[Dream] but you grew roots around my ribcage
WHO: Grell Sutcliffe/Juliet, (esoteric_rose)
PERMISSIONS: Free for use
Darkness.
That is what she remembers, darkness. It surrounds her. tattoos its mark upon her skin, poisons her eyes. A deep crimson darkness that is everything she feels.
you are a shell. you are a puppet. you are a doll whose strings are pulled by your master and your master is death. you are not supposed to care there should be nothing inside your chest nothing
So what is in her torso is ripped out, using the blank records that pour out to smooth over the gap and seal it shut before falling back to the darkness. Perfection, and completion.
But oh, what a terrible absence there is.
The darkness compensates by spinning a web over her face, layer upon layer of masks. Able to be switched at will, one removed, another built upon the bottom.
For she knows not what her own face looks like, and she fears that someone will tear the web away to see what she does not.
She'd laugh in the face of the world should she stand on the highest point of a bell tower. Which she does, and there is a moment when she can step off and die, or step higher and die. Trapped in the same spot.
She does not laugh. She screams in her fear, in the silence, in how she feels so hollow. The wind would blow her away with nothing to weigh her down anymore. There isn't a place to hide anymore. It's an attempt to drive everything away, the screaming until someone has their hands on her throat, and she relaxes. That single touch soothes her, for they are not trying to cut off her air. Just a warning, and she is calmed.
Calm. Once again willing to watch her hands be moved to wreak a line of work that her voice is lost against protesting.
you have no right to speak
She does not, and she feels her hands breaking so many threads, letting them disintegrate while wrapped around her fingers, lace of sugar dissolved in the rain, beauty retained only in memory now.
The darkness returns, gives her another gift. It wraps itself around her chest, sinking in to where her heart used to be. Forming a false heart.
It is very cold, though, and she can feel herself shiver. In time, she won't even notice it, so accustomed she will be.
She must appear like the others, she must pretend, and an actress needs props.
"what a strange illusion it is to suppose that beauty is goodness"
She oversees the flow of time as the records surround her, and such power is intoxicating. Glowing, illuminating her as if to counteract the shadow that now dwells within, an outer appearance to blind long enough that her secret will be kept.
There is no end to this pattern, these lies, this way of life in death.
There is no way out.
She understands.
And she laughs, laughs until those hands tighten around her throat and force her into silence.
PERMISSIONS: Free for use
Darkness.
That is what she remembers, darkness. It surrounds her. tattoos its mark upon her skin, poisons her eyes. A deep crimson darkness that is everything she feels.
you are a shell. you are a puppet. you are a doll whose strings are pulled by your master and your master is death. you are not supposed to care there should be nothing inside your chest nothing
So what is in her torso is ripped out, using the blank records that pour out to smooth over the gap and seal it shut before falling back to the darkness. Perfection, and completion.
But oh, what a terrible absence there is.
The darkness compensates by spinning a web over her face, layer upon layer of masks. Able to be switched at will, one removed, another built upon the bottom.
For she knows not what her own face looks like, and she fears that someone will tear the web away to see what she does not.
She'd laugh in the face of the world should she stand on the highest point of a bell tower. Which she does, and there is a moment when she can step off and die, or step higher and die. Trapped in the same spot.
She does not laugh. She screams in her fear, in the silence, in how she feels so hollow. The wind would blow her away with nothing to weigh her down anymore. There isn't a place to hide anymore. It's an attempt to drive everything away, the screaming until someone has their hands on her throat, and she relaxes. That single touch soothes her, for they are not trying to cut off her air. Just a warning, and she is calmed.
Calm. Once again willing to watch her hands be moved to wreak a line of work that her voice is lost against protesting.
you have no right to speak
She does not, and she feels her hands breaking so many threads, letting them disintegrate while wrapped around her fingers, lace of sugar dissolved in the rain, beauty retained only in memory now.
The darkness returns, gives her another gift. It wraps itself around her chest, sinking in to where her heart used to be. Forming a false heart.
It is very cold, though, and she can feel herself shiver. In time, she won't even notice it, so accustomed she will be.
She must appear like the others, she must pretend, and an actress needs props.
"what a strange illusion it is to suppose that beauty is goodness"
She oversees the flow of time as the records surround her, and such power is intoxicating. Glowing, illuminating her as if to counteract the shadow that now dwells within, an outer appearance to blind long enough that her secret will be kept.
There is no end to this pattern, these lies, this way of life in death.
There is no way out.
She understands.
And she laughs, laughs until those hands tighten around her throat and force her into silence.