Amory Felix (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fatespoken) wrote2010-02-22 07:10 am
fatespoken) wrote2010-02-22 07:10 am
[ fourty-nine ] | memory theater [ → backdated to last night ]
I.
“I really am frightened of it.”
“Of what?”
Sunlight strains through the wide leaves of the gravenstein apple tree, scattering cut and spotted shadows against her face; the corners of her eyes crinkle as a patch of light spirals into her vision. Early August was always like this in Sonoma, the temperature a moistened tongue of heat—not a Southern California dry, but even the region’s humidity crumbled under ninety degree highs. The sunlight strains through her voice, words producing a gentle lull as she shifts her head toward the person standing aside her.
“Sometimes… when you look at a person or a place, it’s like a photograph. Whatever you see is a point in time. Everything changes; everything you care about at this very moment is a snapshot. I tell myself I don’t want it to change. I’m sure everyone tells themselves that.”
“You’re focusing too much.”
“Everyone’s scared of it.”
“So you’ll spend your time now worrying about it? What a brilliant red carpet for death.”
“Not everyone can push things away like you. And if you ask me, one day it’s going to bite you in the ass.”
“Thanks for the advice, Elisa.”
“Shut up, Amory.”
His voice is as quiet as hers, a sedate and balanced breath despite the beginnings of an argument. The softened edges of his face, height minus two heads, and eased posture distinguish a younger Amory. A person could guess eighteen and they would nearly be right—a year off at seventeen years old. The general ease about him is off-setting in contrast with his current incarnation; even with his shoulders pulled back and straightened in proper posture, there’s no doubt to the serenity encompassing his form and packaged in an easy smile.
Elisa props herself up on her elbows and digs them deep into the grass. It doesn’t matter that the edges of dried leaves cut into her skin; she’s never been that sort of girl. She likes the ground against her palms, dirt coating her fingers and stuck between the cracks of her palms. More of a boy in that way than Amory, she thinks to herself. There’s an attempt at an indignant expression building at the tight-pressed corners of her lips, but it’s a look that’s hardly there before she tumbles into a string of laughter.
“I missed you.”
“It wasn’t that long. What? Two weeks?”
“Yes, but you’re always here and there, and then it’s another half a year with your mom. It’s frustrating sometimes.”
“You know his whim follows the wind. Did you know he’s in New York City right now?”
“I hate New York.”
“Not the only one.”
Their conversation is interrupted by snorting mare a distance apart from the pair. A mare that was currently broiling in her patch of field, tired of her spot of dry grass and the chattering humans under the apple tree. Climbing this far up into hills was a trek, even for the bucolic, rolling hills characteristic of Russian River Valley, and especially when caught in the heat of the summer. There wasn’t anywhere nearby to stop and rest, not in this piece of land chosen for its seclusion.
“I’m pretty certain we’ll be having roast horse for dinner if we stay any longer.”
“Or glue.”
“Let’s drive out to Healdsburg after dropping her off. We should visit before we return to San Francisco—“
“We should go back to the vineyard.”
He pauses at the remark.
“It’s too empty.”
“First off, it’s beautiful place. Second, I came out here to spend time with you, not you plus tourists and pedestrians. And your father’s not there, which means—”
“Which means we can do as we like without worrying he’ll hear?”
“Exactly,” she replies, hanging laughter onto the end of her sentence, “Do you think we could steal a bottle from the cellar? Something outrageously old. You could think of it, like… taking out your annoyance in a really passive aggressive way?”
She pulls herself up from the ground, shaking loose the tangle of brittle leaves in her copper hair. It’s not enough to remove them, Amory notices, stepping toward her to pluck one of the pieces caught in the bend of one of her braids. Then another pulled from her bangs, leaning closer to her as he catches her lips in a brief hold of a kiss
“Why not? He doesn't drink it any way. “
II.
“I really am frightened of it.”
“Of what?”
Sunlight strains through the wide leaves of the gravenstein apple tree, scattering cut and spotted shadows against her face; the corners of her eyes crinkle as a patch of light spirals into her vision. Early August was always like this in Sonoma, the temperature a moistened tongue of heat—not a Southern California dry, but even the region’s humidity crumbled under ninety degree highs. The sunlight strains through her voice, words producing a gentle lull as she shifts her head toward the person standing aside her.
“Sometimes… when you look at a person or a place, it’s like a photograph. Whatever you see is a point in time. Everything changes; everything you care about at this very moment is a snapshot. I tell myself I don’t want it to change. I’m sure everyone tells themselves that.”
“You’re focusing too much.”
“Everyone’s scared of it.”
“So you’ll spend your time now worrying about it? What a brilliant red carpet for death.”
“Not everyone can push things away like you. And if you ask me, one day it’s going to bite you in the ass.”
“Thanks for the advice, Elisa.”
“Shut up, Amory.”
His voice is as quiet as hers, a sedate and balanced breath despite the beginnings of an argument. The softened edges of his face, height minus two heads, and eased posture distinguish a younger Amory. A person could guess eighteen and they would nearly be right—a year off at seventeen years old. The general ease about him is off-setting in contrast with his current incarnation; even with his shoulders pulled back and straightened in proper posture, there’s no doubt to the serenity encompassing his form and packaged in an easy smile.
Elisa props herself up on her elbows and digs them deep into the grass. It doesn’t matter that the edges of dried leaves cut into her skin; she’s never been that sort of girl. She likes the ground against her palms, dirt coating her fingers and stuck between the cracks of her palms. More of a boy in that way than Amory, she thinks to herself. There’s an attempt at an indignant expression building at the tight-pressed corners of her lips, but it’s a look that’s hardly there before she tumbles into a string of laughter.
“I missed you.”
“It wasn’t that long. What? Two weeks?”
“Yes, but you’re always here and there, and then it’s another half a year with your mom. It’s frustrating sometimes.”
“You know his whim follows the wind. Did you know he’s in New York City right now?”
“I hate New York.”
“Not the only one.”
Their conversation is interrupted by snorting mare a distance apart from the pair. A mare that was currently broiling in her patch of field, tired of her spot of dry grass and the chattering humans under the apple tree. Climbing this far up into hills was a trek, even for the bucolic, rolling hills characteristic of Russian River Valley, and especially when caught in the heat of the summer. There wasn’t anywhere nearby to stop and rest, not in this piece of land chosen for its seclusion.
“I’m pretty certain we’ll be having roast horse for dinner if we stay any longer.”
“Or glue.”
“Let’s drive out to Healdsburg after dropping her off. We should visit before we return to San Francisco—“
“We should go back to the vineyard.”
He pauses at the remark.
“It’s too empty.”
“First off, it’s beautiful place. Second, I came out here to spend time with you, not you plus tourists and pedestrians. And your father’s not there, which means—”
“Which means we can do as we like without worrying he’ll hear?”
“Exactly,” she replies, hanging laughter onto the end of her sentence, “Do you think we could steal a bottle from the cellar? Something outrageously old. You could think of it, like… taking out your annoyance in a really passive aggressive way?”
She pulls herself up from the ground, shaking loose the tangle of brittle leaves in her copper hair. It’s not enough to remove them, Amory notices, stepping toward her to pluck one of the pieces caught in the bend of one of her braids. Then another pulled from her bangs, leaning closer to her as he catches her lips in a brief hold of a kiss
“Why not? He doesn't drink it any way. “
II.
“You had no right.”
Pale red bruises blot the skin beneath his eye. Red threads the veins of his sclera. Sleep hadn’t been a sine qua non for survival these past two days, a stranger unwelcomed by the minutes and hours that pounded against the bone of his skull. He was exhausted. Eighteen hours on the plane. However many minutes in this hell. Hours dropping off in suspended time, even if ten had been the actual length. His nerves were tied and taunt, mangled against the weight of external pressure as they processed what his mind couldn’t yet swallow.
“Why were you here? After all this time, why the fuck are you here?”
His father had always carved a more imposing figure than him through the manner of presentation and build. And though they both shared the same height at Amory’s eighteen years, he felt dwarfed by the other figure-- the light above them cutting harsh lines across the older Felix’s features, defined nose and pale skin exaggerated by its angle. Amory had always resembled his mother more. His mother who was dead now, her death announced ten minutes ago.
He feels the bile in the back of his mouth and thinks he wants to throw up.
“Why did you stop me? Why did you? It's your fault she's dead."
There’s silence from the other, but his words, or lack thereof give little credit to his expression. Blind to Amory, who casts negative perceptions in steel, was the note of something more than apathy captured in the mirror of his eyes.
“For all your history, for all your philosophy, all your words, all your pretension— you can’t find anything to say to me? Where are your words, Senator?”
Still, nothing.
“What is it then? Was this an experiment in humanity for you? Take a wife, have a kid, play at having a family because it must have ages since you’ve done that. Just like you handle everything else, always moving to the next thing that interests you.”
His tone comes out strained, the ends frayed by exhaustion and grief. He doesn’t want to cry in front of his father. It’s the last thing he wants, the shame and utter juvenility of it-- to be perceived and judged as a child. He doesn’t want to fall to pieces here. Not in front of him.
“We’re human. We die. It’s as simple as that.”
He raises a hand to cup his face and soon the sound of a muffled sob follows. Fruitless, pathetic— the bile rises in his throat and he turns away from the other man. And now more visible in the light is the dark bruise encircling his wrist, particularly nasty if one considers the stark contrast between his skin and the purple splotch. He doesn’t know what to do now, but every intuitive and logical decision points toward the exit. However, there are words said in the press of emotions against his tongue, words formed in Latin this time around.
“You are a monster.”
[ooc: dlkjhslj SO LATE I KNOW, but I meant to put this up yesterday... but roommate and her noisy guests = distraction = can't focus on rewriting / writing these scenes to fit mem. theater. Add in falling asleep on my computer. So, erm, apologies. ;_; Sorry for shoddiness because 3 am = typos and weirdness???
Also, after the... various events of this week, Ams will be drinking himself into oblivion and it may become more apparent in his replies as they progress. >>; And if anyone wants to stumble upon him at a bar following this post then we can def. arrange something. <33 /WILL PICK UP REPLIES TOMORROW AFTER SLEEP ilu ]
text;
text;
text;
text;
text;
text;
text;
text; just 1/1
but i wanted to, then.
text;
text;
...did you hit him?
text;
text; that icon is so pretty
for awhile after, i wanted him dead. used to think of the ways i could do it. even now sometimes. but i haven't got the balls, I don't think.
text; i love it.
text; <3
text;
: text;
text;
text;
text;