More water from the well, from the well. Inspired in part by the fawn legs of @lounger, trembling in the dark.
The light of the film slaps the angles of her face.
There's no sound. She has the screen turned down very, very low, as not to wake any of the other people in the house, the ones with day jobs and ordinary lives and people they call on the weekends. She typically doesn't call anyone on the weekends. She hasn't spoken to her mother or her father or her sister in nearly two months. Here, with the screen on low and the silence pushing heavy, woolen sheets into the corners of the room, you'd think she was hoarding sound, saving it up for the winter.
And that light. Scientists suggest warmer hues for the mind to fall asleep and bluer, brighter tones for the mind to wake up, and the color of the flicker of the flat, two-dimensional world is somewhere in-between, and so, in this case, is her mind. She's stagnant, hands poised over the trackpad, fingers more nimble than the neurons that fire in the brain to let her know when to click, pause, rewind, replay. She muses on the term "rewind" and how it refers to obsolescence. She has empathy for that term.
On the screen, the same few seconds replay, replay, replay. The warrior takes the wound to the gut, the cut swift as a retort, sharp as a tongue. Her fingers dance. The moments - the guts - fold back into themselves. They spill out, his hands flail. She has empathy there, too, for the helplessness of that motion. And the hands flutter back again, and the viscera flutters back up again into the flap of skin, and the mark unwrites itself again, and the strike returns back to the state of apathy again, and then, again, into suddenness and the malevolent action of self-defense and the power of lashing out when there is nothing more to lose. Her shoulders rise, tense, exhale, inhale: her own repetition of organs folding in on themselves and then expanding out, pressing against skin, spilling breath marred by late night beer and dental decay into the space between her and this endless, endless measure of flesh.
The screen flickers.
The sound murmurs.
The blood spills, and spatters up.
The skin, bandaged, just for the moment, holds.