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writetomyheart2015-08-11 03:57 pm
bluedreaming) wrote in writetomyheart2015-08-11 03:57 pm
[team sonic] quiet
First word from here.
Title from Sayit by Rökysopp & Robyn. This is part four of the inevitable end, preceded by waiting in the dark and followed by unidentified noise.
beep beep beep beep
Tilda lies in bed, listening to the alarm ringing over and over and over again. It's been going off for over ten minutes already, sounding a counter-point to her heart beat that doesn't quite sync up.
She should be up and getting dressed for the opera. It's Aida, one of her favourites, the way almost Verdi gives the same religious solemnity to an Egyptian context by bestowing it with music that reminds her of attending mass in Milan.
Tilda doesn't care about mass in Milan right now.
There's a knock at the door, and a hushed voice inquiring, "Shall I call for the car, Ms. Swinton?" Tilda closes her eyes, pretends to be sleeping. Maybe she hasn't really woken up yet, maybe tomorrow morning she'll open her eyes and he'll be there.
She exhales, the sound rattling in her chest. I'm better than this. And she is, except for the opera, something so imbued with her memories of him that it sends her into a tailspin. Lifting a hand to her forehead, she takes a deep breath.
I don't have to go to the opera right now if I don't want to. Even though she hasn't acutally spoken the words, still sitting on her tongue like an expectant truth, Tilda feels better. Sitting up, she smooths her fingers through her hair and reaches for the book on the nightstand. When she's reading, it's always been her and the book, no one else, and that's what she needs right now.
Title from Sayit by Rökysopp & Robyn. This is part four of the inevitable end, preceded by waiting in the dark and followed by unidentified noise.
beep beep beep beep
Tilda lies in bed, listening to the alarm ringing over and over and over again. It's been going off for over ten minutes already, sounding a counter-point to her heart beat that doesn't quite sync up.
She should be up and getting dressed for the opera. It's Aida, one of her favourites, the way almost Verdi gives the same religious solemnity to an Egyptian context by bestowing it with music that reminds her of attending mass in Milan.
Tilda doesn't care about mass in Milan right now.
There's a knock at the door, and a hushed voice inquiring, "Shall I call for the car, Ms. Swinton?" Tilda closes her eyes, pretends to be sleeping. Maybe she hasn't really woken up yet, maybe tomorrow morning she'll open her eyes and he'll be there.
She exhales, the sound rattling in her chest. I'm better than this. And she is, except for the opera, something so imbued with her memories of him that it sends her into a tailspin. Lifting a hand to her forehead, she takes a deep breath.
I don't have to go to the opera right now if I don't want to. Even though she hasn't acutally spoken the words, still sitting on her tongue like an expectant truth, Tilda feels better. Sitting up, she smooths her fingers through her hair and reaches for the book on the nightstand. When she's reading, it's always been her and the book, no one else, and that's what she needs right now.