Fic: "White Picket Fence" 1/1 VM/OB, pg
Title: White Picket Fence
Disclaimer: Not mine. not true.
Started out as a drabble and turned out a little longer than that. Told in a series of snippets from Viggo's POV. Enjoy?
one. white picket fence
White picket fence, with daisies blooming around the edges, trapping a house of sky blue and a door of dark red. It was in the Home Decorators magazine, something you had fallen quite partial to since we moved in together, and I couldn’t help but think you wanted something more than our two-story make believe with cream colored walls and brass candle holders and authentic fur rugs. Everyday I saw your reflection in the polished mahogany of our dinner table when we sat down to eat, but it was funny how I never saw you smile. Maybe you were just busy chewing your food, cutting your steak, and spooning gravy onto your mashed potatoes.
two. wet
It was raining outside the other day. I was busy working on a still life in incredible boredom and gloom, when suddenly you burst through the back door drenched like a drowned rat from your dark curls through your red and white striped shirt to your jeans and all the way down to your sandals.
“I think it’s clearing up,” you said, and shook your head like a wet dog. Droplets clung to the tip of your nose and dripped from your hair onto the linoleum in quiet staccato.
I reached for my leather jacket on the back of my chair, gave it to you to keep warm, and patted your head.
I think the sun was out by the time I had finished.
three. socks
There was a message waiting on the answering machine that I thought was for me.
“Orli? You there? Anyway, just wanted to remind you of our arrangements for Saturday. Hope you can make it, and wear something snazzy, okay hon?”
Despair. Fear. Dread. It wasn’t all that I felt, but it was a tiny, microscopic part. You probably had a party to attend with a few friends, but I doubted myself, our relationship. I didn’t recognize the woman’s voice, and I didn’t really want to know.
I took a look at our curtains in the living room (which I had picked out) and compared it to the curtains in our bedroom (which you had picked out), and found that they didn’t match at all. I color coordinated our socks to make myself believe again, but most of them were white anyway.
four. clocks
Confronted you about the message, but you merely shrugged it off and waved it away. You said it was a party that you were going to blow off anyway, and that I didn’t need to worry. I had enough worry lines about my forehead, you said, and traced them with your fingers.
But something clung, and despair settled in, and I wouldn’t touch you again until after it passed. Counted the ticks of the grandfather clock and watched the shadows lengthen, but I was afraid it never would.
“Why are you staring at the time?” You asked in quiet fury. Days had passed since the confrontation. My limbs felt no lighter, and my mouth tasted of old decay. I wouldn’t let you kiss me. You pouted and retreated to our bedroom, to your drapes and your warm sun pouring through the window. I took up the magazine and read some tips about coordinating wallpaper with curtains, but I didn’t think it would help much. A little birdie told me you were looking for a new nest.
five. an octave lower
I had a dream and you were in it. Something made your skin blue, almost green, and I had to reach out and touch you. I hadn’t touched you in a while, and your skin felt like scales to my inexpert hand, though it looked as smooth as ever. You spoke to me in tongues I couldn’t understand, and when I tried to open my mouth, it was glued shut and swollen. You had a long shadow, even though there was no sun and we weren’t outside, and I could see it stretch on for miles. When I reached out to touch your hair, it turned bristly and dark and sharp, and my fingers bled purple when they were pierced.
It was plain we had some communication problems, but I was helpless and could only listen to your foreign sounds for the pitch. It was lower than usual, almost like an elf’s lament filled with sorrow.
I woke up in the morning and found you limp against me, your hand clutching mine loosely, your soft-again curls brushing my jaw, your skin the perfect tan that it always was.
We talked till noon and you finally convinced me to erase the message on the machine.
“We have enough troubles as it is, Vig.” You said in all honesty, and I believed it. I tried rebuilding our happy make-believe, starting with new patterns for the drapery and matching wallpaper. I think you thought it was tacky in the end, but in that home-sweet-home sort of way.
end
Disclaimer: Not mine. not true.
Started out as a drabble and turned out a little longer than that. Told in a series of snippets from Viggo's POV. Enjoy?
one. white picket fence
White picket fence, with daisies blooming around the edges, trapping a house of sky blue and a door of dark red. It was in the Home Decorators magazine, something you had fallen quite partial to since we moved in together, and I couldn’t help but think you wanted something more than our two-story make believe with cream colored walls and brass candle holders and authentic fur rugs. Everyday I saw your reflection in the polished mahogany of our dinner table when we sat down to eat, but it was funny how I never saw you smile. Maybe you were just busy chewing your food, cutting your steak, and spooning gravy onto your mashed potatoes.
two. wet
It was raining outside the other day. I was busy working on a still life in incredible boredom and gloom, when suddenly you burst through the back door drenched like a drowned rat from your dark curls through your red and white striped shirt to your jeans and all the way down to your sandals.
“I think it’s clearing up,” you said, and shook your head like a wet dog. Droplets clung to the tip of your nose and dripped from your hair onto the linoleum in quiet staccato.
I reached for my leather jacket on the back of my chair, gave it to you to keep warm, and patted your head.
I think the sun was out by the time I had finished.
three. socks
There was a message waiting on the answering machine that I thought was for me.
“Orli? You there? Anyway, just wanted to remind you of our arrangements for Saturday. Hope you can make it, and wear something snazzy, okay hon?”
Despair. Fear. Dread. It wasn’t all that I felt, but it was a tiny, microscopic part. You probably had a party to attend with a few friends, but I doubted myself, our relationship. I didn’t recognize the woman’s voice, and I didn’t really want to know.
I took a look at our curtains in the living room (which I had picked out) and compared it to the curtains in our bedroom (which you had picked out), and found that they didn’t match at all. I color coordinated our socks to make myself believe again, but most of them were white anyway.
four. clocks
Confronted you about the message, but you merely shrugged it off and waved it away. You said it was a party that you were going to blow off anyway, and that I didn’t need to worry. I had enough worry lines about my forehead, you said, and traced them with your fingers.
But something clung, and despair settled in, and I wouldn’t touch you again until after it passed. Counted the ticks of the grandfather clock and watched the shadows lengthen, but I was afraid it never would.
“Why are you staring at the time?” You asked in quiet fury. Days had passed since the confrontation. My limbs felt no lighter, and my mouth tasted of old decay. I wouldn’t let you kiss me. You pouted and retreated to our bedroom, to your drapes and your warm sun pouring through the window. I took up the magazine and read some tips about coordinating wallpaper with curtains, but I didn’t think it would help much. A little birdie told me you were looking for a new nest.
five. an octave lower
I had a dream and you were in it. Something made your skin blue, almost green, and I had to reach out and touch you. I hadn’t touched you in a while, and your skin felt like scales to my inexpert hand, though it looked as smooth as ever. You spoke to me in tongues I couldn’t understand, and when I tried to open my mouth, it was glued shut and swollen. You had a long shadow, even though there was no sun and we weren’t outside, and I could see it stretch on for miles. When I reached out to touch your hair, it turned bristly and dark and sharp, and my fingers bled purple when they were pierced.
It was plain we had some communication problems, but I was helpless and could only listen to your foreign sounds for the pitch. It was lower than usual, almost like an elf’s lament filled with sorrow.
I woke up in the morning and found you limp against me, your hand clutching mine loosely, your soft-again curls brushing my jaw, your skin the perfect tan that it always was.
We talked till noon and you finally convinced me to erase the message on the machine.
“We have enough troubles as it is, Vig.” You said in all honesty, and I believed it. I tried rebuilding our happy make-believe, starting with new patterns for the drapery and matching wallpaper. I think you thought it was tacky in the end, but in that home-sweet-home sort of way.
end