saysweetprayers | Stirring up a storm in your mind.

Entry tags:

Stirring up a storm in your mind.

He is not solid, not a creature that is reliable and strong. he is more like water, more like shadows and the night sky. he is a creature of dark and quiet places, of words unsaid and caught in your throat.

He is so many things but concrete and stone is not one of them.

But the little girl interests him, she’s curious and so small, fragile with so many words caught in her throat. It’s delicious and interesting and wonderful.

He slips through he cracks, slides under her door and appears to her in the night whispers words into her mind and haunts her as she sleeps. He doesn’t care if it’s an invasion of privacy, such things are beneath him, but he does leave her notebooks as a thank you. He leaves her proper books as well, books of poetry and old stories, novels of adventure and of grief.

he leaves her all manner of words so she can fill herself up again, so he might find her antoher night and feed and haunt and revel in her.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The dreams come like fevers. She feels lost in them, chased by a shadow until she's stuck in a corner and it's hanging over her, long fingers reaching into her head. And she can't scream, can't cry out for help, just stare up at the shadow with wide-eyes.

Then all she can hear is the whispers: sweet, sad things. She doesn't know if it's her voice or another's.

She wakes up restless, shaking and her head aches. She never understands where the books and notepads come from. She's almost scared to touch them because they're so beautiful. But she manages to use them in the end, she reads the books, writes in the notebooks: of the dreams, of her loneliness, of her illnesses, the beginnings of letters to her brother she'll never send.

Her Calling's acting up this time and the sickness that plagues her wakes her up in the middle of the night. She stares wide-eyed in the gloom, sinking back into her pillows.

"Am I dreaming?" she whispers, "Is this real?"

The presents have already been set aside, waiting for her to wake up at the foot of her bed, but he is still there, still soaking up the last of what he needs to survive.

His eyes widen for a fraction of a second before they settle once again to a placidness that comes after being truly sated.

he shakes his head at her, smiling a little and stepping forward, brushing cool fingers against her heated skin.

He should possibly lie, or at least let hr believe that she's dreaming, but he can't bring himself to do that. Instead he tells her the truth, acknowledges with that simple nod of his head that he is real and he is there.

His cool hand feels comforting, she can feel a fever starting and it sends a panic in her chest. But the cool touch makes her forget about it. It's real. He's real.

She's not dreaming, he's here in her room. A normal person would cry out, would call for help at having someone in their home in the middle of the night.

But Justine has no one, she lives alone, and for some reason she can't quite bring herself to scream. She doesn't feel afraid and she's not sure why.

Justine takes a breath, she doesn't move. "You left the books and the notebooks, too. Didn't you?" she murmurs, "Left... " she swallows thickly, "They're beautiful."

He knows she's alone, has seen it in her mind. He's seen inside all of her, the loneliness, the unsent letters, the illness. he's seen it, seen the words that attach themselves to all of it.

She's delicious.

he smiles at her and it's kind, not cruel or frightening in any way. Just because he feeds off of someone doesn't mean he's there to terrorize them, simply observe.

Nodding, he bows a little before straightening up and giving a waggle of his fingers as a wave.

Justine blinks up at him as he nods, pressing her hands to her lips. She almost laughs at his bow because it is like something out of a story. For a moment again, she wonders if she is dreaming after all.

"Thank you." she breathes, a faint, shy smile forming on her lips.

But then she sits up slightly, a little confused. "But... I don't... I don't understand," she says, "Why?"

Never mind how he gets in, she wants to know why he leaves her gifts every so often.

he doesn’t respond for a long moment, studying her. Then, rather carefully, he moves and leaves a kiss against her forehead. The words will slip away after hat and she’ll be left with nothing for several minutes, she can still think, he does not eat those, just the ability to convert those thoughts into speech.

He doesn’t know if she’ll understand but he would rather not speak. If worst comes to worst, he’ll explain himself via writing but not speaking, never speaking.

Using words like that makes him feel sick to his stomach.

Justine stares up at him with eyes the size of saucers. He kissed her. No one’s kissed her, not for a long time. The last one who ever did was her brother when he said goodbye to her, a long awkward embrace and a kiss to her brow and that was the last time she ever saw him. Nobody touched her since then, no one wants to and she doesn’t want them to either. She is disease, riddled with infections and every sickness that is known and unknown. Her being, everything under the skin is bitter and wrong and it could hurt anyone and everyone.

She’s only been a demon for three years, but she knows what she is. Her Calling feeds itself on her insecurities, and she can feel nausea hit her stomach. And she’s scared for him. She likes the strange man who doesn’t speak and she doesn’t want to hurt him.

Her lips part to speak, the utter her embarrassment, her concern. But the next think she knows is that she can’t speak. There are plenty words in her mind, but she can’t say them. They stick in her throat and then fall and die away and she can’t even get herself to sound a single syllable.

Putting a hand to her throat, she looks at him in shock. Did he just do that? Did he stop her from talking? Surely her own Calling wouldn’t have stopped her from talking; it’s never done that before. Her eyes glaze over a little and she’s scared because she doesn’t know if she’ll be able to talk again.

But finally, she can feel herself being able to speak again. She whimpers softly and then blinks, trying again. “You took my words.”

She thinks that's what just happened, anyway.

he watches her, watches the realization and the fear and all of it flicker across her face. He's silent, as is his custom and it looks like he's getting ready to leave before she spe3aks again.

Smiling a little, he nods, then moves to pick up one of the notebooks, scrawling out a reply in small, cursive lettering.

"But I didn't take all of them."

Justine watches him for a moment then gazes down at his written-down words in the dim light. He didn’t take all of them. She doesn’t know what to make of that at first. So, he stopped her from talking for a little while, he only took some of her words?

It’s all very confusing, but she’s intrigued, she can’t deny that.

“You take words,” she murmurs softly, “Some of them. That’s… that’s why you’ve been..” She trails off, pursing her lips for a moment. “That’s why.. you’ve… been coming round…”

She frowns slightly, “What do you do with them? Do you need them for something?” she asks.

The answer is written just as the last one had been and he holds it up for her. "I need them to survive."

Which is true. He needs the words of others to keep himself alive, to keep breathing. He needs them like others need breath or food or water. He needs them to keep going.

"Do you mind?" he writes beneath the other words. It's a question he rarely poses to those he feeds on, choosing to rather pick indiscriminately, but this has stopped being more than random choosing and he knows that.

She has the right to decline him if she so wishes.

Justine stares for a long time, it's a response that makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up and her heart ache. She understands that answer in a way.

She too needs words to survive. They comfort her, give her strength. Words are her friends, poets and writers are her soulmates. If she didn't have books to read, her Calling would have killed her off long ago.

Her lip trembles, she knows that it's odd - that a man creeps like a shadow and steals her words as she dreams. But there's something... he's kind and he too needs words to survive.

"No, I don't.... I d--" he throat feels dry. "I don't mind."

She licks her lips, "W-would you like some tea? Or.. something?"

She's not a very good host. She doesn't have people round.

He smiles warmly at her, moving to brush strands of hair away from her face before lightly cupping her cheek. Moving forward, he brushes a kiss against the sip of her nose, the smile remaining on his face once he pulls back.

It's his way of saying thank you, the little displays of kindness, the touching. He's seen into her mind, knows that she doesn't get affection, doesn't let herself get touched.

He's showing her it's all right, that he can touch her if he so chooses and there's no risk of illness or infection.

At the offer of tea, he laughs, shaking his head. He can't actually consume things like tea or biscuits or anything else that people usually consider food and drink. His diet is strictly language and nothing more.

Her cheeks go crimson with the second kiss and she trembles a little. She's not used to all the physical contact and it shows.

She feels sick in her stomach because the fear of something wrong happening is still there, but there's another sickness - she has butterflies. There's sparks of joy because deep down, she craves it. She craves the contact, she's been a lonely little girl for too long.

She finds herself smiling, her eyes glazing over a little with tears. Because nothing's going wrong, there are no dire consequences.

She laughs silently at his reaction and nods her head in reply. "Alright, no tea then."

"I... Do you have a name?" she asks curiously, "I don't... really know what to call you."

He seems to consider the question for a moment before writing out his answer. "Cromwell works well enough."

He's never been fond of names but he has a few that he occasionally uses. Why he picked this one to use with the girl is beyond him but it doens't really matter.

"You may call me whatever you'd like, if that doesn't work." He knows who she'll be talking to.

She smiles a little. "Cromwell." she echoes softly. "Like Oliver Cromwell."

It's a strange name. But he's a strange man. It seems very fitting for him. Or so she believes, anyway.

"I... I like Cromwell." she says after a short pause. "I'll.. call you that."

He smiles, bowing a little and grinning. Good, good, this is all going wonderfully. he's not sure how he expected it to go, not really but this? Is much better than expected.

"Justine is a very pretty name," he writes, turning a page and showing it to her. "A pretty name for a very pretty person."

She's not show how she expected this to go either. It's all very surreal. It's still very much like a dream, but she knows that it's not.

Justine blushes again, shying away from the page. ".. I.. Well." It's just the name her mother gave her. She's never thought of her name that much. She's never thought of herself at all, really. Not in a good way, anyway.

"... thank you. I don't..."

She doesn't think she's in any way pretty at all. Her mother would often tell her it. Biggest disappointment. Why did they even bother having a second child?

"I'm... not... not very pretty, though."

he moves to press a finger to her lips, shaking his head.

Then, carefully, so that she might pull away if she so chose, be leans down and brushes a kiss against her lips.

"You are lovely," he writes when he's done. "Whether you see it or not, I see it and know it to be true.

She doesn't move away, she's too shocked. She's too busy thinking on what she's just said to realise what's happening.

Her skin feels like fire and she's shaking a little from it. She feels dizzy because of all the things to happen tonight, she didn't think this would be happening. From having next to no contact with others, it's gone to this.

That was her first kiss. At nineteen, she got her first kiss.

She's not sure what to do about that.

Raising a trembling hand to her lips, she's quiet for a long time. She tries to take in his words, but she's struggling.

"That..." she chokes on the words, "That.. was my.. my first kiss."

He tilts his head at her, arching a brow for a moment before nodding. "I'm sorry," he writes. "If i was being intrusive."

He didn't mean to shake her, not by any standard, he just knows that the contact is something she craves and he can give it to her.

But he won't say he won't do it again, not yet. If she actively tells him to, he won't but until then, he'll be quiet on the matter.

She purses her lips, trying to stop herself from shaking. She's glad she's sat up in bed, if she was standing, she'd have fallen over by now.

It feels like a dream, how is this all happening? She had her first kiss.

Biting back another wave of dizziness, she shakes her head at the written words.

"No. It's just.." she swallows hard. "This is all... so new. I've dreamt about kissing someone, but I.. not me. I never thought... that it would happen."

She shakes her head again, "I've.. I've wanted things.. like this. I wouldn't get them.. I thought I wouldn't. They.. they said I was wrong, untouchable."

"No," he writes. "Not untouchable at all. I know what that looks like and its not you."

He moves., kissing her lightly on the cheek one more time. His hand moves to stroke her hair fingers lightly brushing her cheek and tracing her jaw.

He won't stop touchinng her until she tells him to. She doesn't have to wake hp from this if she doesn't want to and he is willing to stay for quite a while.

Justine reads that and her eyes widen a little. She reaches forward and traces her fingertips over the words. Not untouchable at all.

Something breaks then. And the next thing she knows is a sob escapes her lips and there's tears streaming down her face.

Because it means so much. Because she's been told for so long she is untouchable. Because she's lived through her life with so little kindness. And now she's being given it, he's still touching her, he gives her kisses and touches and she craves it so much. But it's overwhelming, it's too much for her to deal with.

She leans forward, still crying and rests against him. She can't say thank-you, she can't say how she feels. She just cries into him because it's all she can do.

And even when she thinks she could say it,when the words are on the edge of her lips, she'll find that she can't get them out. But he's not doing it to be cruel, quite the opposite.

Although he's getting something out of it, he's trying to show her it's all right that she doesn't need to thank him.

Wrapping her up in his arms, he pulls her close, dropping kisses into her hair and humming softly.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Stirring up a storm in your mind.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject