The unlikely union of light and darkness.
"My soul is ruined; made of dead stars, and darkness. And yet, you managed to find light in my hollow heart. Beauty in my unholiness. You mended the fissures of my being. And for that, I shall worship you fo...
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WHILE THE CLOCK AT THE END OF the hall ticked, the imminent voyage edged closer. Dreadful as the house was and despite her previous departures from the Crowe residence, the thought of leaving made her uneasier than usual. Time appeared to be moving impossibly fast.
Lilith noticed this as she sat at the edge of her bed, wringing her hands together and staring at the long case clock outside her door. Her eyes followed the swinging pendulum and her ears keenly picked up on the vexatious ticks. Though, she supposed, it was soothing- in a sense- to hear a sound, no matter how annoying or daunting it was. Regardless of her nervousness, she allowed her consciousness to slip away into a world where it was just her and the clock's ticks- allowed herself to be at peace for a few minutes.
By the time the trance ended, Crowe had lost perception of time and she realized the ticks were no longer daunting nor tuneful but had become harsh, grating to her poor ears. Lilith took this as an indication to leave. She stood up from the mattress and grabbed the handle of her trunk. Before leaving, however, her eyes lingered on the mirror beside the door. Although her right forearm was concealed with the material of her sweater, she could still see the scar. With a grimace, Lilith turned away and hastily walked out of the bedroom, not once sparing a glance back.
Downstairs the frigid atmosphere frosted her very bone marrow. The girl quelled the shudders rippling under her flesh and attempted to concentrate on her footsteps, cautious not to step on the fragments of glass that were seeking to plunge into her soles. Though, this proved to be rather difficult with a spinning head.
The smell of fresh coffee in the morning was not something she was accustomed to. Instead, she was used to the stench of alcohol and graveolent sweat. Scrunching her nose in distaste, she passed by her father, who was sprawled out on the living room floor, belly down. In a very distant memory, she recalled Maxwell seated at the dinner table with a mug in one hand and the daily newspaper in the other, greeting her with a joyous smile. His dark, chocolate eyes were filled with something that was now a rare sight. Happiness.
Carried away by her thoughts, she stepped on an empty beer can, which made enough noise to rouse her father from his deep slumber. She stilled before meeting his squinting eyes and said, "Sorry, good morning." Her voice came out small, breathless as she braced herself for his scorn. But when it did not come, a heaviness she had not realized she carried in her chest disappeared.
Mr. Crowe groaned as he propped himself up, coughing and rubbing his temples. His chestnut hair was disheveled, growing wild in different ways. The clothes he wore were grubby, a side effect of wearing them for a week straight. Lilith did not judge him for that. Sometimes she did it too.
"The train will arrive soon. I'll be gone, papa."
There was no response.
She yearned to hear his voice again. The voice she remembered when it wasn't the crapulous and foul alcoholic breath that made bile surge up from her abdomen. She wanted to speak to him without the need to break out into a cry. She wanted her father back. But as he stared at her, unblinking and distant, she knew she had lost him long ago.
