kloperslegend
She had a system, no, she /was/ a system, and systems were a means of control, and systems were good.
And she moved through her systems, among her systems, /with/ her systems because control was the only way she knew how, controlled was the only method by which she could live, and live she did, systematically, controlled.
It wasn't easy, it was exhausting, but it worked for her, her systems, and they killed her, and they birthed her, and they allowed her to breathe.
it was simple, or so she thought. It would simple to just waltz into the room, confidence in hand, and release the words that had been churning inside her for far too long.
She didn't know why it was so hard. For god's sake, they had already slept together. /Twice./ And it had been wonderful. She couldn't figure out what was stopping her now.
She couldn't cook, at least, not like she wanted to. Helena remembered the savory pudding, the perfectly cooked turkey, and those sweet, sweet Yams that Sarah always made so perfectly.
It was Thanksgiving, and Myka was on assignment, and she was here alone. She was here, and she didn't know how to cook. She didn't know how to be happy.
She rises in the morning like a displaced log rises to the surface of a tumultuous river; it's not deliberate. It's not something she wants to do, but rather, something her personal force of nature compels her to do. A log doesn't choose which parts of the river it flows down, and neither does she.
It wasn't a local bar, so there was no need to act discreet simply out of concern the local residents would spread rumors about the two "IRS agents" shacking up. She wasted no time sliding her body up and down her partners on the dance floor, aggressively and possessively letting everyone know /exactly/ to whom the gorgeous woman belonged.
She had been too late so many times. She had been too late saving her husband, too late saving her daughter, and too late saving her lover. They had all died.
Only one, fate had returned. And she groveled and thanked whatever force responsible, every day.
More than anything, she wanted to be well-received. Well cared for. Well interpreted. Well, perhaps received wasn't the right word. She wanted the words she worked to be the ones she meant, and she wanted those who heard to know exactly how she felt.
See, that's why she was a writer.
The employee looked over at the two women chuckling quietly at the end of the aisle, pulling boxes of crackers off the shelf and pointing at ingredients.
"... Can't even /believe/ anyone would deign to /eat/ these foul things! With these chemicals? My God, Myka, food has been completely ruined in this century!"
Don't try to stop it. That art you feel? Yeah. That's it. This is what life is about, the ups and downs and crashes and scrapes and being hospiitalized isn't being reckless, it's living. When you say you felt something, you've created some art. The secret?
It's you.
It was you the whole time.
"Somebody, oh God; somebody help!"
Helena wasn't often helpless, but in this moment in time, on this street in Boston, trying to help this one particular person, she was. She ran her hand through her hair. Where had her faculties gone?
She tore off her scarf and shoved it in the wound, gazing intently at the eyelids of the one she loved, begging them to open.
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writing since 2012 · 12 entries · 12 days shown up
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sevenstepssystemslatelivegodsavingroomsomebodyhelphelenahandartmykareceivedwords