Hospes Takes a Luvvah! (Anth)
Jan 25, 2014 14:12:55 GMT -5
Post by Raeoki on Jan 25, 2014 14:12:55 GMT -5
(ooc: Other possible titles for this thread: "I was a Teenage Hospes"; "Hospes Discovers the Love Boat"; "Mister Hospes Learns why Sex Doesn't Work"; "The Love Boat Discovers Hospes"; "Sex Learns Why Hospes Doesn't Work"; "What Happened in the Litterbox that Day"; "I CAME IN LIKE A WREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeCKING BALL"; "Hospes Finally Meets the Lamp from A Christmas Story"; "The Thirty-one Year Old Virgin"; "The Perks of Being a Hospesflower"; "The Perks of Being a WallHospes"; and, on a more serious note: "Here I stand; in the light of day." Which is a line from Frozen's epic song of unadulterated optimism and in-general badassery, Let It Go.
I sincerely considered using the last one, because it was actually serious. But I liked the one we have now too much. Lulz.)
BIC:
Ba da da dada da! Buh duh duh DUH DUH!
"Fiesta rockers en la CASA toniiight," declared the speakers, "everybodeeeh teengan una bien hooo-o-ra..."
"Oh, Mister Compleo! What a charming little fellow you are! Would you be a dear and buy me another drink?"
Duh duh duh duh DUH!
"Oh, of course, my dear. Excuse me - bartender? Champagne, please...thank you."
"Thank you, love, thank you!" A set of sausage-like fingers enclosed around the slender leg of the champagne glass, and brought it forth to a woman's painted, fattened lips. "So, so - from what you have told me - your little lovelies seem like splendid characters, no?"
Hospes's face was set into a smile that was relaxed around the middle, but had corners that were rigid, as if he was bracing himself for some sort of torture. His body was tensely relaxed, like a ballerina as she dances, her slim form strictly straight and yet somehow capable of bending and swirling like a cat's, as if a concoction of decency and elegance had been the mold that both the ballerina and Hospes had been cast from. "Oh, yes! You would love to meet them, Mrs. Meletius! The boy's an absolute gentleman, and the girl! Quiet as a rock, but believe me, she's tougher than nails!" He spoke with the gentle wisdom of a gentleman, his eyes were as kind as a gentleman's, and his fingers gently flared open for emphasis in a very gentlemanly sort of way. "Believe me, she has enough guts for five career packs!"
"Oooooh, really?" cooed Mrs. Meletius, her watery eyes glistening with intrigue. "Yes, yes, I've noticed her - while I was watching the reaping, you know - and I didn't think she would do so well. It was the boy - Adam Moria - that I liked immediately; his face is absolutely gorgeous!"
Hospes's tightly relaxed grin twitched wider, and he said with a polite chuckle: "Ah hah - yes, very lovely genes in that one."
"I told my husband that he ought to cultivate a look like Adam's - but my Sidra is so deathly afraid of needles and surgeons, you know! The poor little dear!"
"Ah, well, all the better for me, though! The last thing Adam needs is a duplicate. Then the Gamemakers wouldn't know which one to throw in the arena, and there would go all our hard work."
Laughter promptly burst out of Mrs. Meletius's mouth like spittle - though Hospes knew that he wasn't funny. "HAH! Hah ha ha psh psh! My little Sidra - off in the arena in place of Adam Moria? Hah hah hah! The very thought of it is amusing, Mister Compleo! Ah hah hah!"
Hospes merely sat there, in his mold of decency and elegance, letting a rigid but soft smile curl across his mouth, unwanted but desperately needed, faked and yet so forcedly real, like an actor's line.
The piano notes that whispered in his mind moved in an audible waltz, untouched and innocent of the horrendous woman that sat before their master, the notes only knowing their place, their movement, their future. Doo doo dooo dee dah dooo dah doo. Dah. Doo.
As the notes danced, the noises and blunt bloops of the club's speakers changed their tune and rhythm in concordance of a new song, one that had just been suggested by one of the younger sponsors. Instead of bouncing tones and jittery notes, there came a metallic screech, a ripping of steel, a disjointed, baroque seizure of notes and noises that screamed the question that - for future eons to come - scholars would ask themselves: "WHAT DOTH THE FOX* SAYETH?!"
The noise spread all throughout the club, filling the corners, interweaving with the jigging, vivid lights and penetrating all the simple dancers and fun-thrifts, the sponsors - including Mrs. Meletius, who promptly quivered and cooed the moment her sprawling ears heard the song - but, for the most part, the only escort in the entire dance club did not know or feel the song that ravaged the air. His sharpened ears heard it, but his mind and heart did not feel it, for one cannot absorb noise that one does not feel is worthy of being absorbed (such was how Hospes felt at the time); the audible waltz that looped and swept throughout his mind remained untouched, unbroken, impenetrable to all, incapable of knowing a destroyer. It went on, in it's sweetened, dinging notes, soft but firm, each note together, but each note an individual: Doo doo dat dat dip deet. Doot.
"Ooooh, oooooooh!" cooed Mrs. Meletius. "Ooh, coo coo coo! It's the song! It's the song!" She leapt to her feet, and with her fattened hands held outward and trembling, she cried: "I'm sorry, Mister Compleo, but this song - ooh! I do not like it! I do not like it one bit! It's proof that Satan exists in pop culture! I must hurry - oh, don't ask, I have your number already - I'll call either you or the Ministry of Sponsors. But don't you fret! I'll get the money to your little lovelies - that I swear!"
"Um - I - I-" Hospes began, but his words could not halt her; she turned, and bustled onward, her blobbed pelvis moving right, then left, in a rhythmical pendulum-esque manner. His eyebrows lifted, and he slipped off his bar-seat and extended his palm, as if he was going to use some magic to stop her. "Wait! You didn't get my telephone number! You didn't-" The door closed on his words, sealing them within the club forever, like bodies in an ancient tomb.
For a moment, Hospes stood perfectly frozen, incapable of movement - he did not even lower his raised hand; his mind, too, had been paused, incapable of thought, of theory, of the process of emotion.
Yet, somehow, the waltz continued on in his mind: DOoo doooo dooooooo...dah dah doo doo!
Gradually, Hospes moved, but the motions of his limbs and body were awkward and unintelligent, as if someone outside the body was trying to move the body. His clumsy fumbles were slow, but eventually, he managed to pull himself back to the heightened chair that stood before the club's stoic bar and it's colorful array of glow-in-the-dark tequila bottles. As he sat, he regained his composure by indifferent volumes, not fully aware that he had lost it, and yet still finding himself regaining it; and as he did so, as did his off-stage persona, the real him, the one that was not of a mold of decency and regality, the one that the sponsors did not like to see. One could mark it in the way the smile - one that had at least managed to hold a sort of sober relaxation and a certifiable plausibility beforehand - suddenly spread outward, in one quick jerk of a motion, and unfurled his teeth and shoved his cheeks outward; one could mark it in the coldness of the smile, as if it had been chiseled from ice, in the size of the smile, for its corners almost fell off his face, in the falseness of the smile, whose lie of happiness and assuredness was painted across Hospes's thinned lips and stretching teeth. One could mark it in the austerity of his body, for it had once been loosened by gentlemanly peace, but now had had its sinews and bones tightened, screwed, locked; he was stiller and stiffer than a statue, his shoulders were lifted and braced as if he expected a blow, his fingers were stiffly steepled, as if he was operating a drug deal. One could mark it in his eyes - eyes that were like a pair of small blood puddles in his pallid face - and how listless and lacking in emotion they were, how cold and sightless they were as he stared ahead of him, in a manner that did not suggest that he was looking at the wall or the racks of vivid bottles, but that he was staring off into all eternity, into forevermore.
Despite his rigid body and frosty face, his heart and mind were at ease - for the first time since he had reunited with Daniels, his fears did not control him, nor did his ego. He felt neither triumph, nor was he in the mood to be a malcontent; he simply existed within the womb of a calm he was dubious of, of which he felt would snap all around him eventually, but still, he existed in it. It was a womb that was slashed from the world, from life, and drifted around in the realm of his mind, to the extent that it was filled with a plasma of clarity. A clarity that brought epiphany, and from epiphany, the ticks of thoughts that clicked in his mind and remained within him, that had sobered him, if not sharpened him. They were reminders of who he was, of the situations that he had found himself doused in; each thought was like a scar, but they were different from any he had ever known before. These were the thoughts - the scars - that he had always cringed at, that he had always despised and tried to avoid, but now, they felt different, as if they weren't memories of pain, but places where new skin might grow.
He didn't really understand their transformation. Hospes wasn't quite certain if his thoughts' transmogrification from pain to newness was merely a product of a dangerous optimism, or if his unsent letter of possible renunciations had truly set him free. He knew that the latter had certainly opened several new, frightening, dubious doors, which he approached with absolute terror and wariness, but knew - if they should be passed through - that whatever lay behind them would certainly lead to a better time in his life than the one he currently tumbled through, but if those doors could make him feel differently about the shadows that crept about on the grimy floor of his mind - Hospes knew not. His first reaction was to laugh and renounce the idea as foolishness, and claim that he was being foolish enough by permitting the idea that the doors would lead him anywhere better, but now, with this presumption that they were somehow of the therapeutic nature - now, he knew that he was being delusional. Yes - quite delusional. But, when he stopped, and looked at the scars - he found himself wondering. Wondering if he was foolish enough to harbor hopes in secret, from both himself and the world.
But that was all simply foolishness. Romantic, silly old foolishness. Hospes was a very foolish person, you see, and he was very much aware of this fact. He didn't like this aspect of him - but there were several aspects of him that he disliked, and this component of his that made him dislike so many aspects of himself was another aspect of him that he disliked, for it was always an opinion of his that all men should have a relatively high confidence in themselves, to ensure that some amount of progress happened in the world. But, yet, he always found himself snubbing those who dared to brazen themselves with even the slightest inch of self-esteem - which was a discrepancy between philosophy and practice, and Hospes never did like discrepancies, and yet he knew that he was full of them. Another aspect of his that was to be marked as "defective".
Yes. A very foolish creature indeed.
Most of his thoughts were on his foolishness. Most of his thoughts had been through his mind before, throughout various constipations of guilt and torments of self-hatred, in which he would accept them as facts, but wincing all the while, as if a knife was tearing into his flesh. Now, they went through him as easily as a brook moves, and he accepted them as facts, as any scholar would of the facts: with professionalism and relative objectivism, as if Hospes was reading the facts from a historical biography on a king, rather than conceptions of himself.
Doo doo doo doo DAH!
One thought went as follows: "What have I done to deserve this?" you once asked yourself - well, let me see: you destroyed your own brother when he was - what? Seven months old? A year? Alas, I seem to have forgotten. How old was he again?
Dooo doo dahh doo dooo.
One thought went as follows: You know, you really are a very angry fellow. Oh, don't deny it. Everyone else knows. Probably because you take it out on everyone else so damnably often. You know, maybe if you would just stop speaking to people, they wouldn't persecute you so often, O ye of the wretched, wretched persecution complex...
Doo doo DOO!
It really is about time you've forgiven Adam and Eve, don't you think? After all, you're thirty-one, now. Besides, they had every right to treat you the way they are. You're the one who killed their son.
Sweek sweek sweek sweek!
You really are an angry person, aren't you? I've a feeling that that's the reason why you have such trouble with women. You know, despite being as skinny as you are, some of them might actually be forgiving of you if you would just loosen up a little. Oh, I know what you're going to say - "Why should I? Why can't they just accept me for who I am?" Please. That has to be a line you've heard from a children's show. No one in the real world "accepts" these days. Either you misshapen yourself to the wants of another, or you die alone. Either you do that, or your not having any children. Not from your blood, anyway, if that's what you really want overall.
Bum bum...bum...bum...
God! You claim you're not a masochist, and yet it is you who show yourself what is wrong with you and then not bother to change nothing! You, who lack the ego to shed the past, yet are too stubborn to atone for more than one sin!
But I understand your reasoning. Simple retribution or simply forgetting anything at all doesn't make a man good. It just means he's freer. You can't decide if you're good or not; your actions will determine that. But you can decide if you're free. But that begs the question - does one deserve to be free? Do I deserve to be free?
I suppose the answer to that is no. No one is good, and thus no one deserves to be free, and I - especially - do not, no matter how much I wish to be.
The waltz continued, so merry, so free, completely innocent of the world and the womb that had inspired it.
Hospes looked down without realizing that he was looking down, and he saw his hand without knowing that he was seeing his hand; it flipped upside-down, onto its back, and his fingers stretched outward, still curled but further parted from his palm. He saw, nestled within the thin and tender flesh of his palm, a rectangular and jagged scar that had been imbedded there by a shard of glass that he had been thrown on once.
He ran his thumb across the coarsened skin of his scar, wondering - for an admittedly very foolish, but very brief moment - that he wished to God that his looking down on this was a prophesy for something. Something good or bad - Hospes no longer knew of which he wanted, so long as it was something.
And the waltz continued dancing, on and on, completely unaware, with just the notes to keep it company.
___________________________________________________
*Shout out to mah Foxy Mama.
And I actually really like "The Fox" song. (Mostly for its silliness rather than its music, which is why I describe its techno-atmosphere the way I did.) But everyone else abhors it as if it's the Satan of pop culture. So yeah. Take from that whatever you like.
AND I HOPE THAT IF HOSPY HAS TAUGHT Y'ALL ANYTHING, IT'S THAT BEING HARD ON YOURSELF ONLY LEADS TO VARYING MENTAL DISFUNCTION. OKAY? OKAY.
I sincerely considered using the last one, because it was actually serious. But I liked the one we have now too much. Lulz.)
BIC:
Ba da da dada da! Buh duh duh DUH DUH!
"Fiesta rockers en la CASA toniiight," declared the speakers, "everybodeeeh teengan una bien hooo-o-ra..."
"Oh, Mister Compleo! What a charming little fellow you are! Would you be a dear and buy me another drink?"
Duh duh duh duh DUH!
"Oh, of course, my dear. Excuse me - bartender? Champagne, please...thank you."
"Thank you, love, thank you!" A set of sausage-like fingers enclosed around the slender leg of the champagne glass, and brought it forth to a woman's painted, fattened lips. "So, so - from what you have told me - your little lovelies seem like splendid characters, no?"
Hospes's face was set into a smile that was relaxed around the middle, but had corners that were rigid, as if he was bracing himself for some sort of torture. His body was tensely relaxed, like a ballerina as she dances, her slim form strictly straight and yet somehow capable of bending and swirling like a cat's, as if a concoction of decency and elegance had been the mold that both the ballerina and Hospes had been cast from. "Oh, yes! You would love to meet them, Mrs. Meletius! The boy's an absolute gentleman, and the girl! Quiet as a rock, but believe me, she's tougher than nails!" He spoke with the gentle wisdom of a gentleman, his eyes were as kind as a gentleman's, and his fingers gently flared open for emphasis in a very gentlemanly sort of way. "Believe me, she has enough guts for five career packs!"
"Oooooh, really?" cooed Mrs. Meletius, her watery eyes glistening with intrigue. "Yes, yes, I've noticed her - while I was watching the reaping, you know - and I didn't think she would do so well. It was the boy - Adam Moria - that I liked immediately; his face is absolutely gorgeous!"
Hospes's tightly relaxed grin twitched wider, and he said with a polite chuckle: "Ah hah - yes, very lovely genes in that one."
"I told my husband that he ought to cultivate a look like Adam's - but my Sidra is so deathly afraid of needles and surgeons, you know! The poor little dear!"
"Ah, well, all the better for me, though! The last thing Adam needs is a duplicate. Then the Gamemakers wouldn't know which one to throw in the arena, and there would go all our hard work."
Laughter promptly burst out of Mrs. Meletius's mouth like spittle - though Hospes knew that he wasn't funny. "HAH! Hah ha ha psh psh! My little Sidra - off in the arena in place of Adam Moria? Hah hah hah! The very thought of it is amusing, Mister Compleo! Ah hah hah!"
Hospes merely sat there, in his mold of decency and elegance, letting a rigid but soft smile curl across his mouth, unwanted but desperately needed, faked and yet so forcedly real, like an actor's line.
The piano notes that whispered in his mind moved in an audible waltz, untouched and innocent of the horrendous woman that sat before their master, the notes only knowing their place, their movement, their future. Doo doo dooo dee dah dooo dah doo. Dah. Doo.
As the notes danced, the noises and blunt bloops of the club's speakers changed their tune and rhythm in concordance of a new song, one that had just been suggested by one of the younger sponsors. Instead of bouncing tones and jittery notes, there came a metallic screech, a ripping of steel, a disjointed, baroque seizure of notes and noises that screamed the question that - for future eons to come - scholars would ask themselves: "WHAT DOTH THE FOX* SAYETH?!"
The noise spread all throughout the club, filling the corners, interweaving with the jigging, vivid lights and penetrating all the simple dancers and fun-thrifts, the sponsors - including Mrs. Meletius, who promptly quivered and cooed the moment her sprawling ears heard the song - but, for the most part, the only escort in the entire dance club did not know or feel the song that ravaged the air. His sharpened ears heard it, but his mind and heart did not feel it, for one cannot absorb noise that one does not feel is worthy of being absorbed (such was how Hospes felt at the time); the audible waltz that looped and swept throughout his mind remained untouched, unbroken, impenetrable to all, incapable of knowing a destroyer. It went on, in it's sweetened, dinging notes, soft but firm, each note together, but each note an individual: Doo doo dat dat dip deet. Doot.
"Ooooh, oooooooh!" cooed Mrs. Meletius. "Ooh, coo coo coo! It's the song! It's the song!" She leapt to her feet, and with her fattened hands held outward and trembling, she cried: "I'm sorry, Mister Compleo, but this song - ooh! I do not like it! I do not like it one bit! It's proof that Satan exists in pop culture! I must hurry - oh, don't ask, I have your number already - I'll call either you or the Ministry of Sponsors. But don't you fret! I'll get the money to your little lovelies - that I swear!"
"Um - I - I-" Hospes began, but his words could not halt her; she turned, and bustled onward, her blobbed pelvis moving right, then left, in a rhythmical pendulum-esque manner. His eyebrows lifted, and he slipped off his bar-seat and extended his palm, as if he was going to use some magic to stop her. "Wait! You didn't get my telephone number! You didn't-" The door closed on his words, sealing them within the club forever, like bodies in an ancient tomb.
For a moment, Hospes stood perfectly frozen, incapable of movement - he did not even lower his raised hand; his mind, too, had been paused, incapable of thought, of theory, of the process of emotion.
Yet, somehow, the waltz continued on in his mind: DOoo doooo dooooooo...dah dah doo doo!
Gradually, Hospes moved, but the motions of his limbs and body were awkward and unintelligent, as if someone outside the body was trying to move the body. His clumsy fumbles were slow, but eventually, he managed to pull himself back to the heightened chair that stood before the club's stoic bar and it's colorful array of glow-in-the-dark tequila bottles. As he sat, he regained his composure by indifferent volumes, not fully aware that he had lost it, and yet still finding himself regaining it; and as he did so, as did his off-stage persona, the real him, the one that was not of a mold of decency and regality, the one that the sponsors did not like to see. One could mark it in the way the smile - one that had at least managed to hold a sort of sober relaxation and a certifiable plausibility beforehand - suddenly spread outward, in one quick jerk of a motion, and unfurled his teeth and shoved his cheeks outward; one could mark it in the coldness of the smile, as if it had been chiseled from ice, in the size of the smile, for its corners almost fell off his face, in the falseness of the smile, whose lie of happiness and assuredness was painted across Hospes's thinned lips and stretching teeth. One could mark it in the austerity of his body, for it had once been loosened by gentlemanly peace, but now had had its sinews and bones tightened, screwed, locked; he was stiller and stiffer than a statue, his shoulders were lifted and braced as if he expected a blow, his fingers were stiffly steepled, as if he was operating a drug deal. One could mark it in his eyes - eyes that were like a pair of small blood puddles in his pallid face - and how listless and lacking in emotion they were, how cold and sightless they were as he stared ahead of him, in a manner that did not suggest that he was looking at the wall or the racks of vivid bottles, but that he was staring off into all eternity, into forevermore.
Despite his rigid body and frosty face, his heart and mind were at ease - for the first time since he had reunited with Daniels, his fears did not control him, nor did his ego. He felt neither triumph, nor was he in the mood to be a malcontent; he simply existed within the womb of a calm he was dubious of, of which he felt would snap all around him eventually, but still, he existed in it. It was a womb that was slashed from the world, from life, and drifted around in the realm of his mind, to the extent that it was filled with a plasma of clarity. A clarity that brought epiphany, and from epiphany, the ticks of thoughts that clicked in his mind and remained within him, that had sobered him, if not sharpened him. They were reminders of who he was, of the situations that he had found himself doused in; each thought was like a scar, but they were different from any he had ever known before. These were the thoughts - the scars - that he had always cringed at, that he had always despised and tried to avoid, but now, they felt different, as if they weren't memories of pain, but places where new skin might grow.
He didn't really understand their transformation. Hospes wasn't quite certain if his thoughts' transmogrification from pain to newness was merely a product of a dangerous optimism, or if his unsent letter of possible renunciations had truly set him free. He knew that the latter had certainly opened several new, frightening, dubious doors, which he approached with absolute terror and wariness, but knew - if they should be passed through - that whatever lay behind them would certainly lead to a better time in his life than the one he currently tumbled through, but if those doors could make him feel differently about the shadows that crept about on the grimy floor of his mind - Hospes knew not. His first reaction was to laugh and renounce the idea as foolishness, and claim that he was being foolish enough by permitting the idea that the doors would lead him anywhere better, but now, with this presumption that they were somehow of the therapeutic nature - now, he knew that he was being delusional. Yes - quite delusional. But, when he stopped, and looked at the scars - he found himself wondering. Wondering if he was foolish enough to harbor hopes in secret, from both himself and the world.
But that was all simply foolishness. Romantic, silly old foolishness. Hospes was a very foolish person, you see, and he was very much aware of this fact. He didn't like this aspect of him - but there were several aspects of him that he disliked, and this component of his that made him dislike so many aspects of himself was another aspect of him that he disliked, for it was always an opinion of his that all men should have a relatively high confidence in themselves, to ensure that some amount of progress happened in the world. But, yet, he always found himself snubbing those who dared to brazen themselves with even the slightest inch of self-esteem - which was a discrepancy between philosophy and practice, and Hospes never did like discrepancies, and yet he knew that he was full of them. Another aspect of his that was to be marked as "defective".
Yes. A very foolish creature indeed.
Most of his thoughts were on his foolishness. Most of his thoughts had been through his mind before, throughout various constipations of guilt and torments of self-hatred, in which he would accept them as facts, but wincing all the while, as if a knife was tearing into his flesh. Now, they went through him as easily as a brook moves, and he accepted them as facts, as any scholar would of the facts: with professionalism and relative objectivism, as if Hospes was reading the facts from a historical biography on a king, rather than conceptions of himself.
Doo doo doo doo DAH!
One thought went as follows: "What have I done to deserve this?" you once asked yourself - well, let me see: you destroyed your own brother when he was - what? Seven months old? A year? Alas, I seem to have forgotten. How old was he again?
Dooo doo dahh doo dooo.
One thought went as follows: You know, you really are a very angry fellow. Oh, don't deny it. Everyone else knows. Probably because you take it out on everyone else so damnably often. You know, maybe if you would just stop speaking to people, they wouldn't persecute you so often, O ye of the wretched, wretched persecution complex...
Doo doo DOO!
It really is about time you've forgiven Adam and Eve, don't you think? After all, you're thirty-one, now. Besides, they had every right to treat you the way they are. You're the one who killed their son.
Sweek sweek sweek sweek!
You really are an angry person, aren't you? I've a feeling that that's the reason why you have such trouble with women. You know, despite being as skinny as you are, some of them might actually be forgiving of you if you would just loosen up a little. Oh, I know what you're going to say - "Why should I? Why can't they just accept me for who I am?" Please. That has to be a line you've heard from a children's show. No one in the real world "accepts" these days. Either you misshapen yourself to the wants of another, or you die alone. Either you do that, or your not having any children. Not from your blood, anyway, if that's what you really want overall.
Bum bum...bum...bum...
God! You claim you're not a masochist, and yet it is you who show yourself what is wrong with you and then not bother to change nothing! You, who lack the ego to shed the past, yet are too stubborn to atone for more than one sin!
But I understand your reasoning. Simple retribution or simply forgetting anything at all doesn't make a man good. It just means he's freer. You can't decide if you're good or not; your actions will determine that. But you can decide if you're free. But that begs the question - does one deserve to be free? Do I deserve to be free?
I suppose the answer to that is no. No one is good, and thus no one deserves to be free, and I - especially - do not, no matter how much I wish to be.
The waltz continued, so merry, so free, completely innocent of the world and the womb that had inspired it.
Hospes looked down without realizing that he was looking down, and he saw his hand without knowing that he was seeing his hand; it flipped upside-down, onto its back, and his fingers stretched outward, still curled but further parted from his palm. He saw, nestled within the thin and tender flesh of his palm, a rectangular and jagged scar that had been imbedded there by a shard of glass that he had been thrown on once.
He ran his thumb across the coarsened skin of his scar, wondering - for an admittedly very foolish, but very brief moment - that he wished to God that his looking down on this was a prophesy for something. Something good or bad - Hospes no longer knew of which he wanted, so long as it was something.
And the waltz continued dancing, on and on, completely unaware, with just the notes to keep it company.
___________________________________________________
*Shout out to mah Foxy Mama.
And I actually really like "The Fox" song. (Mostly for its silliness rather than its music, which is why I describe its techno-atmosphere the way I did.) But everyone else abhors it as if it's the Satan of pop culture. So yeah. Take from that whatever you like.
AND I HOPE THAT IF HOSPY HAS TAUGHT Y'ALL ANYTHING, IT'S THAT BEING HARD ON YOURSELF ONLY LEADS TO VARYING MENTAL DISFUNCTION. OKAY? OKAY.
Yaaay, Jessica Jung!
)
