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done to death
Nov. 15th, 2009 01:48 amI can't sleep. I can't scrub myself clean enough even to sit in my own flat, so I've been walking for hours. The locals are all closed now; I can't even hide in the depths of another glass of fire-whiskey in a smoky corner. I'm writing beneath a street lamp, but the page is swimming.
I didn't want to do that! None of it.
I don't want to have done it.
And I can't undo it now. Any of it.
If I could
Even if I could reach all the way back to when it was not yet done. When was that? A dozen years? More.
You knew what you were about when you limited my wand to block any self-harming spell. You know I won't top myself like a Muggle. Of course not. As though I'd care at all the moment it was done, but I'm too proud to be found like that. Too much a Black. Too much a wizard. Too much yours to do it at all.
But I want it. Oblivion. Pitch blackness. Rest.
I can see her. Jaw wrenched open and aside. Eyes wide, locked on mine. And I can hear her.
She begged me.
And I was stone. Like you.
'It makes it worse, begging,' I said. 'You save a shred of dignity if you can keep from doing that.' It's all shreds and tatters in the end, regardless.
I couldn't stand it. I can't.
I won't. Though that's ridiculous, because, of course, I did. Did it, hating it, cursing it, myself, him, you, her, all. Why do we do this? What do you want that I haven't given, proven, purged? What else?
I wish you wouldn't answer that, but you will. Whether I asked or not. The answer is coming. Worse if you are displeased, but no easier, really, if you found it praiseworthy. Each is worse, more impossible, more
There aren't words for this. But you'll know it whether I write or don't write, and the thoughts are clearer, I know. But the words are mine, for myself, to make it real. Finished.
It won't ever be finished.
I didn't want to do that! None of it.
I don't want to have done it.
And I can't undo it now. Any of it.
If I could
Even if I could reach all the way back to when it was not yet done. When was that? A dozen years? More.
You knew what you were about when you limited my wand to block any self-harming spell. You know I won't top myself like a Muggle. Of course not. As though I'd care at all the moment it was done, but I'm too proud to be found like that. Too much a Black. Too much a wizard. Too much yours to do it at all.
But I want it. Oblivion. Pitch blackness. Rest.
I can see her. Jaw wrenched open and aside. Eyes wide, locked on mine. And I can hear her.
She begged me.
And I was stone. Like you.
'It makes it worse, begging,' I said. 'You save a shred of dignity if you can keep from doing that.' It's all shreds and tatters in the end, regardless.
I couldn't stand it. I can't.
I won't. Though that's ridiculous, because, of course, I did. Did it, hating it, cursing it, myself, him, you, her, all. Why do we do this? What do you want that I haven't given, proven, purged? What else?
I wish you wouldn't answer that, but you will. Whether I asked or not. The answer is coming. Worse if you are displeased, but no easier, really, if you found it praiseworthy. Each is worse, more impossible, more
There aren't words for this. But you'll know it whether I write or don't write, and the thoughts are clearer, I know. But the words are mine, for myself, to make it real. Finished.
It won't ever be finished.
(no subject)
Nov. 6th, 2009 11:52 amYes. I see that I shouldn't make plans as though my schedule were my own.
But Skye, Marlowe Sands, Ely, Telford, Luton and Basildon--all today? Fortunate that I never feel much like eating after I've Apparated. Once.
At any rate, the first two are done, and I'm in Ely somewhere. Damned if I can find anyone to ask directions from, though. Place looks utterly deserted. Not much reclamation here, I take it.
Were you not pleased with your birthday present, then? I had thought it met all of your specifications. Was it the timing, perhaps? You'd have preferred I wait? I'm afraid I wasn't in control of that. Was it the packaging? Too gaudy? You do realise that I can't do better if I don't know how I've failed.
Right. No time for moaning in this itinerary.
Or, actually, there may be. Still too dizzy to walk.
There's not a train to Telford, is there?
I didn't think so.
But Skye, Marlowe Sands, Ely, Telford, Luton and Basildon--all today? Fortunate that I never feel much like eating after I've Apparated. Once.
At any rate, the first two are done, and I'm in Ely somewhere. Damned if I can find anyone to ask directions from, though. Place looks utterly deserted. Not much reclamation here, I take it.
Were you not pleased with your birthday present, then? I had thought it met all of your specifications. Was it the timing, perhaps? You'd have preferred I wait? I'm afraid I wasn't in control of that. Was it the packaging? Too gaudy? You do realise that I can't do better if I don't know how I've failed.
Right. No time for moaning in this itinerary.
Or, actually, there may be. Still too dizzy to walk.
There's not a train to Telford, is there?
I didn't think so.
(no subject)
Oct. 18th, 2009 09:20 amI received your command.
What is there to say but 'Consider it done'?
Only.
I know, this will wait. A few days gone will make little difference.
Only.
No. You command, and I am yours
only
What is there to say but 'Consider it done'?
Only.
I know, this will wait. A few days gone will make little difference.
Only.
No. You command, and I am yours
only
(no subject)
Oct. 4th, 2009 06:51 pmSo, what am I to do?
I would far rather be chasing here and there with no time to think of anything beyond your deadline, than sitting here with so little to do but think.
You laugh.
So what have I done? Well, let's see. Today.
Bought The Prophet, milk, tea, biscuits, two potatoes, bread, and a cauliflower. Oh, yes, and butter. 1 galleon. Change.
Returned with parcels. Made tea.
Took tea and Prophet, sat out on steps. Read. Front page: MLE arrest Devonshire grandmother of thirty-seven as smuggling mastermind (cousin mentioned and brother). Wynne-Masters family move into lovely, refurbished New London home; more pictures, page three. St Mungo's report rise in birthrate over past six months (see feature article, Family Fortunes section, within). Within: Commerce (triumphs and trials, various articles).
Rain commenced. Retreated inside. More tea.
Moved stool by window. Watched. Nothing of note.
Continued paper. Keeping the Peace (public house curfews reaffirmed; calm in the camps continues; murder, mayhem investigated in several localities); Family Fortunes ('One Family's Gratitude for Repopulation Rewards Programme'); Social Whirl (parties, weddings, engagements, births, obituaries); Hearth and Home (recipes; housekeeping tips); My Prophet (classified adverts, astrologer's advice). Back page: weather, puzzles, Buckingham Week (a busy schedule ahead for you, I see).
More tea, moved stool to table. Found quill and ink. Worked puzzles. Failed.
Out to stationers, where bought ink, parchment, wax, blotter. 2 galleons. Change. Apples from stall. 2 sickles. No change. Met no one promising.
Returned. Tracked in muck. Cleaned floor, shoes.
Room dim and no candles.
Out to local chandlers. Listened to advice. Listened to weather. Listened to gossip. Tutted interestedly at second cousin's second daughter mixed up in dodgy ritual. Returned to advice. Selected beeswax. Standard weight. Alchemist's dozen. 3 galleons. Change.
Returned. Lit candle and cast brightening charm.
Letters. Mother. Mother. Mother. Cousin. School chum. Lover. You laugh.
Twisted firestarters. Laid fire. Lit it.
Letters. Mother. Mother.
Burned.
Mother.
Summoned elf. Sent it with letter to Mother. Rain continued.
Tuned wireless. Sorted clippings. Watched out window until dark.
Made tea. Cauliflower cheese. Toast. Ate. Missed elf.
It's a much better cook than I am.
How am I to accomplish what you've asked? I should chat up the neighbours, I suppose. There's a young woman who pushes a pram up and down the street in the middle of the day (when it is not spitting down rain). When I spoke with her--on Tuesday--she asked if I had children. Then she asked if I worked at nights or was it a day off for me. The conversation was brief. What was I supposed to learn from her? Whatever it was, I did not. Or not yet. Perhaps she will tell me more another time, but I suspect she's not a promising lead. Still, maybe she knows something. Maybe she doesn't even know she knows.
Was I really meant for this line of work?
You're not laughing, are you?
I would far rather be chasing here and there with no time to think of anything beyond your deadline, than sitting here with so little to do but think.
You laugh.
So what have I done? Well, let's see. Today.
Bought The Prophet, milk, tea, biscuits, two potatoes, bread, and a cauliflower. Oh, yes, and butter. 1 galleon. Change.
Returned with parcels. Made tea.
Took tea and Prophet, sat out on steps. Read. Front page: MLE arrest Devonshire grandmother of thirty-seven as smuggling mastermind (cousin mentioned and brother). Wynne-Masters family move into lovely, refurbished New London home; more pictures, page three. St Mungo's report rise in birthrate over past six months (see feature article, Family Fortunes section, within). Within: Commerce (triumphs and trials, various articles).
Rain commenced. Retreated inside. More tea.
Moved stool by window. Watched. Nothing of note.
Continued paper. Keeping the Peace (public house curfews reaffirmed; calm in the camps continues; murder, mayhem investigated in several localities); Family Fortunes ('One Family's Gratitude for Repopulation Rewards Programme'); Social Whirl (parties, weddings, engagements, births, obituaries); Hearth and Home (recipes; housekeeping tips); My Prophet (classified adverts, astrologer's advice). Back page: weather, puzzles, Buckingham Week (a busy schedule ahead for you, I see).
More tea, moved stool to table. Found quill and ink. Worked puzzles. Failed.
- 12D (7 letters). Alchemist's aid.
43A (14 letters). Transport in Transvaal.
65D (17 letters). Tourists's trouble. (Could be a phrase?)
Out to stationers, where bought ink, parchment, wax, blotter. 2 galleons. Change. Apples from stall. 2 sickles. No change. Met no one promising.
Returned. Tracked in muck. Cleaned floor, shoes.
Room dim and no candles.
Out to local chandlers. Listened to advice. Listened to weather. Listened to gossip. Tutted interestedly at second cousin's second daughter mixed up in dodgy ritual. Returned to advice. Selected beeswax. Standard weight. Alchemist's dozen. 3 galleons. Change.
Returned. Lit candle and cast brightening charm.
Letters. Mother. Mother. Mother. Cousin. School chum. Lover. You laugh.
Twisted firestarters. Laid fire. Lit it.
Letters. Mother. Mother.
Burned.
Mother.
Summoned elf. Sent it with letter to Mother. Rain continued.
Tuned wireless. Sorted clippings. Watched out window until dark.
Made tea. Cauliflower cheese. Toast. Ate. Missed elf.
It's a much better cook than I am.
How am I to accomplish what you've asked? I should chat up the neighbours, I suppose. There's a young woman who pushes a pram up and down the street in the middle of the day (when it is not spitting down rain). When I spoke with her--on Tuesday--she asked if I had children. Then she asked if I worked at nights or was it a day off for me. The conversation was brief. What was I supposed to learn from her? Whatever it was, I did not. Or not yet. Perhaps she will tell me more another time, but I suspect she's not a promising lead. Still, maybe she knows something. Maybe she doesn't even know she knows.
Was I really meant for this line of work?
You're not laughing, are you?
(no subject)
Sep. 27th, 2009 04:05 pmI suppose it's to be expected that these tasks won't all go smoothly.
I gather you were less than impressed with my, ah, efficiency this week.
Should I be relieved, then, that this next doesn't ask speed? I confess (and why not? I can't hide any of it--the reluctance, inadequacy, loathing, horror--you see it all) I confess I'm not sure where to start or when I can hope to finish. But I am here. I've shifted my few things into this place. A place of my own, for however long.
I do aim to please, you know. I hope that much is clear.
I gather you were less than impressed with my, ah, efficiency this week.
Should I be relieved, then, that this next doesn't ask speed? I confess (and why not? I can't hide any of it--the reluctance, inadequacy, loathing, horror--you see it all) I confess I'm not sure where to start or when I can hope to finish. But I am here. I've shifted my few things into this place. A place of my own, for however long.
I do aim to please, you know. I hope that much is clear.
Incomplete
Sep. 12th, 2009 11:00 amSo you've returned my owl, rebuffed her delivery. I take your point--it is, in fact, pointing accusingly at me from its parcel even now.
I'm not keeping pace. Not half done. And I suppose the first effort was opposable, too, coming as it did alone after a handful of days. Inexcusable. And this second offering? Insufficient.
Yes, you've made that clear. Your displeasure throbs, paints my dreams red.
But I am on point. And on pace now.
I'm not keeping pace. Not half done. And I suppose the first effort was opposable, too, coming as it did alone after a handful of days. Inexcusable. And this second offering? Insufficient.
Yes, you've made that clear. Your displeasure throbs, paints my dreams red.
But I am on point. And on pace now.
So. A year. And a new book arrives. A fresh start, a new page?
A longer leash now--and this, the line that ties me to you. This and the coiling, living line that marks your possession of me. Oh, never fear. It is my life line and I cling to it. I am yours. The parts of me that are and the parts that are no more. All yours.
So. I am to range further from you now. After a year of remaking. To do your Will in the world.
To prove myself. Yes, I know. Or fail.
That’s what the leash is for.
A longer leash now--and this, the line that ties me to you. This and the coiling, living line that marks your possession of me. Oh, never fear. It is my life line and I cling to it. I am yours. The parts of me that are and the parts that are no more. All yours.
So. I am to range further from you now. After a year of remaking. To do your Will in the world.
To prove myself. Yes, I know. Or fail.
That’s what the leash is for.
(no subject)
Sep. 6th, 2008 07:32 pmEleven years hiding amongst this rabble, having somehow escaped your thoughts. Now this... on my pillow. A nice touch really. To open my door and feel it staring at me from across the room.
Yesterday I would have sworn that the mark burned less than it did back then - that the slithering lines of ink had somehow faded under my skin. I imagined that I had, perhaps through sheer force of mind, grown numb to your effects.
But now it twitches with every stroke of the quill. Was I ignored then, or truly hidden in the stink of this place? Perhaps this has nothing to do with you at all.
But what is there that has nothing to do with you?
