[ He is not ignorant to her meaning. He does not think it's intended to mollify him -- and it does not, but instead he is --
Somewhere beyond angry. It burns in his gaze, in that ever-open eye, like a torrent that is barely held back. His expression twitches with it, his eyes dance, somewhere away from her face, and then back, his lips twitch, and his jaw grinds. She says all these words, these nice, kind words, about loving imperfect worlds, and imperfect things as if there is love in the world at all -- as if they are deserving of it. As if there is a place for them all.
But Silco knows that is a lie. He knows, because he was the thing that was tossed aside, festered and imperfect -- more than any of them -- and because he was inconvenient, a dirty little thing that could simply be thrown away and ignored when that didn't work -- her words ring hollow, because Silco is an angry, abandoned man, and there is no room for anyone or anything like this. Silco wants justice, he wants vengeance, and he wants a world that realizes that the things that were ugly, ignored, and monstrous were just as valid to exist -- could destroy with abandon, railing against the institutions.
She talked of love like it was so simple. Like it was easy, and it could cure all things. As if loving her world would be enough to bring it back, and perhaps as a God she would have that opportunity, but -- ]
I think you want to hope such emotions solve everything.
[ He says, his tone is ice, like being doused in that same water, even as his expression burns. He knows better than to let it show in his tone, to allow an outburst. He ran a hand through his hair, and his fingers shook from rage, but the ritual is enough to still them. ]
They are little comfort. This "love" you promise is empty. It does not soothe wounds, it does not make your world better. It is the veneer people place over their rotten wounds and scars. It is what we use to pretend that everything is fine, and that things are good enough.
[ he leaned forward, not quite into her space, but close enough that there is the impression of looming, even given how much smaller he is than her. ]
I will not settle for that.
Your world is gone. My world is gone. They are destroyed. I have witnessed this twice, and I have seen the heart of nothingness, seen the silence of oblivion. Where would your promises of love be then? They will be as gone as the rest of it. Holding onto it when it is sand through your fingers, watching it trickle away?
no subject
Somewhere beyond angry. It burns in his gaze, in that ever-open eye, like a torrent that is barely held back. His expression twitches with it, his eyes dance, somewhere away from her face, and then back, his lips twitch, and his jaw grinds. She says all these words, these nice, kind words, about loving imperfect worlds, and imperfect things as if there is love in the world at all -- as if they are deserving of it. As if there is a place for them all.
But Silco knows that is a lie. He knows, because he was the thing that was tossed aside, festered and imperfect -- more than any of them -- and because he was inconvenient, a dirty little thing that could simply be thrown away and ignored when that didn't work -- her words ring hollow, because Silco is an angry, abandoned man, and there is no room for anyone or anything like this. Silco wants justice, he wants vengeance, and he wants a world that realizes that the things that were ugly, ignored, and monstrous were just as valid to exist -- could destroy with abandon, railing against the institutions.
She talked of love like it was so simple. Like it was easy, and it could cure all things. As if loving her world would be enough to bring it back, and perhaps as a God she would have that opportunity, but -- ]
I think you want to hope such emotions solve everything.
[ He says, his tone is ice, like being doused in that same water, even as his expression burns. He knows better than to let it show in his tone, to allow an outburst. He ran a hand through his hair, and his fingers shook from rage, but the ritual is enough to still them. ]
They are little comfort. This "love" you promise is empty. It does not soothe wounds, it does not make your world better. It is the veneer people place over their rotten wounds and scars. It is what we use to pretend that everything is fine, and that things are good enough.
[ he leaned forward, not quite into her space, but close enough that there is the impression of looming, even given how much smaller he is than her. ]
I will not settle for that.
Your world is gone. My world is gone. They are destroyed. I have witnessed this twice, and I have seen the heart of nothingness, seen the silence of oblivion. Where would your promises of love be then? They will be as gone as the rest of it. Holding onto it when it is sand through your fingers, watching it trickle away?
What good is that, then?