(no subject)
It's a pretty name, she thinks, Isolde Abendroth. The shape of it suits her, the way it rolls off her tongue as she introduces herself to strangers. This is who I am, she promises to the silence. This is what I made.
It belongs to her, like Twilight does, it's all the broken pieces that he left behind, shaped into something new. Isolde is harder, sharper, brighter. She stripped away all the parts of her that she couldn't deal with any more, and this woman is what's left.
He says it isn't her. That it isn't her name. That that stupid, blind, naive little girl she's so sure she left behind is still here, underneath the sunglasses and the coloured contacts and the attitude. And he tries to remind her, every time they talk...he'll never call her Isolde. She hates him for it, a little, but it's such a little thing, compared to everything else she hates him for.
Sometimes she realises she hates him most for not being able to hate him at all.
Her life was a series of mistakes.