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Sep. 28th, 2008 02:05 amMaladicta was doing something she hadn’t done in a very long time. She had the vague impression that the two people she shared her present life with didn’t much approve of it, only because it had never come up or been mentioned. This was partly because she hadn’t done it in… Well, all right, so she couldn’t actually remember when she’d done it last, and partly because neither William or Sacharissa smoked. She noticed that smokers tended to be quite vocal about the fact once they were no longer actively participating in said vice.
So she’d stolen one. It was significantly different than the kind she’d arrived with. She’d like those better. Breathing this in was vaguely nauseating and gave her a buzz. The League probably wouldn’t have approved on the basis of the latter trait alone. Shenlong didn’t seem to approve much, either. He had moved to the other side of the porch when she’d lit it and proceeded to lie flat on his stomach with one long wolfish paw over his nose, and stare at her. Maladicta had decided not to dignify this behavior with a response.
She had a dog. Sort of. She was sitting, in green linen trousers and a black 'tank' top, on her porch, in the fading sunlight, with her dog. It seemed like the set up for some bizarre, farcical novel.
Oh, wait, she’d already been in one of those.
She pulled a face and dug the pad of her thumb against the crest of her eyebrow. It didn’t bother her if she didn’t think about it, her knowledge of the book’s existence. Even if she did, it was far too prevalent a condition on the island for her to feel particularly singled out or slighted by it. Still, she would never tell William. Ever. Not ever. And she would actively work to prevent him from ever knowing if the risk existed. She had more faith in him than she’d known could be found in a person- either to hold or inspire- but not about that particular detail. And she didn’t even know if Sacharissa knew. Which was fair, for all the details Sacharissa didn’t know about her.
And for whatever reason, since the evening of the shoot-out, those little thoughts had been coming back and over again, to be brushed away but always return, like gnats. And more than little ones. It wasn’t cold feet, because she didn’t feel less strongly about either of her fiances, and anyway you couldn’t have cold feet unless there was actually a wedding, however tangentially it was set. If anything she felt more strongly for the both of them than she had yet, and for reasons she couldn’t wrestle into clarity, she could feel herself, practically watch herself in moments, pull away. It was -ing exhausting. And she didn’t even want to. So why would she?
She sighed, turning the smoldering, uneven cylinder around in her fingers before sliding it back between her lips, and mulled. It was her least favorite but, recently, most participated-in activity. Mulling Things Over. Trouble was, the more one did mull things over, the less sideways a direction one could approach the issues from. Their shape got clearer no matter how hard you tried to view them only peripherally and forget them after. Questions got less generic. You went from what is the damn problem to what am I so bloody scared of?
And then you dropped your cigarette.
So she’d stolen one. It was significantly different than the kind she’d arrived with. She’d like those better. Breathing this in was vaguely nauseating and gave her a buzz. The League probably wouldn’t have approved on the basis of the latter trait alone. Shenlong didn’t seem to approve much, either. He had moved to the other side of the porch when she’d lit it and proceeded to lie flat on his stomach with one long wolfish paw over his nose, and stare at her. Maladicta had decided not to dignify this behavior with a response.
She had a dog. Sort of. She was sitting, in green linen trousers and a black 'tank' top, on her porch, in the fading sunlight, with her dog. It seemed like the set up for some bizarre, farcical novel.
Oh, wait, she’d already been in one of those.
She pulled a face and dug the pad of her thumb against the crest of her eyebrow. It didn’t bother her if she didn’t think about it, her knowledge of the book’s existence. Even if she did, it was far too prevalent a condition on the island for her to feel particularly singled out or slighted by it. Still, she would never tell William. Ever. Not ever. And she would actively work to prevent him from ever knowing if the risk existed. She had more faith in him than she’d known could be found in a person- either to hold or inspire- but not about that particular detail. And she didn’t even know if Sacharissa knew. Which was fair, for all the details Sacharissa didn’t know about her.
And for whatever reason, since the evening of the shoot-out, those little thoughts had been coming back and over again, to be brushed away but always return, like gnats. And more than little ones. It wasn’t cold feet, because she didn’t feel less strongly about either of her fiances, and anyway you couldn’t have cold feet unless there was actually a wedding, however tangentially it was set. If anything she felt more strongly for the both of them than she had yet, and for reasons she couldn’t wrestle into clarity, she could feel herself, practically watch herself in moments, pull away. It was -ing exhausting. And she didn’t even want to. So why would she?
She sighed, turning the smoldering, uneven cylinder around in her fingers before sliding it back between her lips, and mulled. It was her least favorite but, recently, most participated-in activity. Mulling Things Over. Trouble was, the more one did mull things over, the less sideways a direction one could approach the issues from. Their shape got clearer no matter how hard you tried to view them only peripherally and forget them after. Questions got less generic. You went from what is the damn problem to what am I so bloody scared of?
And then you dropped your cigarette.
