Aesthetics (Prompt 015, 100OriginalFics Challenge)
Title: Aesthetics
Author: RavanaSnape
Prompt: 015 (Blue)
Rating: PG-13
Length: 602 words
Summary: Her body evolved, constantly changing and yet she remained oblivious, consumed by her thirst.
A/N: originalpuck asked me what she looked like. I hadn't given it much thought, but then I did, and this was the result.
Like many other babies, she was bald when born. As a toddler she had thick, white blonde hair. It hung down to her shoulders and curled becomingly at the ends. As she grew older still it darkened, turned a rich brown. As she left her childhood behind it could entwine itself down her spine, drawing attention to her hips, just below. Uncaring of her appearance she kept it sternly drawn back into a knot at the nape of her neck, washing it every other day, just like her mother had taught her.
Long hours indoors, cosseted in dusty, darkened rooms had left their mark on her skin. She was pale, did not blush. Her face was as a blank canvas, no make-up. At first, when her friends did not know any better, when she was still beguiled into the sunshine, she burnt, turned red and peeled. In her adolescence she had her share of acne. Since she cared not for her appearance, she would have let it lie. But her mother, displaying the rigorous discipline she had passed onto her daughter, made her apply lotions and salves. By the time she was old enough to entangle herself with other humans, the blemishes had all but faded.
Coffee and wine turned her teeth off-white. Not American, she had no braces nor expensive whitening treatment. No fillings though, and anyway, she rarely smiled. Her books didn’t care what her teeth looked like.
Her body is encased in clothes of the generation before: shirts, waistcoats, emphasising her waist, her chest. If her hips are too large, her legs too short for modern beauty, that is a problem for society, not her. In a moment of frivolity, of teenage rebellion, to strike back at a mother who had confiscated her library cards and her books, she double-pierced one ear. Now she wears a small silver hoop, just at the top of her earlobe. No other jewellery.
Throughout all these changes, from chubby baby to pale toddler, blemished teenager to quiet adult, there was one constant. If she would admit to one vanity - although one would be more likely to receive a quizzical stare, than an answer - it is her eyes. The irises almost abnormally large, they stare out of her face, an intense gaze pinning anyone who meets them. They are fragmented blue, as if they were made out of a glass the deep rich colour of a summer sky, until someone took a hammer and smashed them. When you get up close you can see lines zigzagging across them; it is not a whole colour, but composite. The effect, should she let it, would be overwhelming. One might even call her pretty.
But she does not and consequently, is not. Her long hours of reading, of devouring the knowledge she craves, have weakened her eyes and they lie hidden behind glasses. Her body encased in the clothes, her smile hidden behind the pages of a book, her hair imprisoned with so many pins.
Sometimes her mother, seeing so many of her wishes and aspirations for her daughter unfulfilled, let out a small sigh. There is so much potential there, so much that she could use, to ensnare others: friends, lovers, and compatriots. But the girl, now a woman, chose another sort of potential to fulfil, one that does not rely on looks or beauty, or soft, unblemished skin. This kind of potential is locked in her mind, her books, and her dreams. So she remains, pale and hidden from the world, slowly absorbing everything laid before her, not even giving the aesthetic a second thought.
Author: RavanaSnape
Prompt: 015 (Blue)
Rating: PG-13
Length: 602 words
Summary: Her body evolved, constantly changing and yet she remained oblivious, consumed by her thirst.
A/N: originalpuck asked me what she looked like. I hadn't given it much thought, but then I did, and this was the result.
Like many other babies, she was bald when born. As a toddler she had thick, white blonde hair. It hung down to her shoulders and curled becomingly at the ends. As she grew older still it darkened, turned a rich brown. As she left her childhood behind it could entwine itself down her spine, drawing attention to her hips, just below. Uncaring of her appearance she kept it sternly drawn back into a knot at the nape of her neck, washing it every other day, just like her mother had taught her.
Long hours indoors, cosseted in dusty, darkened rooms had left their mark on her skin. She was pale, did not blush. Her face was as a blank canvas, no make-up. At first, when her friends did not know any better, when she was still beguiled into the sunshine, she burnt, turned red and peeled. In her adolescence she had her share of acne. Since she cared not for her appearance, she would have let it lie. But her mother, displaying the rigorous discipline she had passed onto her daughter, made her apply lotions and salves. By the time she was old enough to entangle herself with other humans, the blemishes had all but faded.
Coffee and wine turned her teeth off-white. Not American, she had no braces nor expensive whitening treatment. No fillings though, and anyway, she rarely smiled. Her books didn’t care what her teeth looked like.
Her body is encased in clothes of the generation before: shirts, waistcoats, emphasising her waist, her chest. If her hips are too large, her legs too short for modern beauty, that is a problem for society, not her. In a moment of frivolity, of teenage rebellion, to strike back at a mother who had confiscated her library cards and her books, she double-pierced one ear. Now she wears a small silver hoop, just at the top of her earlobe. No other jewellery.
Throughout all these changes, from chubby baby to pale toddler, blemished teenager to quiet adult, there was one constant. If she would admit to one vanity - although one would be more likely to receive a quizzical stare, than an answer - it is her eyes. The irises almost abnormally large, they stare out of her face, an intense gaze pinning anyone who meets them. They are fragmented blue, as if they were made out of a glass the deep rich colour of a summer sky, until someone took a hammer and smashed them. When you get up close you can see lines zigzagging across them; it is not a whole colour, but composite. The effect, should she let it, would be overwhelming. One might even call her pretty.
But she does not and consequently, is not. Her long hours of reading, of devouring the knowledge she craves, have weakened her eyes and they lie hidden behind glasses. Her body encased in the clothes, her smile hidden behind the pages of a book, her hair imprisoned with so many pins.
Sometimes her mother, seeing so many of her wishes and aspirations for her daughter unfulfilled, let out a small sigh. There is so much potential there, so much that she could use, to ensnare others: friends, lovers, and compatriots. But the girl, now a woman, chose another sort of potential to fulfil, one that does not rely on looks or beauty, or soft, unblemished skin. This kind of potential is locked in her mind, her books, and her dreams. So she remains, pale and hidden from the world, slowly absorbing everything laid before her, not even giving the aesthetic a second thought.