She remembers less as it goes.
She remembers waking. Her lungs should have been choked with water but they must have grown stronger because she did not mind being underneath the water, felt half-inclined to protest when they pulled her up again, waited for her to rise like a goddess. She had been underneath the water and then she had risen and there had been men around her and they had waited for her commands. She had never aspired to give commands, not truly (she had only wanted them to listen), but she had forgotten that and commanding struck her as good a state as any. And these men, this brotherhood, listened to her more than her son ever had, they as good as made her a queen. Catelyn had not wanted to be a queen, had not even thought of it but the woman did not remember that and if being one would make the bodies swing, she took it and she took it gladly.
She is less tired (she remembers being tired, perhaps, a little). There is an ache, a weariness but that is not the same as being tired, she does not want to rest, to sleep. They will swing, all of them, and she is not tired. She will never be tired, she thinks, even as her flesh falls, her bones creaking.
She remembers her children, their names, like a chant, Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon, she remembers their names but she does not remember them, as though their faces have been rubbed out. There is a red haired boy, his mouth opening as if he is surprised there is a knife in his chest, there is blood. But that is not her son, her son is younger and played with a wood sword, that boy must have been someone else, some stranger.
She remembers less. She remembers names and outlines, as though it has all been turned to a parody-silhouette, a paper cut out. That is enough, though, she does not need more than that, she only needs to see them swing and she needs to remember names and that is enough.
She watches them swing, all of them and Catelyn would not be but the woman is pleased and their faces are all the same and all faces are the same.
She does not remember, when she is brought to her knees gently (too gently) and then she looks into a face, a different face and she remembers a girl at her skirts and Sansa, she wants to say and her daughter bends to kiss the withered skin at the top of her forehead and then again, the steel is at her throat and the woman remembers.
Today, I bought this book (for my sister, lets clarify that now ‘cause the only way I’m going anywhere near sperm is if I fall into a vat of it):
OF THE BRILLIANT:
STUFF IT HAS IN IT:
A lot of my friends ask to touch my head. I just stand there and get stroked for five minutes. It’s a free massage.
i dont chase after men but if he has tattoos and muscles a bitch just might power walk
Perfect is very boring, and if you happen to have a different look, that’s a celebration of human nature, I think. If we were all symmetrical and perfect, life would be very dull.
don’t you hate it when you offer help and the other person says yes
So long, my luckless romance
My back is turned on you
I should’ve known you’d bring me heartache
Almost lovers always do
Senatus Populusque Romanus.
When I said that I cleaned my room, I just meant that I threw everything that was visible into somewhere that wasn’t visible
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