♡ the blade of a plucked flower 1/2. (mami gen; warning for gore)retrauxJuly 12 2011, 21:54:31 UTC
I'M SORRY THIS IS WEIRD?? i don't even dislike it necessarily but ngl it's... not really what i originally set out to write lmao. so i think it might seem kind of jarring in some points and not flow well, idk. if you want me to write you something different then just tell me :U and ftr i think i might also properly post this, if you're okay with that?
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i.
For the first time in a while, she truly feels alive. Her hands curl around her guns effortlessly, finger hooking into the trigger of another and another, all like interlocking pieces to a puzzle the solution of which she is now bit-by-bit beginning to remember, rediscovering the size and shape of it all-'ah, this is what this is.' The metal of them is clinging and cold against her skin but inside, in the now-hollows of her heart that have been cleared of their burdens, made fresh and empty and new, she is filled with an inexplicable warmth.
Madoka watches her fight with an almost childlike adoration, all lit-up eyes and clasped hands-a girl who is entirely in love with the world. Her words still echo in the parts of Mami that have maybe only just come to life again: 'you are not alone anymore', a sincere prayer.
Mami is finally free.
ii.
(You dream, sometimes, of where your family reach for you, again and again: all bloodied-hands and smiles split into shards, oil pooling around your feet and tongues of smoke spilling into the sky. You dream of what you have lost.
"Mami," her mother says, quiet and toneless, turning her face up to you. Her right cheek has burst-open from her jaw and pieces of her are splattered over the road, long, harsh streaks of red and pink. You can almost see the movements of her tongue. "Help us, Mami."
The stench is nauseating-it's a hot, close day, barely a cloud in the sky. Burnt flesh and drying blood, metal and ash: gunpowder. Your rifle materialises in your hand as always, like clockwork, and you point it down with shaking hands.
"Mami," her mother says again, robotic and lifeless, unsettling with it. The sun bears down on your back, and her face is impossibly dark. You close your eyes and inhale a mouthful of smoke, hook your finger into the trigger-"please, Mami," you barely catch before the shot, before the sudden, violent squelch of her face breaking into countless tiny pieces, splattering over the concrete, and even though your eyes are shut you can still see it perfectly, every bubble of blood and shard of skin, every scarlet splash and streak. You see red, an endless ocean of it swallowing you up, and as the rifle slips away from your hand you find yourself falling with it: falling forever, straight through the earth itself.
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i.
For the first time in a while, she truly feels alive. Her hands curl around her guns effortlessly, finger hooking into the trigger of another and another, all like interlocking pieces to a puzzle the solution of which she is now bit-by-bit beginning to remember, rediscovering the size and shape of it all-'ah, this is what this is.' The metal of them is clinging and cold against her skin but inside, in the now-hollows of her heart that have been cleared of their burdens, made fresh and empty and new, she is filled with an inexplicable warmth.
Madoka watches her fight with an almost childlike adoration, all lit-up eyes and clasped hands-a girl who is entirely in love with the world. Her words still echo in the parts of Mami that have maybe only just come to life again: 'you are not alone anymore', a sincere prayer.
Mami is finally free.
ii.
(You dream, sometimes, of where your family reach for you, again and again: all bloodied-hands and smiles split into shards, oil pooling around your feet and tongues of smoke spilling into the sky. You dream of what you have lost.
"Mami," her mother says, quiet and toneless, turning her face up to you. Her right cheek has burst-open from her jaw and pieces of her are splattered over the road, long, harsh streaks of red and pink. You can almost see the movements of her tongue. "Help us, Mami."
The stench is nauseating-it's a hot, close day, barely a cloud in the sky. Burnt flesh and drying blood, metal and ash: gunpowder. Your rifle materialises in your hand as always, like clockwork, and you point it down with shaking hands.
"Mami," her mother says again, robotic and lifeless, unsettling with it. The sun bears down on your back, and her face is impossibly dark. You close your eyes and inhale a mouthful of smoke, hook your finger into the trigger-"please, Mami," you barely catch before the shot, before the sudden, violent squelch of her face breaking into countless tiny pieces, splattering over the concrete, and even though your eyes are shut you can still see it perfectly, every bubble of blood and shard of skin, every scarlet splash and streak. You see red, an endless ocean of it swallowing you up, and as the rifle slips away from your hand you find yourself falling with it: falling forever, straight through the earth itself.
You fall, and nobody catches you.)
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