Excerpts on the Aftermath
Title: Art Appreciation
Author: Lyndsie Fenele
Rating: All Ages/Not Naughty
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Summary: The things we say are sometimes the things that are the most true but that we most regret.
Author's Notes: I've been feeling restless and like I needed to write something lately, and this is what I came up with. It plays off the way I second guess myself about the past. This isn't really meant to be fanfic, but it could be if you want it to, and I did post it to d&g.com.
Chapters: 1. Also available here and here.
I. Interpretation
She is like a statue, he thinks, as he watches her organizing the papers on the desk in front of her. The curve of her jaw leads as smoothly and perfectly into the angles of her collarbone as if it was chiseled by a master craftsman. Her hair shines with the luster of polished marble. Her fingers are delicate and he watches as they reach for a quill.
It is more than just the physical resemblance that he muses on as he watches her. She is hard and cold, and difficult to fathom. The small smile she gives as she sights him is the greatest emotion he’s seen her display in public, and he is flattered that it is reserved solely for him.
It is a little bit like a knife in his chest every time he sees that smile, because he knows that it is all that he will ever get from her.
II. Emotion
She blinks, staring at a button on his shirt. Don’t you understand me? He is speaking, but it seems his words need more time than usual for her brain to interpret. She looks up at him, finally seeing the anguish on his face. He is saying that he cares for her, loves her even, but that he must go, because he knows that she will never feel the same way for him as he does for her. She exhales. She is still.
She is consumed in fire, in pain; it is too much. She feels everything she ever thought, everything she ever knew crumbling and cracking inside. She is a river, a living river of water that torrents and gushes through her, sweeping away her life and her certainties. Yet she still stands and no tears come. Outside is still the same shape, the same woman of marble, even if inside she is rotting away.
She inhales, wants to say something, anything to show him how wrong he is. Can I change your mind? That is what she thinks she says, and it is everything that she desires and nothing that she really means. His eyes close, and she knows without thought that he has made up his mind. When he truly believes, there is no way to change it.
III. Form
He kisses her softly on the forehead, a last gesture and a final seal. When he is gone she stumbles to her bed, curling in on her side. Pieces of her are drifting away, flaking off like old dried paint. When all is gone, when nothing is left and the river is dry, then the tears come, and she is a living woman.
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