Wednesday, October 10, 2012

what is this darkness?

thin threads
She thought Chance very fragile, as delicate as the moths fluttering above their heads in the plum’s thin branches, and his words were thin threads that he used to try to hold himself together. Fiona knew people lost their minds, but what intrigued her about Chance was what he’d found in losing his. It was a question, one that he worried over every evening, rambling through long digressions about angles and perspectives and monstrous visions of things lurking at the edges of normal life that wanted nothing more than to drive people away from what he always called their best path. He never stated this worry as a question but Fiona, a voracious reader of mystery novels, had deduced it and thought it best understood as a concern with the dark and the dark places in people’s hearts. What was this darkness? That was what Chance wanted to know, though he couldn’t ask it so simply. It seemed like the voices had other ideas and whenever he got close to what he wanted to say, they would begin speaking—saying she knew not what—and drive his words back inside. He would drop his chin to his chest and just kind of fold into a retreat when that happened. She thought he looked so small then, not the oldest member of their little evening gang, but rather a little child. Those voices chastised him. The pills made them quieter, but it didn’t make them go away.

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