The shift and swirl as the memory is pulled forth for him to see -- for others to experience. Archangel breathes in slow as he sees the creation of ornate walls. He mutters under his breath of the obscene wealth that his parents had and yet could do nothing positive with it. Of course, he sees his young self carefully headed down the hall with a glass of milk; his child self is so worried of spilling a drop on the expensive rugs.
"And yet it won't matter."
Archangel will watch as his younger self will enter a room. A chair is set in it with his sister sitting, smiling peacefully if not a little blankly. Her body is twisted at odd angles; her face warped in a way that is not because of how the memory is but how she was. He smiles at her, fondly, but looks down as he hears the gunshot.
It is as he told Emet-Selch. His father killed his sister. Shot her. He isn't quite sure where, but it doesn't matter. Blood is splattered all over the chair and on the floor, on the beautiful, expensive rugs. His child self drops the milk he had been so careful in carrying.
White and red swirl together.
And yet the image of his father is one in shadows, because he cannot quite remember what he looks like. But there is something poetic in seeing him only as a shadow. He is not worth being remembered as a person, but only as a sinful being.
cw: child murder
The shift and swirl as the memory is pulled forth for him to see -- for others to experience. Archangel breathes in slow as he sees the creation of ornate walls. He mutters under his breath of the obscene wealth that his parents had and yet could do nothing positive with it. Of course, he sees his young self carefully headed down the hall with a glass of milk; his child self is so worried of spilling a drop on the expensive rugs.
"And yet it won't matter."
Archangel will watch as his younger self will enter a room. A chair is set in it with his sister sitting, smiling peacefully if not a little blankly. Her body is twisted at odd angles; her face warped in a way that is not because of how the memory is but how she was. He smiles at her, fondly, but looks down as he hears the gunshot.
It is as he told Emet-Selch. His father killed his sister. Shot her. He isn't quite sure where, but it doesn't matter. Blood is splattered all over the chair and on the floor, on the beautiful, expensive rugs. His child self drops the milk he had been so careful in carrying.
White and red swirl together.
And yet the image of his father is one in shadows, because he cannot quite remember what he looks like. But there is something poetic in seeing him only as a shadow. He is not worth being remembered as a person, but only as a sinful being.