02-01-2018, 06:25 PM
Her words cut through him. A knife through melting butter. Dismissive. Her back now to him.
The playful look on his face remained, pasted on, as he watched her go to the kitchen. His eyes had darkened though. The game. All a game. He knew that. It was the walk he walked. The constant amusement in all of it.
The fucking universe was a joke.
But he was in on the joke. And that makes all the fucking difference. All the difference in the world. It made it HIS place to play.
And he didn't leave. Oh, he would. But not at her dismissal. Not yet. Not like that.
The joke was the joke. He could laugh at himself. And he did. All the time. And so could others. He didn't mind amusement. But not dismissal.
She turned, the hint of a smile there. And it didn't make him happy to see, not now. She was in front of him, looking up at him, hooded eyes staring into him. Mocking him. He knew it. He knew what she was doing. Mikhail knew what manipulation looked like.
A game. It was all a game.
So.....did he play her game? Do what she had in mind? See where this went and let her think she pulled the strings?
Or did he tell her "probably not" and leave, off to find something new to do.
He made his decision. Perhaps foolish, but what was life without a gamble.
His smile remained, but the playfulness was gone, drained out of him as easily as it had come. The endless goof and joke and chatter that hid the reality, cast aside, the used costume. The truth clear. That he did matter. That he did have the power.
Cryptically, seriously, he said, "The man who sees behind the curtains has all the cards."
It was the truth of him, though he doubted she understood what he was talking about. And that was alright. He'd explain one day. If he felt like it. Or not.
He wasn't sure why he was letting her see behind the mask. Maybe it was her cold eyes, eyes that hid a rage boiling like a storm, a glittering firestorm, a fire that sang the same song as the one just moments ago, clouds reflecting the blacks and greys and oranges of the conflagration. Because maybe, just maybe, he was seeing the same thing he saw in his own heart. To watch the world burn. He didn't know.
Well, the die was cast.
He touched the lighter, channeled, danced the flame above his fingertips, a smaller storm, unpredictable, the firelight glinting off both their eyes. So hypnotic. He could imagine, could see it spread, the beautiful chaos, lighting up the cracks and seams, and his nostrils flared at the vision, the best joke of all. To let everyone else see it all.
His voice was the quiet dance of a flame on a cold night. "Doll, I am the game."
And looked into those stormy depths.
Edited by Mikhail, Feb 1 2018, 09:57 PM.
The playful look on his face remained, pasted on, as he watched her go to the kitchen. His eyes had darkened though. The game. All a game. He knew that. It was the walk he walked. The constant amusement in all of it.
The fucking universe was a joke.
But he was in on the joke. And that makes all the fucking difference. All the difference in the world. It made it HIS place to play.
And he didn't leave. Oh, he would. But not at her dismissal. Not yet. Not like that.
The joke was the joke. He could laugh at himself. And he did. All the time. And so could others. He didn't mind amusement. But not dismissal.
She turned, the hint of a smile there. And it didn't make him happy to see, not now. She was in front of him, looking up at him, hooded eyes staring into him. Mocking him. He knew it. He knew what she was doing. Mikhail knew what manipulation looked like.
A game. It was all a game.
So.....did he play her game? Do what she had in mind? See where this went and let her think she pulled the strings?
Or did he tell her "probably not" and leave, off to find something new to do.
He made his decision. Perhaps foolish, but what was life without a gamble.
His smile remained, but the playfulness was gone, drained out of him as easily as it had come. The endless goof and joke and chatter that hid the reality, cast aside, the used costume. The truth clear. That he did matter. That he did have the power.
Cryptically, seriously, he said, "The man who sees behind the curtains has all the cards."
It was the truth of him, though he doubted she understood what he was talking about. And that was alright. He'd explain one day. If he felt like it. Or not.
He wasn't sure why he was letting her see behind the mask. Maybe it was her cold eyes, eyes that hid a rage boiling like a storm, a glittering firestorm, a fire that sang the same song as the one just moments ago, clouds reflecting the blacks and greys and oranges of the conflagration. Because maybe, just maybe, he was seeing the same thing he saw in his own heart. To watch the world burn. He didn't know.
Well, the die was cast.
He touched the lighter, channeled, danced the flame above his fingertips, a smaller storm, unpredictable, the firelight glinting off both their eyes. So hypnotic. He could imagine, could see it spread, the beautiful chaos, lighting up the cracks and seams, and his nostrils flared at the vision, the best joke of all. To let everyone else see it all.
His voice was the quiet dance of a flame on a cold night. "Doll, I am the game."
And looked into those stormy depths.
Edited by Mikhail, Feb 1 2018, 09:57 PM.
"Good and ill.
We're like the wind,
we blows both ways."
- Mad Sweeney, American Gods
- Mad Sweeney, American Gods