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writetomyheart2015-08-21 12:07 am
bluedreaming) wrote in writetomyheart2015-08-21 12:07 am
[team sonic] My step-brother on the stair
First word from here.
According to email I'm still in time!
Title from Blondie by Braids.
Lies are the things Yixing listens to at night, in the darkness of his room, scratchy blanket pulled but to his chin, but he calls them truths.
He walks through the barn, looking up at the streamers of fly paper flapping in the idle breeze of a stifling summer, unimpressed insects swirling around his face. The way the paper moves, the dead flies coating the surface, twitching feebly as they starve to death; the picture impresses itself upon his subconcious. Later, when he's sent out to the barn at dusk to fetch some drying onions for supper, the way the shadows catch the flapping columns of death makes them look like hanging bodies, dangling from the rafters, heavy toes holding them down like sins.
Yixing closes his eyes and keeps walking, feeling around for the onions that feel like the tiny sculls of babies under his blindly reaching fingers.
Like the body they found buried under the apple tree when it fell over in the storm. The police identified the body by the teeth; a missing child.
No one explained the fractured skull to the young child gripping his grandmother's fingers, but Yixing understood anyway.
Afterwards, he insists on burying the apple tree, heavy with premature fruit, a life nipped in the bud, and his grandparents indulge him but they don't understand.
They can't hear the voices.
According to email I'm still in time!
Title from Blondie by Braids.
Lies are the things Yixing listens to at night, in the darkness of his room, scratchy blanket pulled but to his chin, but he calls them truths.
He walks through the barn, looking up at the streamers of fly paper flapping in the idle breeze of a stifling summer, unimpressed insects swirling around his face. The way the paper moves, the dead flies coating the surface, twitching feebly as they starve to death; the picture impresses itself upon his subconcious. Later, when he's sent out to the barn at dusk to fetch some drying onions for supper, the way the shadows catch the flapping columns of death makes them look like hanging bodies, dangling from the rafters, heavy toes holding them down like sins.
Yixing closes his eyes and keeps walking, feeling around for the onions that feel like the tiny sculls of babies under his blindly reaching fingers.
Like the body they found buried under the apple tree when it fell over in the storm. The police identified the body by the teeth; a missing child.
No one explained the fractured skull to the young child gripping his grandmother's fingers, but Yixing understood anyway.
Afterwards, he insists on burying the apple tree, heavy with premature fruit, a life nipped in the bud, and his grandparents indulge him but they don't understand.
They can't hear the voices.