At first she thought she was imagining them. It had to be the rustling of leaves in the wind--except that there was no wind in the clearing. The leaves hung motionless all around her. Amanda got shakily to her feet and moved, trying to get a little closer to the voices, to make them out. Had a group followed her from the beach? Was it...the Others?
No matter how she strained to hear, no matter how she turned and maneuvered, Amanda could never quite make out what the whisperers were saying. They got no closer and never became any clearer. It was terribly frustrating. Amanda felt the frustration like a maddening itch and it reminded of her recent frustrations. George.
Amanda scowled, feeling her newfound calm cracking. The whispers continued unabated. She could almost imagine that they were repeating George's name over and over again, rubbing it in. George, the source of all her unhappiness. George was the problem.
For a moment Amanda struggled to cling to her brief sense of serenity, but the whispering was relentless. It seemed to remind her of every resentment and annoyance she'd endured at George's hands. She could imagine the voices reminding her that it wasn't going to change. Amanda could feel her resentment and anger rekindling with unnatural rapidity.
She turned and darted toward the edge of the clearing, but the voices seemed to follow her. George was the problem. Her pain would continue as long as Carlos was sleeping with George. Amanda pressed her fists to her heads, as if that could silence the voices--or the idea that occurred to her now.
George was her problem. If George weren't around, she wouldn't be a problem. It was simple problem with a simple solution. The thought appalled her. It horrifed Amanda that she could even contemplate it. More horrible still was the knowledge that she was tempted.
Amanda fled the clearing, running as fast she could, pursued by the whispering, herded by it. She had long since lost any sense of where she was in relation to the beach. She ran until she was gasping for breath and moving on shaky legs, until she stumbled to her hands and knees.
Stumbled over a corpse. A long-decayed bundle of rags and bones, skull grinning at her with malevolent intent. Amanda drew in a breath, but the scream she heard in the back of her mind never made it out her mouth. Instead, she reached out and wrested a prize from the skeletal fingers of the right hand. The whispering surrounded her again, still unintelligible but full of pointed meaning.
Amanda raised the pitted, rusted blade of the machete and examined it, trying not to think about what she had to do.
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timeasmymeasure
[Amanda] Heart of Darkness, Pt. II (no tag)
Date: 2006-05-04 05:31 am (UTC)No matter how she strained to hear, no matter how she turned and maneuvered, Amanda could never quite make out what the whisperers were saying. They got no closer and never became any clearer. It was terribly frustrating. Amanda felt the frustration like a maddening itch and it reminded of her recent frustrations. George.
Amanda scowled, feeling her newfound calm cracking. The whispers continued unabated. She could almost imagine that they were repeating George's name over and over again, rubbing it in. George, the source of all her unhappiness. George was the problem.
For a moment Amanda struggled to cling to her brief sense of serenity, but the whispering was relentless. It seemed to remind her of every resentment and annoyance she'd endured at George's hands. She could imagine the voices reminding her that it wasn't going to change. Amanda could feel her resentment and anger rekindling with unnatural rapidity.
She turned and darted toward the edge of the clearing, but the voices seemed to follow her. George was the problem. Her pain would continue as long as Carlos was sleeping with George. Amanda pressed her fists to her heads, as if that could silence the voices--or the idea that occurred to her now.
George was her problem. If George weren't around, she wouldn't be a problem. It was simple problem with a simple solution. The thought appalled her. It horrifed Amanda that she could even contemplate it. More horrible still was the knowledge that she was tempted.
Amanda fled the clearing, running as fast she could, pursued by the whispering, herded by it. She had long since lost any sense of where she was in relation to the beach. She ran until she was gasping for breath and moving on shaky legs, until she stumbled to her hands and knees.
Stumbled over a corpse. A long-decayed bundle of rags and bones, skull grinning at her with malevolent intent. Amanda drew in a breath, but the scream she heard in the back of her mind never made it out her mouth. Instead, she reached out and wrested a prize from the skeletal fingers of the right hand. The whispering surrounded her again, still unintelligible but full of pointed meaning.
Amanda raised the pitted, rusted blade of the machete and examined it, trying not to think about what she had to do.