#disheveled pogi

[daughtersofyesterday]

[nearbelfast]

MAY 5, 2017

she looks somewhat dishevelled by the time she gets to the door. pogie’s shadow loomed large through that translucent pane, unexpected but not unwelcome, and there had been a scramble up the stairs to her bedroom, footsteps heavy with urgency, oak’s t-shirt ripped over her head and tossed without prejudice, the remnants of a cheese toastie clutched between greasy fingers. on her way back down she stumbles  ( earns herself a blooming bruise that will smart for days and act as an unnecessary irritant in the face of abrupt upheaval ), nearly chokes on that last bit of crust, arrives breathless and unprepared.

she’s still tugging her shirt into place as she pulls open the door, cotton twisted round her abdomen, the ends of her hair still tucked beneath its collar as the pads of her fingers drag against the front of her shorts to rid themselves of that slick film of fried butter. his appearance has coaxed something not unlike giddiness into her bones and her movements up to this point had been almost jittery, cheeks bearing a flush that will grow starkly pallid in just a moment  ––––––––  all because pogie had come round and maybe that meant that they could be friends after all; that maybe he was ready to give things a try. there is the briefest of moments in which daisy allows herself a fanciful idea; that by september she might have endeared herself to him.

     she couldn’t think of a better suited homecoming present for oak.

     it’s funny how quickly plans come apart at the seams, isn’t it?

all it takes is a glance; there is no need for a double-take nor for a scrutinizing gaze because it’s unmistakeable  ( daisy’s surprised she couldn’t smell it on him )  and it lingers thickly in the air like something of an aura  –––––  something ugly and twisted clinging to his skin, marring what never quite seemed a happy expression but that had never, in daisy’s view, looked so dark.

oak had beaten him at an ill-advised drinking game once, the three of them tucked into a corner of the pub as the night wore on, and even then pogie hadn’t looked quite so defeated. it’s an odd thought  ––  an odd memory to have conjured in that moment, she realises  ––  because there is nothing significant about it; it is, truthfully, a night that she had all but forgotten until that moment. a flickering of something shared and, now, something lost.

there is a moment  ( daisy’s not sure how long )  in which understanding seems to pass between the two. he doesn’t seem quite willing  ( or, perhaps, able )  to meet her eye and that’s better, she thinks, because she’s not sure that she would like what she might find there  ( GRIEF  ––  SHE’LL FIND GRIEF ). her grip on the door goes somewhat slack, nails dragging down worn wood  ( oh, a splinter would be a reprieve from what will come next )  as though her wrist is suddenly unable to support a hand that’s never been anything but gentle. pogie moves, perhaps to reach for her or perhaps to shift that heavy burden of his own weight, and daisy cannot help but flinch  ( don’t touch me, please don’t touch me )  and it is that movement that seems to jerk her world into perspective  ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––  and he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead.

she fell, once. this feels a bit like that; feels a bit like the heavy thud of her back hitting the earth and that sickening crack of her head on its heels, neck propelled back by forces far beyond its control. it feels like that terrifying moment in which you move to draw in a breath and find that nothing comes  ( ‘ knocked the wind right outta you! ’  her father had said  –––  dad, dad, i need my dad ), your ears ringing and your whole world suspended,  and then, maybe a beat later or maybe fifteen, everything seems to give a little jolt.

     it’s jarring.

     daisy finds that she wasn’t at all prepared for just how jarring.

it feels as though someone’s palm has slammed flat against the expanse of her chest and daisy is halfway convinced that if she were to duck her nose beneath the collar of her shirt  ( her shirt, her fucking shirt, why had she changed her fucking shirt? would the lingering smell of oak finnigan have been a comfort in this moment or would it have been a burden in much of the same way that cheese toasties would come to be; a nausea-inducing reminder of a day and a moment that daisy would come to find that she would give anything to forget )  she might find a bruise there. is this why she will come to feel grief there, tucked between the slats of her ribcage, licking at lungs that she is sure will never quite breathe in the same way? is it this moment of impact that sentences her to a burden laid squarely across her breast?

     she hadn’t known that you could physically feel your heart break.

out of the corner of her eye she catches a flash of pink and blue shackled round a thin wrist, binding her to a man that would never come home, and in that moment it burns against her skin, branding her with its ironic reminder  ( LAUGH painted in that bright hue; was some higher power laughing at her? )  and with his name  ( his fucking name  –––––  daisy curled against his side in the pub, far too close for comfort for near strangers, his arm slung round her shoulders, her drink cradled to her chest, a teasing curve to her mouth and  ‘ what sort of name is OAK, anyway? ’  ‘ what sort of name is DAISY, anyway? ’ ).

she is unexpectedly stoic, spine stiff, grip on the door suddenly a vice, gaze fixed on pogie, and it is not denial that plagues her but an inability to fully comprehend the innumerable ways in which her entire world has just started crumbling around her like dominos toppling with surprising speed, tick tick tick tick ticktickticktickticktick. he will be able to see the wheels turning if he were to just look at her  ––  will be able to recognise that her breaths are suddenly too measured and that her jaw is set like steel.

oh, don’t be mistaken, she will break. later, when he leaves. the door will click closed behind him and it will be gunfire at the starting line much in the same way that that flinch had been, snapping everything into startling focus and effectively destroying that pretence of coping adopted and clung to while they sat together in silence.

oh, don’t be mistaken, she will break. she will sob with such ferocity that her complexion will be littered with broken blood vessels and her body will heave under the strain of it all until she is bent, spine stiff, over the toilet bowl, hair clutched so tightly in her fist that it’s a wonder she didn’t pull more of it out.

oh, don’t be mistaken, she will break. for the moment her head gives something of a nod over her shoulder to indicate that he should come in and somehow  ( truly, she’s not sure how )  daisy takes a step back to allow him room to pass through the narrow hall and enter the space where spectres have lingered for weeks now in a forgotten mug on the coffee table and in an abandoned jumper in the kitchen, slung over the back of a creaking chair.

oh, don’t be mistaken, she will break.

     but not yet.

          not in front of pogie.

               it seems imperative that he be allowed to break first.

[nearbelfast]

dominate but from oak

     it’s a feverish sort of kissing usually associated with smitten teenagers. the tips of calloused fingers curl against supple skin to press shallow wells against rolling hips and her palm has settled at the nape of his neck where her thumb might sweep through the edge of a dark hairline. the clock has run down with a startling burst of speed and dusk has already gotten away from them, a sky bleeding out for oak finnigan the night before his departure. there’s a train ticket on the fridge door and a pack tucked into the hall closet where it cannot stare daisy down and she clings to him with a renewed sense of urgency, small hands grasping at exposed skin as though she hasn’t already committed every inch of it to memory.

     pogie’s arrival is a heavy knock at the front door that seems to rattle the thing in its hinges  ( a drink to be shared between friends on the eve of a fresh hell, the whole affair a far more somber mood than the pub’s regulars are used to witnessing ). a thumb swipes across a swollen lip as daisy climbs off of oak’s lap, fingers curling around his wrist before he can get too far  ( another heavy rap against the door, a muffled encouragement for them to separate grumbled behind it ), gaze sweeping across his figure.  “ c’mere. ”  with little more than a murmur she straightens his shirt on a frame she thinks thinner than usual, hand slipping through the disheveled mop of hair atop his head in a vain attempt at restoring it to the state it had been in before he’d joined her on the couch.  “ better. now go. ”

MEME: dominate ––– @scarificed