Prompt 205 - Aboulia - Guardian Erin

[guardian-erin.livejournal.com]

Very very sick, I'm afraid. Trying to get this in relatively early so I can relax and watch Doctor Who. :)

Title: Losing Control
Author: Guardian Erin
Rating: R
Warnings: Murder
Fandom: Original
Summary: Our main character is finding herself out of sorts. The truth is all in the mind. Features my favorite poem, Red is the Color of Blood by Conrad Aiken.



Angela felt the bones crack underneath her hands almost as instantly as she became aware of herself and what she was doing.

What was she doing?

It was as if she had woken from a dream, but there she was, crouched over someone with her arms outstretched. Her hands relaxed at once, confused, and the person's head was released; the body fell to the floor, lifeless, with a profoundly loud and dull thud.

She felt dizzy, out of place and mistaken. It had to be a dream. There was no way that she could be standing here now, in a place that seemed so bizarre, yet had a sickening resemblance to her own home. What kind of nightmare was this?

With a shudder, Angela stepped away from the body before the dizziness made her fall. She didn't want to look at the body, dark and crumpled on the floor, but at the same time she knew she couldn't look away. It was like a bad horror movie, and just leaving something for dead could have terrible consequences.

She moved slowly, her hands finding a wall to touch, something to keep her from falling over into what felt like a bottomless pit. The smooth, cool wall against her fingers grounded her, calmed her just enough to let her breathe a while longer, let her walk across the room to the other side of the body.

As soon as she was able to see who was lying on the floor she wished she hadn't. Instead of some creature, some disfigured thing she expected to find that would validate her nightmare, she saw a familiar, handsome face. Still handsome, just past the first few moments of death. Angela could almost feel the warmth still coming off of his skin, remember the way that his lips felt against hers, and how nice it was to lay beside him at night and sleep.

Now this was a nightmare of a different kind. This was not the kind where no matter how hard she wished, the other person wouldn't stay dead. This was the kind where no matter how hard she prayed, there was no way to undo what she had just done. What had she done?

All of her thoughts of him – kisses, an embrace, a smile – were all replaced with dead, cold flesh. If only she'd gotten control of herself a moment before. If only he wasn't so... wasn't so quiet and careless. He never had a thought about her or what she might be thinking about him. He certainly wasn't clever enough to keep away from her hands....

Had she done it?

Her hands went to her face, palms pressing cold against each flush cheek to reflect for a moment. Could she have finally snapped? Finally one of those horrible, dark, small thoughts had burst inside of her head, like a black aneurysm? Too many times he was just too slow for her, too oblivious and indifferent. Too many times she had to drag him through her hot passions, annoyed and frustrated in the end by the burden of him. Now he was slumped on the floor, useless. Ironically unchanged in many ways.

Angela dropped her hands, and a cool wetness on her cheek caught her attention. Lifting her hand to touch it, her eyes caught the bright red color staining her fingertips. It was amazing, still wet but so cold. She licked her fingers clean, a hungry mouth for blood, and examined the body of her fallen lover, kicking him over to see where the blood had come from.

His body rolled limply with her kick, exposing what could be exposed, but there was no blood on him.

Already dissatisfied, Angela left the room, making her way through the twisted nightmare version of her home, which no longer seemed to bother her now.

She licked nervously at her fingernails, searching for more hints of the blood. She could smell it in front of her, in the moisture of her breath, and in the air. Here, all through the room, she could smell the blood. Heavy and pungent. Sickly sweet like the cold sap of a rose.

On the floor, the smell blossomed with red pearls and splashes of red. Angela knelt down carefully next to the crumpled heap on the floor. She reached over the body, her arm brushing against the green dress and bloodied skin beneath her as she searched for something she knew was there although she didn't see it at first. A scrap of paper next to the woman's extended arm, dropped there by chance, or maybe intentionally to be found again.

Angela retrieved the paper, brushing a droplet of blood off with her thumb before the beautiful verse was ruined. She stood again, fresh streaks of blood painting her bare arms from the messy encounter. This was her favorite verse: the subversion;

Madness for red! I devour the leaves of autumn.
I tire of the green of the world.
I am myself a mouth for blood...


~~

Red is the Color of Blood by Conrad Aiken

is the color of blood, and I will seek it:
I have sought it in the grass.
It is the color of steep sun seen through eyelids.
 
It is hidden under the suave flesh of women--
Flows there, quietly flows.
It mounts from the heart to the temples, the singing mouth--
As cold sap climbs to the rose.
I am confused in webs and knots of scarlet
Spun from the darkness;
Or shuttled from the mouths of thirsty spiders.
 
Madness for red! I devour the leaves of autumn.
I tire of the green of the world.
I am myself a mouth for blood ...
 
Here, in the golden haze of the late slant sun,
Let us walk, with the light in our eyes,
To a single bench from the outset predetermined.
Look: there are seagulls in these city skies,
Kindled against the blue.
But I do not think of the seagulls, I think of you.
 
Your eyes, with the late sun in them,
Are like blue pools dazzled with yellow petals.
This pale green suits them well.
 
Here is your finger, with an emerald on it:
The one I gave you. I say these things politely--
But what I think beneath them, who can tell?
 
For I think of you, crumpled against a whiteness;
Flayed and torn, with a dulled face.
I think of you, writing, a thing of scarlet,
And myself, rising red from that embrace.
 
November sun is sunlight poured through honey:
Old things, in such a light, grow subtle and fine.
Bare oaks are like still fire.
Talk to me: now we drink the evening's wine.
Look, how our shadows creep along the grave!--
And this way, how the gravel begins to shine!
 
This is the time of day for recollections,
For sentimental regrets, oblique allusions,
Rose-leaves, shrivelled in a musty jar.
Scatter them to the wind! There are tempests coming.
It is dark, with a windy star.
 
If human mouths were really roses, my dear,--
(Why must we link things so?--)
I would tear yours petal by petal with slow murder.
I would pluck the stamens, the pistils,
The gold and the green,--
Spreading the subtle sweetness that was your breath
On a cold wave of death....
 
Now let us walk back, slowly, as we came.
We will light the room with candles; they may shine
Like rows of yellow eyes.
Your hair is like spun fire, by candle-flame.
You smile at me--say nothing. You are wise.
 
For I think of you, flung down brutal darkness;
Crushed and red, with pale face.
I think of you, with your hair disordered and dripping.
And myself, rising red from that embrace.