasps as your ankles and pulls you down, and what grips you in the chest and drags you under when the breath finally leaves your body in the very end.
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