He looks at her as if through glass. Everything in the white-tiled white-styled castle seems that way, pristine and bland — an epidemic of mannequins wall to wall. A living, breathing museum without the life, without the breath.

He means to tap imagined display-case glass, but his hand finds her arm instead. And he doesn’t expect an easy answer, ever, but he wants to know how she feels. Or how she feels she might be feeling. Or something like that.

"Feels like forever," she says quietly.

"Oh."

"And forever? ...feels like home." It's all broken and vague. Like the paper dolls she cuts and folds to scraps; scribbled-on shells with jagged edges. Like the little notes he’ll lose in the pages of any book; something like a soul.

And she, she’s a little girl with glasswork eyes who just wants stories told, he thinks, or tries to. And he’s got words enough to spare, he does, so there shouldn’t be more to it. But he wonders if she knows how much of each leg really shows when she’s perched on the edge of her chair like so. He wonders why she always smiles back.

—

Originally posted at livejournal; 12-08-07.

Written for Constance Greene.

Heavily lyrically based on Through Glass by Stone Sour.