(no subject)
All the masks come tumbling down and she finds herself sinking to the ground (saturated, water-weighted) head still spinning and breath coming in harsh, near-sobbing gasps. Numb fingers catching on bits of shine, fine treasures drowning under dark waters and she can’t feel anything.
There are no words to say how scared she is - how empty and confusing the world becomes when she doesn’t have anything left to explain it to her.
It is almost like opening your eyes to find that your body doesn’t fit you anymore. That everything you thought you understood had faded and disappeared while they were closed.
The whispers fall silent and the (fingers grappling, grasping) feeling dies along with them.
Barely a minute passes and everything is gone.
-
Her hands were shaking.
Lethe tries very hard to remember if there was anything before that - just like she has tried a million other times. There has to be, she tells herself. Life is not supposed to begin with nothing but a rapid, frightened heartbeat and shaky fingers. Life is not supposed to begin alone.
Why can’t she remember?
Her hands were shaking, the water was cold around her ankles, and the Line was waiting.
She still doesn’t understand how she knew, but it’s true all the same. The Line has always waited (winding, dim and lifeless) and she has always known.
There are things that you belong to.
-
The eyes that look back at her are blue and she’s almost completely certain that she remembers them.
A dusty, old mirror - already broken (distorted and wrong, same eyes as mine) and smudged - but she stares, watches the mirror-girl so closely. How had they trapped her in glass when she was so sure she was there?
Small and thin and far too pale - freckles along her nose and curls twisted into messy tangles, falling artlessly into her eyes. Was that all that he had seen? Because she can’t seem to find anything extraordinary (eyes, nose, mouth - a mess of broken little girl) just the same as any other face.
What does it mean to be a beautiful girl?
-
The river had still been very young - mere months, one summer - at her first season turning. All fanfare and bells and she had hidden, fingers to her ears and eyes shut tight, to escape the sudden sound.
It had been days before she was brave enough to move - to even dare to look.
The Lady was certainly a springtime thing (flowers followed when she walked) and Lethe was speechless. Brighter than anything she had ever seen and so much lovelier. A court of (golden, sunshine-spun) nymphs following after - all laughter and long limbs and smiles that were warm, even from so far away.
Lethe did not say a word, safely shadowed behind one of the tall spires (a beautiful castle, built just for her) eyes wide and fingers curled into her dress - hiding her own dim, nighttime glow.
That was a beautiful girl - she was certain of it.
-
Her fingertips press against the glass, following the tiny cracks (thin blue veins, silk and spiderwebs) that spread like little rivers, winding outward in crackled lines and distorting the reflection.
What am I supposed to do? she wants to ask, but the words catch in her throat and her lips part around nothing but empty air.
The eyes blink back at her and Lethe is far too afraid that she wouldn’t have an answer anyway.
