cracks. fiamma. fiamma/di. fiamma/miss g. r.
"Jump," goes the woman's voice and Fiamma's body arches over the water like a bird in flight.
In the old house, behind the yards, the boy was inside her and her hips raised in a dark wonder with his hands fooling in her tangled hair.
The moon rose into the sky and that was the first time. It was the first time and the last and then, she left.
(Her mother's fingernails left a red welt of disapproval on the light flesh of her wrist. )
Old school walls and broken down memories.
She doesn't carve anything out for herself. She doesn't even try.
It is not fear of Di Radfield that stops her. It is not. Di Radfield is not a wonder. She is nothing at all.
Miss G is beautiful like paper, like the gilded cover of something that is a dream. She is too beautiful to be real, because is not real. She is a fake, a piece of wood wrapped up in flesh and paint.
A wisp of silk.
Fiamma puts her lips together and blows.
The lake has it's secrets.
"Jump," goes the woman's voice and Fiamma's body arches over the water like a bird in flight. It is still as glass and for a moment, everything is static, Poppy's blonde hair is still and the wind is still and her mouth is still and then her limbs crash through the water.
It is chaos beneath.
"You think you're so perfect," Di says, flicking a finger over her cheek but the venom is numb and Fiamma only smiles a little with her mouth wide and closed.
"I do not look for perfection," she says and then Di kisses her.
It is not a mistake, not then, it is long lazy lips moving against each other, sun soaked limbs spread out in the grass and the trickling of wine cups over their thighs, fingers licking away what spills.
Di is no one and she is petty, small, clumsy, her idol is imperious and distant and she tries to be like her, to be like Miss G but she is not, she is imperfect, she is whole, she is flesh and bones and curls, she is the fingers inside her cunt, she is the voice, the teeth against her ear "open for me", she is the hungry mouth pressed to the skin under her jaw, she is the soft breasts, she is the beating heart, the blood--
She is real and she is a wonder.
And what if it she had not died?
What if the breath had not left her cave, the lungs closed in ribs, what if she had sold one of her paintings in the city and what if she had stood proud against the frames, her smile sly and quick and secret, what if she had taken a lover and she was beautiful and she had pressed her fingers in her heat while her husband slept in the next room, what if she had married quietly herself and he was not a good man but he was not a bad man either and what if they had a child and her name was, oh, she doesn't know what her name was but what if, what if--
What if Fiamma had lived?
"You were supposed to be nice, not disgusting," spits out Di with tears in her eyes and her sounds mingle with sobs.
Sobs, moans, the wet sound of flesh and sighs, it all stops when the last breath leaves.
Fiamma feels the water in her lungs. It is not real.