[ He knows she couldn't have enjoyed that infinite loop of punishment. Executioners, after all, don't always relish in the sins they commit however necessary their services are deemed.
But then if he could stop fucking up, there'd be no reason for her to put him through a meat grinder and then there'd be fewer reasons for her to hate herself. ]
Yeah. Well. Maybe I don't want to.
[ The words are flat and joyless. Everything he hears himself saying stabs him like a skewer between the ribs, but he presses on. It's for her own safety, he tells himself ad nauseam. ]
Not the biggest fan of divine meddling me'self, so maybe you oughta... find someone else to deal with the calendar and dry cleaning. You've only got til Fate blasts you back into limbo to chase fame, right? Why waste time on a fuckin' hobo?
[ The words are out of her mouth before she even quite processes what he's said to her. His words filter into her and it feels like mercury poured down her throat- cold and heavy and nauseating.
The scout had first approached her weeks ago, actually. She'd been wily, and sharp, and didn't understand Persephone's song in the slightest, but knew talent when she saw it. Persephone had been wary even as she took her card. Even with limited time, would it be worth it to abandon one of the few people she could really trust?
But this made the choice easy. She had already broken that trust. Her Heirophant had lost his faith. He had woken up from their shared nightmare, and he didn't seem keen on slipping back into it. Could she blame him?
Her voice doesn't sound mad, just flat. But it still doesn't waver as she speaks. ]
So suit yourself. I was just trying to figure out how to tell you.
[ He isn't actually laughing. His emotional state is something of a maelstorm of many things and he can't fathom which is dominant. Relief that he's off the hook for responsibility. Rage at her spiteful retorts. Terror at the knowledge of how bigshot music producers bleed young women dry. Intense self-loathing that he didn't do a better job with her.
John takes a moment to empty his pockets before retreating - her makeup sponge, a bottle of dubiously legal painkillers, a coffee rewards card, dried up pomegranate seeds and dead flower petals, and some expensive-looking nail polish tumble from his hands, embraced by the dewy grass.
As he ventures back out of the cemetery with a heavy step, he wonders if he should say something else. He wonders if she'll pursue him just to let out one last "fuck you". He keeps walking so as not to satisfy his bloody stupid curiosity on either account. ]
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pummelgranite) wrote2019-09-03 02:08 am
no subject
But then if he could stop fucking up, there'd be no reason for her to put him through a meat grinder and then there'd be fewer reasons for her to hate herself. ]
Yeah. Well. Maybe I don't want to.
[ The words are flat and joyless. Everything he hears himself saying stabs him like a skewer between the ribs, but he presses on. It's for her own safety, he tells himself ad nauseam. ]
Not the biggest fan of divine meddling me'self, so maybe you oughta... find someone else to deal with the calendar and dry cleaning. You've only got til Fate blasts you back into limbo to chase fame, right? Why waste time on a fuckin' hobo?
no subject
[ The words are out of her mouth before she even quite processes what he's said to her. His words filter into her and it feels like mercury poured down her throat- cold and heavy and nauseating.
The scout had first approached her weeks ago, actually. She'd been wily, and sharp, and didn't understand Persephone's song in the slightest, but knew talent when she saw it. Persephone had been wary even as she took her card. Even with limited time, would it be worth it to abandon one of the few people she could really trust?
But this made the choice easy. She had already broken that trust. Her Heirophant had lost his faith. He had woken up from their shared nightmare, and he didn't seem keen on slipping back into it. Could she blame him?
Her voice doesn't sound mad, just flat. But it still doesn't waver as she speaks. ]
So suit yourself. I was just trying to figure out how to tell you.
no subject
[ He isn't actually laughing. His emotional state is something of a maelstorm of many things and he can't fathom which is dominant. Relief that he's off the hook for responsibility. Rage at her spiteful retorts. Terror at the knowledge of how bigshot music producers bleed young women dry. Intense self-loathing that he didn't do a better job with her.
John takes a moment to empty his pockets before retreating - her makeup sponge, a bottle of dubiously legal painkillers, a coffee rewards card, dried up pomegranate seeds and dead flower petals, and some expensive-looking nail polish tumble from his hands, embraced by the dewy grass.
As he ventures back out of the cemetery with a heavy step, he wonders if he should say something else. He wonders if she'll pursue him just to let out one last "fuck you". He keeps walking so as not to satisfy his bloody stupid curiosity on either account. ]