if you say it enough times, you might just believe it
Yesterday's message had been loud and clear. For all that I felt uncomfortable in my own skin, I made those around me feel even worse, convincing them that I was somehow wrong and that the Island was playing its tricks again. Contradicting them hadn't been an option, not when they presented me with such incontrovertible logic. Nate's in particular had been as flawless as his face, and who was I to deny the truth bespoken by his sapphire eyes? And so, though I awoke that morning not feeling any different than the day before, I decided to put my best foot forward. That the foot I might have considered my best was a woefully large and pale thing, I decided to ignore.
I was, as Serena had said, a Bishop, after all. A certain amount of staring would have to be suffered if it meant putting my friends at ease, and I would have done just about anything to never see their looks of disapproval ever again.
I selected an outfit from my own questionable wardrobe, my earlier trip to the clothes box having been voted disastrously unsuccessful by those who knew much more about those things than I. The skinny jeans and long-sleeved purple shirt were much too form-fitting for my tastes, but they were simple and stylish in a way that I hoped was classic. Most importantly, however, they covered up my freakishly pale skin. If anyone asked, I could hopefully claim a fear of sunburns.
Though I briefly considered staying in my hut to practice my cello, I ultimately decided against it. What little talent I arguably possessed might yet still bother my neighbors. Instead I gathered my bow and arrows and headed towards the archery range. The sight of me shooting an immobile target would surely convince the others that I was myself again.
However, in my plan was a fundamental flaw. Wearing my costume had been entirely out of the question, but as I fired an arrow, the string snapped painfully against my forearm, tearing the fabric of my shirt and leaving an angry red welt in its wake. I dropped the bow with a hiss, clamping my hand against my arm in an effort to control the pain.
In the end, unfortunately, I was simply trying not to cry.
ST/LT welcome as always! Timed for the afternoon.
I was, as Serena had said, a Bishop, after all. A certain amount of staring would have to be suffered if it meant putting my friends at ease, and I would have done just about anything to never see their looks of disapproval ever again.
I selected an outfit from my own questionable wardrobe, my earlier trip to the clothes box having been voted disastrously unsuccessful by those who knew much more about those things than I. The skinny jeans and long-sleeved purple shirt were much too form-fitting for my tastes, but they were simple and stylish in a way that I hoped was classic. Most importantly, however, they covered up my freakishly pale skin. If anyone asked, I could hopefully claim a fear of sunburns.
Though I briefly considered staying in my hut to practice my cello, I ultimately decided against it. What little talent I arguably possessed might yet still bother my neighbors. Instead I gathered my bow and arrows and headed towards the archery range. The sight of me shooting an immobile target would surely convince the others that I was myself again.
However, in my plan was a fundamental flaw. Wearing my costume had been entirely out of the question, but as I fired an arrow, the string snapped painfully against my forearm, tearing the fabric of my shirt and leaving an angry red welt in its wake. I dropped the bow with a hiss, clamping my hand against my arm in an effort to control the pain.
In the end, unfortunately, I was simply trying not to cry.
ST/LT welcome as always! Timed for the afternoon.