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Hourglass Tilting by Celestie
Chapter 1 : the sins of the minimalist
 
Rating: MatureChapter Reviews: 25


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HOURGLASS TILTING

(or The Sins of the Minimalist)


xix.

You will never forget him.

He is dead, they tell you.

Your mother cries for you, but you have nothing left to say.

Outside, the sky clenches together angrily, bleeding into the night.

He wore sunglasses, you ran to the ocean, the sand arced the air, soaking the oxygen of daydreams and once, it was so easy to fall in love.

You can almost hear his voice astride the vast ruins. It is a wail, lost to the curvatures of time. This is the rhythm of your life in patterned breaths.

Victoire, Victoire.

ii.

Victoire, Victoire.

This is the rhythm of your life in patterned breaths.

He says it with the certainty of someone waiting and you laugh. It is what is. Worlds of cleanly paved cement and rusted swing sets whirl past and this is the delicate artfulness of being carefree, of being seventeen and together.

He wears sunglasses, you run to the ocean and sand arcs the air, soaking the oxygen of daydreams, and you think how very easy it is to fall in love. He speaks and speaks and to him, you say nothing because there are memories and there is nothing to say. In your life, you’ve never needed much more.

v.

In your life, you’ve never needed more.

He wore sunglasses, you ran to the ocean and the sand arced the air, soaking the oxygen of daydreams and you think how very easy it was to once fall in love.

This was the rhythm of your life in patterned breaths.

Victoire, Victoire.

He says it with the certainty of someone waiting and it is gray walls and a lifetime rushed. He speaks and speaks and to him, you say nothing because there is nothing to say.

It is what it is.

i.

It is what it is.

Before you meet, you are lost in the idleness of a world spinning in an axis of already justified means, constructed of imaginary axioms. You let the pandering crescendos of thoughts unwritten wander the cracked landscape of your adolescence and blew life into decayed dreams. This world is set in its rules, bent to the expectations of the men and women of a time before it. They offer your ears the flayed skins of bicentennial wishes and you listen, but when you meet him, he makes their law the liquid of poetry.

And then you see.

When you meet him, it is a collision of dreams and steel. It is fitting for monarchs.

iv.

When you met him, it was a collision of dreams and steel.

So it is no surprise that when it comes to it, he steals your dreams.

And he becomes them.

vi.

And he becomes them.

When you met him, it was a collision of dreams and steel.

And then you see.

His world is set in his rules, built by the bodies of bicentennial wishes. And after you met, he lost you in a world constructed with cracked means and pandering axioms of thoughts already justified. You blow your life in the idleness of decay.

So it is no surprise that when it comes to it, he steals your dreams.

“Listen to me, Victoire. Listen to me. Listen, listen, listen to me. Me alone.

This is the space of your life.

iii.

This is the space of your life.

“Listen to me, Victoire. Listen to me. Listen, listen, listen ­to me. Me alone. ”

You love his voice.

You’ve always wondered how to describe it.

And then it hits you.

It sounds like a book opening.

vii.

It sounds like a book opening.

And then it hits you.

You wonder how to describe it.

The feeling of him hitting you. His tainted breath, your cries to the cracked ceiling. Your hope is as thin as the strings that hold up the stars over the ignorance of the swirling world. The interdependence of your heart and your future have never screamed their clarity more to you, but what are they to the symbolism of love?

The book cuts your soft skin, bruising its untouched exterior and you let ink and blood mingle where reality flowered no dream. What is there to seek in reality? There is reality and there is the ability to really live.

The delicate constitution of words mangle in the chaos of kisses, the description of the abyss of desire fades and you hear the never ending sonata of his voice.

“Listen to me, Victoire. Listen to me. Listen, listen, listen ­to me. Me alone. ”

There is lawfulness in the action.

You are his canvas.

You are his.

ii.

You are his.

You are his canvas.

There is lawfulness in the action.

The crowd cheers when he kisses you.

And then you part.

xvii.

And then you part.

She smiles at you.

“Congratulations, beautiful.”

It fades into the passing night.

viii.

It fades into the passing night.

Whatever your love was. Your strange, idiotic, structural love that was built not on words but concepts, not on desires but desirability, and not on ability but agility.

One day, you look out and nurse bruises older than the unfathomable bellows of time.

The painting is a mosaic and made of pieces, not one whole.

It splinters. This idea of perfection. Whatever it is, whatever it can be, it splinters.

Him, you. Together.

xiv.

To get her.

It splinters. This idea of perfection. Whatever it is, whatever it can be, it splinters.

The painting is a mosaic and made of pieces, not one whole.

Whatever your love is. Your strange, idiotic, structural love.

Would you?

xiii.

“Would you?” she asks. She has a beautiful half-smile. “Darling, would you? For me?”

“I don’t know.”

“He doesn’t even love you. You know that.”

“I could leave him,” you say waveringly.

She is a despot of your emotion. The arms of her smile reach you within seconds. “Don’t say that. You never will. You have to do this. For us. Or else you’ll never leave.”

You quiver, still the broken flower, still the dreamer girl. The petals of your existence are seconds away from shattering in the brief interlude between winter and spring.

“Think about it,” she says. She strokes your arm. It is like snow breathing. You recede from the touch. “I left him – my love - for you. Even if you can’t do the same, do this for me.”

She loves you.

So this is freedom. You breathe.

ix.

You breathe.

So this is freedom.

You love him.

Momentarily, you have escaped the banality of the whirlpool of color and sound that your life is.

He is not beside you. He talks smoothly to his friends and those who do not know him and have never listened as you have. He puts his arm around you and holds you as a jewel to all those in the presence of this gathering of his friends and family. Black silk falls between what he is to you and what he is, but such are the workings of reality.

You lament it. You lament it, but do nothing, because you quiver, still the broken flower, still the dreamer girl.

You step outside the house that has held you in for so long. You are words dripping off the paper.

You open the door and step out to watch the cool landscape of a continent unfettered by the dregs of today and held only by the promise of tomorrow.

Before you, the sky opens.

It is a night screaming stars.

She steps out behind you, breathing in, breathing out. Her eyes hold in the crumbling earth and you. She is a work of art, beautiful and angled in ways that you are not, but still imperfect. In that, you are the same.

She is an ode to lesser gods. You are the lyrics sung by battered angels.

“Hello, I’ve been hoping to meet you,” she says. She reeks of a lack of wonderment with life. “I’ve heard so much about you…for obvious reasons, of course. I’m always compared to you.”

You smile.

x.

You smile.

You have spoken to her three times now and you smile. Weeks pass. You smile.

She can make you.

xvi.

She can make you.

You smile. Your hair is filthy, over your eyes, face, hands, body. Whatever you are was because of whatever he was and now – now -

His body is below you. He bled. You’d almost thought he wouldn’t. He didn’t seem human enough.

In the end, you threw him away. His screams echoed to the stars.

It was not difficult.

xi.

It was not difficult.

In the end, you threw him away. It was easy loving her.

You spoke very little and she spoke very often of stars and galaxies. Of winter and flower petals and dust. None of it made sense, but she had eyes like money and a voice that gave wars their glory.

All she had to do was speak. Sometimes she listened and that was enough. To her, to a rich young girl like her, she had the world. The world and its axes were rudimentary. To you, she sat on your doorstep when he slept and ruminated on the profound, the absolute, the immoral, the godly. She spoke, she wept. She had a companion.

She never hit you nor did she break you.

You merely folded into her dreams.

xii.

You merely folded into her dreams.

“Leave him. He doesn’t deserve you.”

“I can’t,” you say. Always the propriety, the hesitancy. She knows none of it.

She leans down to brush her hand against your cheek. She had began to do it often in the last few weeks that you had known her and even more often, you wished that she would.

It is comforting, being in her little world of success. Where all failure was measured in by an inability to achieve, not an inability to exist. Ambition was simple. Life was difficult.

And then, you look up and she looks down. What you had long ago lost with him happens there and she kisses you very slowly.

“You’re not very much,” she says, biting her lip. “I could make you so much more. You could be splendid. You deserve to be.”

She is a girl with money in her eyes. You listen.

After you are finished, she lets you lean against her. You lie your head on her shoulder and she sits on your doorstep and thinks a very long time. The snores of your husband puncture the air.

xv.

The snores of your husband puncture the air.

You can’t.

You can’t, can you?

You can’t…can you?

The memory of her eyes is enough to weave all nightmares into an infinite lifetime.

xviii.

The memory of her eyes is enough to weave all nightmares into an infinite lifetime.

She smiles.

“I knew you could.”

Somewhere inside, you think you could too. Is this what you are? Immoral? Degenerate? Have you broken some delicate spindle inside yourself?

She looks plainly at you. Her eyes glimmer. You decide it doesn’t matter.

And then comes the dawn.

xx.

And then comes the dawn.

The soft murmurs of your family still fill the air, melancholic notes of sympathy. It is an uglier sound than they can ever imagine.

He is dead, they tell you.

Your mother cries for you, but you have nothing left to say.

Outside, the sky clenches together angrily, bleeding into the night.

He wore sunglasses, you ran to the ocean, the sand arced the air, soaking the oxygen of daydreams and once, it was so easy to fall in love.

You can almost hear his voice astride the vast ruins. It is a wail, lost to the curvatures of time. This is the rhythm of your life in patterned breaths.

Victoire, Victoire.

It is a sound more beautiful than any you’ve heard before. It is nearer to you, dearer to you. You hold It against you for an eternity. And this is the beginning.

xxi.

And this is the beginning.

Champagne skies and valleys screeching from the earth. A lifetime in luxury, in promise. Whatever blood spilled exists on a plane separate from your own existence, because such is this newfound freedom.

She stands next to you, watching the sheens of the orange sunrise. Knots of color trickle into each other, into a fan opening the new day.

She smiles and you smile. This is the confidence of this new era. The wheels of an older past turn effortlessly into the mechanism of a blank new future.

Beside you, the train slows to a stop. Within moments, everything – this ruined world and its tattered dreams – will all be behind you.  

She holds up your papers to a portly woman in front of the train slinging an official looking badge.

Soon enough –

A sudden gust of wind blows everything out of her hand. You make a helpless reach for the air, but the papers land in front of the portly woman, who holds them up, squinting.

“Which one is Victoire?”

“Both of us are,” she says. “We’ve got the same name.”

You share a look. This has long been your little joke. She always says it with a pout. I’m always compared to you. The name rings like bells inside your head. Victory, victory.

“Victoire Weasley. Victoire Bertrand.” The woman holds up the papers.

Your eyes meet hers. Your arms cross in mid-air as you reach for yours.

And within moments you are on the train. The countryside billows out of sight.

You hear it again – again – again – peeling and pealing as you pass the world by with her beside you. It is in his last, final echo. It is the collision of steel and dreams and in this final moment, you hear it pass over you. She smiles at you happily, but for the briefest moment, your stomach churns. It is the secret of a lifetime. She looks at you with her all consuming eyes and for that second in which the fabric of the universe shreads, you cannot bear to face her. You hear it.

The peals of the past never truly leave us.

Victoire, Victoire, Victoire.

You will never forget him. 

 





 

For Gubby, Melanie, Jasaline, Gina, Annie, Jordan, and if you made it all the way down here, for you. And to anyone else who witnessed the spectacle of me attempting to convince people that I was shipping a character with herself - for you also. Thank you for giving such a distinctly strange story a chance. As you can imagine, it was quite an ordeal to manage. I do hope the organization and the ending didn't irritate you too thoroughly.

Any thoughts and reviews, as always, are encouraged and loved!

Also, who do you think this story was on? Victoire Weasley or Victoire Bertrand? (The Victoire that is the main character is unspecified - I'd love to hear your thoughts.)

Sincerely,

Celeste




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