January Challenge, Day Fifteen
Title: Untitled
Author: Lils
Theme: "It is with our passions as it is with fire and water: they are good servants but bad masters." -- Aesop
Genre: Angst
Version: Manga
Rating: PG-13??
Aaahh, I SERIOUSLY have no idea where this came from. I read the prompt and this just slammed into me like a freight train. It almost scares me that something like this is lurking inside my brain... this comes from the idea that in the manga, even before they got their powers, the girls could actually sense/interact with their elements.
Something creaks behind the wall.
The girl shifts, responding to the sound as much as her drugged out mind allows her to. She is young, no more than fourteen: once, she would have been called ‘pretty’. Now, with the memory of her last shower but a distant echo on her skin and the limp, greasy strands of hair covering what used to be clever blue eyes, well…
The straight jacket she wears is too tight, her spindly arms stretched too taut around her chest. But no one will come in to loosen it, not after what happened to the last nurse. Nobody has come in to her cell in a long time, and was she still able to count the passage of time, she would’ve realized today is the last day of school.
But then again, she hasn’t been to school in a while, has she? The girl shies away from the thought, thanking the powerful meds that keep her quick brain addled and slow. She knows the names of these drugs; she could probably explain to you how they work. Hell, she probably knows more about them than her doctors do, but that is not something she wishes to revisit.
Another creak, from the opposite wall this time.
Her padded cell is dirty and dark, with not outside light to reach the inner recesses of her deluded mind. Maybe if she could see the sun she would remember who she is, or rather, who she used to be. The faded white - that now looks bone yellow - of the straight jacket makes her pale skin look even paler. The sunken hollows of her cheeks have dried tear tracks on them, and she thinks she feels a ghostly hand softly brushing them away.
She dreams of green eyes, of blond hair and blood. And the fear, and the anger and the shame, always the shame. The girl does not remember who she is, but she remembers what she did.
Drip.
Drip.
Somewhere in the tiny room, a leak has sprung. The walls of her cell bear the mark of past leaks, trails of soot and salt branding each accident for the entire world to see. If anyone still dared - or cared - to come see, that is.
The voices return. Soft, at first, like whispers in the wind, teasing, tempting, cajoling-play with us, they say, and they sound like children to her. Except when they don’t, when the high, gay voices turn darker and harsh, and it screams in her ear and steals her breath. It won’t happen for a while yet. It always starts like this, like a dear friend returned home after a long absence, with love and joy and fun-
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The girl whimpers. She cannot stop it, God knows she has tried. She can do nothing but watch as another leak opens a few inches to her left. Water has begun pooling at her feet, cold and dark, and her body trembles with yearning and fear.
It used to be that she could understand what they were saying. They’d speak to her and she’d talk back, and it was wonderful.
And then something inside of her broke, or perhaps the demon with the red eyes took it instead, and she can no longer understand what they are trying to say.
She closes her eyes, hoping that it is all a dream. But the whispers turn louder as the water creeps closer, and she shivers again, hating herself for loving the way it feels. Once, she was a friend. Now… well, now she doesn’t know what she is to them. They are certainly attracted to her, water and ice and snow, but it is like they do not know what to do with her. So they lash out, or maybe she does, and it all goes downhill from there.
She wishes she had the strength to call for help, but experience tells her no one would come anyway. They’re used to the strange noises and lights that come from the girl’s cell; why else would they have thrown her in deepest, darkest corner they could find? In a place like this, were the insane and the unusual are expected and welcomed, even she stands apart.
Feared.
Broken.
Lost.
Her shivers intensify, her thin body shaking like a leaf. She hasn’t eaten in-days? Weeks? She doesn’t think she needs food anymore. Her sustenance comes from other things, strange things, powerful things. Even now she can feel the comforting haze of the drugs evaporating, chased away by the water’s proximity.
She breathes in deeply, and can almost smell the sea.
She buries her face on her knees, the water now licking at her bare toes. It feels so good, that liquid caress, that sensual touch-her shivers halt suddenly, and something in her snaps.
The temperature inside her little cell plummets, a cloud of fog forming as the water running through every pipe behind every wall explodes out in a mist of vapor. She cries out for real this time, her entire body spasming as months of pent-up energy are released. Tiny ice crystals cover every available surface, walls, door, ceiling, floor-but not one of them touches her. The screams in her ears are wild, but she is deaf to it all.
She catches a glimpse of a woman, dressed in high boots and skirt, before another painful convulsion hits. She thinks she hears a kind voice, words strangled by tears, but she is too far gone to actually care. In her delirium, as snowflakes begin to pelter the small room, she thinks she sees a giant key shaped staff, and that just serves to prove she’s crazy, because that? Only a demented mind could imagine.
“I am sorry.”
The young girl holds on that human voice, louder and stronger than the screams in her head. Through clenched teeth she tastes blood, and she realizes she has bitten her own tongue-it tastes like snow.
The world stops - or perhaps it is time that holds still? - and the girl opens her eyes to find herself alone. Next to her, in the snow-blanketed floor, are the perfectly shaped prints of booted heels.
*****
.
Author: Lils
Theme: "It is with our passions as it is with fire and water: they are good servants but bad masters." -- Aesop
Genre: Angst
Version: Manga
Rating: PG-13??
Aaahh, I SERIOUSLY have no idea where this came from. I read the prompt and this just slammed into me like a freight train. It almost scares me that something like this is lurking inside my brain... this comes from the idea that in the manga, even before they got their powers, the girls could actually sense/interact with their elements.
Something creaks behind the wall.
The girl shifts, responding to the sound as much as her drugged out mind allows her to. She is young, no more than fourteen: once, she would have been called ‘pretty’. Now, with the memory of her last shower but a distant echo on her skin and the limp, greasy strands of hair covering what used to be clever blue eyes, well…
The straight jacket she wears is too tight, her spindly arms stretched too taut around her chest. But no one will come in to loosen it, not after what happened to the last nurse. Nobody has come in to her cell in a long time, and was she still able to count the passage of time, she would’ve realized today is the last day of school.
But then again, she hasn’t been to school in a while, has she? The girl shies away from the thought, thanking the powerful meds that keep her quick brain addled and slow. She knows the names of these drugs; she could probably explain to you how they work. Hell, she probably knows more about them than her doctors do, but that is not something she wishes to revisit.
Another creak, from the opposite wall this time.
Her padded cell is dirty and dark, with not outside light to reach the inner recesses of her deluded mind. Maybe if she could see the sun she would remember who she is, or rather, who she used to be. The faded white - that now looks bone yellow - of the straight jacket makes her pale skin look even paler. The sunken hollows of her cheeks have dried tear tracks on them, and she thinks she feels a ghostly hand softly brushing them away.
She dreams of green eyes, of blond hair and blood. And the fear, and the anger and the shame, always the shame. The girl does not remember who she is, but she remembers what she did.
Drip.
Drip.
Somewhere in the tiny room, a leak has sprung. The walls of her cell bear the mark of past leaks, trails of soot and salt branding each accident for the entire world to see. If anyone still dared - or cared - to come see, that is.
The voices return. Soft, at first, like whispers in the wind, teasing, tempting, cajoling-play with us, they say, and they sound like children to her. Except when they don’t, when the high, gay voices turn darker and harsh, and it screams in her ear and steals her breath. It won’t happen for a while yet. It always starts like this, like a dear friend returned home after a long absence, with love and joy and fun-
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The girl whimpers. She cannot stop it, God knows she has tried. She can do nothing but watch as another leak opens a few inches to her left. Water has begun pooling at her feet, cold and dark, and her body trembles with yearning and fear.
It used to be that she could understand what they were saying. They’d speak to her and she’d talk back, and it was wonderful.
And then something inside of her broke, or perhaps the demon with the red eyes took it instead, and she can no longer understand what they are trying to say.
She closes her eyes, hoping that it is all a dream. But the whispers turn louder as the water creeps closer, and she shivers again, hating herself for loving the way it feels. Once, she was a friend. Now… well, now she doesn’t know what she is to them. They are certainly attracted to her, water and ice and snow, but it is like they do not know what to do with her. So they lash out, or maybe she does, and it all goes downhill from there.
She wishes she had the strength to call for help, but experience tells her no one would come anyway. They’re used to the strange noises and lights that come from the girl’s cell; why else would they have thrown her in deepest, darkest corner they could find? In a place like this, were the insane and the unusual are expected and welcomed, even she stands apart.
Feared.
Broken.
Lost.
Her shivers intensify, her thin body shaking like a leaf. She hasn’t eaten in-days? Weeks? She doesn’t think she needs food anymore. Her sustenance comes from other things, strange things, powerful things. Even now she can feel the comforting haze of the drugs evaporating, chased away by the water’s proximity.
She breathes in deeply, and can almost smell the sea.
She buries her face on her knees, the water now licking at her bare toes. It feels so good, that liquid caress, that sensual touch-her shivers halt suddenly, and something in her snaps.
The temperature inside her little cell plummets, a cloud of fog forming as the water running through every pipe behind every wall explodes out in a mist of vapor. She cries out for real this time, her entire body spasming as months of pent-up energy are released. Tiny ice crystals cover every available surface, walls, door, ceiling, floor-but not one of them touches her. The screams in her ears are wild, but she is deaf to it all.
She catches a glimpse of a woman, dressed in high boots and skirt, before another painful convulsion hits. She thinks she hears a kind voice, words strangled by tears, but she is too far gone to actually care. In her delirium, as snowflakes begin to pelter the small room, she thinks she sees a giant key shaped staff, and that just serves to prove she’s crazy, because that? Only a demented mind could imagine.
“I am sorry.”
The young girl holds on that human voice, louder and stronger than the screams in her head. Through clenched teeth she tastes blood, and she realizes she has bitten her own tongue-it tastes like snow.
The world stops - or perhaps it is time that holds still? - and the girl opens her eyes to find herself alone. Next to her, in the snow-blanketed floor, are the perfectly shaped prints of booted heels.
*****
.