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so i didn't write about a rock becoming self-aware but i plan to. a-and my english teacher liked this so i'm posting it and aaah i'm sorry if it's bad.
It’s her eyes. They’re like—like green embers. He tells her that and she laughs. Emerald fire, is what he calls them, gesturing vaguely. Liquid pools of, of molten—grass?
She laughs a lot when he talks, knees drawn up to her chest. A cigarette in her hand, a bandage on her knee; freckles grace her cheeks and brown bangs hang in front of her eyes.
Those green eyes.
You’re a real charmer, ain’t ya? she drawls each syllable, stretching them to their limit. Her cigarette smolders in her hand but she takes no notice. City boy like you.
I ain't—I'm not from the city. Bites his tongue. I'm just, educated.
Wannabe city boy. Ash falls from her cigarette, singes the couch. Don't wanna admit we're the same.
You eyes are like molten emeralds! He doesn't mean to shout. Your skin is like—an angel's. A caramel angel. With, with freckles like, like... like chocolate chips?
She howls like a wolf, throws her head back. You ain't educated. You're just as dumb as the rest of us. You just got fancy words that don't make much sense.
He's not listening anymore. Stupid girl, doesn't understand. The green wallpaper behind her peels down, curling like a blade of grass. Not like grass. It's that, that mint green, pale and old and ugly. Hospital green.
I hate hospitals.
She doesn't question him when he says that, she's grown used it; writer types, she would say, always got these crazy thoughts they just gotta say. Them writer types.
So when you go to your fancy university, whatcha gonna tell them other kids? More ash falls onto the couch, cracked leather sizzling. You're gonna say you're some fancy city, just like them. But which city? Which school? You gotta figure all this out, Tommy.
Thomas, he corrects automatically. Thomas.
She snorts like a pig and shrugs. Thomas. Do you got this all figured out? I bet you don't. You ain't as smart as you think. Me though, I'm smart. She points to her forehead, as if to prove it. Like she has the answer to everything. I'm gonna figure all this out for you. Ya know why?
Put your cigarette out. You're ruining the couch.
Cause you need me. You got all those fancy words up in your head, but you ain't got anything else. Just words and numbers and that's it. She presses the cigarette into her knee, and now it's her skin sizzling instead of the couch. Just words and numbers.
I'm doing all this for you! For us! He presses her hand to her knee and it hurts, little leftover bits of ash stinging his palm. Don't you understand!
Lights another cigarette, lets it smolder in her hand. I know that, sugar plum.
Don't call me that.
I know. When you get that fancy degree of yours we can get out of here. We can get a nice little apartment, with real wallpaper and a couch that isn't broken. She takes his hand off her knee, presses her cigarette into his palm. You can be a stranger to them city kids, but not to me. I know the real you. So Goddamn act like it, you big idiot.
Your eyes— She takes his hand, kisses the burn mark on his palm. They, they're pretty.
She smiles crookedly at him. That's a good boy, Tommy. He leans into facebattle her. That's a good boy.
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Quote: [5:06:23 PM] Yeili: this is kind of cool, i've beaten a murderer in mario party.
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