[Over near Silk Road]
Knew what was happening, no surprise there. No warning, either, or may be I'd've done something, may be...
Went quicker than I'd've thought, even with the time what it is now. And afterwards, lying there and my sight pulsing bright and dark, and the blood on the floor's clinging and tacky and the blood in my head is roaring and quicker than I'd've thought's still hours. And want to lie there and drop down into the darkness, and if I do then I'll wake again and the only thing as'll change will be blood drying--and the smell, and with the crack in the window...
And the blasted llygotwr. No. No.
Can do a lot, you set your mind to't and there's no better choice. The soap smells sharp and greasy, and the water's so loud at times I can't hear myself think and that's alright, in the end. Really no surprise to any of it, weight or colour or the soft shape of the face. Tended to others, a time or two. No reason to be different.
Light drips over the windows, grey and bright and cool again. It takes too long, and you never really get blood out, I know, you never really... I'm remembering blood drying into slick patches on smooth riverstone, hair caught in the black of it, and last time too much gained and this time too much lost and... I'm a mess. Distance between here and the Abbey's too far to go, too far for anyone as can't go unseen, but I've remedy for that, don't I? Feather and blood and thread, from the last time my blood spilt. There've been enough of them.
Down to the Abbey. Down to the graves. And this I cannot do, not now, and Dove's out in the garden and I watch her dig and wonder where Oya is now, the bones coming to light through old skin, and her nameless to whoever finds her, and the night is coming on. I can see. I can`t not see.
We are not pretty birds, love,
And so we walk alone...
And this done with, too, and the weight in my hands slipping away with time. I know it, but I don't remember. Mam clean as river-ice in the end, and what will I be, alone? Been through worse than this, yes, but that's no comfort. And comes to me in time that I ought t'tell them as well, as that's how it is, and I'm too tired to cringe at the thought. Stops and starts and slow careful moving, all in feathers and mist, and making my way down along the alleys running even with the cobbles, slow and careful. Just a little further; just a little more.