[for just_muse_me 23.5.3.] Relive a bad memory.
Relive a bad memory.
OOC: re: weird style? I wanted to do something different, going for disturbing, for this. Tried, anyway. It's italics abuse. Brooke hates me for it. I miss everyone. <3]
Some nights, she can't sleep. Images float in and out of her head, unwanted, unbridled.
(this is my store this is my life.)
But in her mind, she is not in the same clothing store she once felt so comfortable in. The walls are dark red, the floor spotted with dirt. The racks are toppled, empty, and lifeless. The floors are rug, not wood (blood washes so much better out of wood, don't you think?) and the register is over near the door. She changes the entire store around in her head, you see, because she can't bear to relive it again, that way.
But even a scenery change doesn't alter the plot. What happens
(my store)
happens. And the memory crushes the breath from Brooke. She's cleaning up, and every time she tries to hang up that cashmere purple top --
(that stupid top it doesn't even work with your complexion you see the top you just stole from me I really don't think it's your best color you the girl in the rebel shirt)
-- it falls over onto the dirty, rug floor. 'I'm not supposed to be here,' it's stubborn silence seems to say. 'I've been stolen.' And Brooke kind of hears this and understands perfectly and leaves the purple shirt right on the floor next to a black sweat jacket with the word 'REBEL' stamped on the front, as if they belong together down there on the floor.
She feels crushing weight on her shoulders. It spins her around and knocks her down, and she's right down there with the shirt and the jacket. She cries out at her masked attacker, and tries to use her hands to claw, and scratch, but
(we're gonna fight her Milly me and you together we're gonna fight her)
her arms are to heavy to lift. And everything is spinning but she sees that no, the attacker isn't wearing a mask at all. What was she thinking? There was never a mask. It is a face, an ugly face, bruised and cut
{I don't believe in karma)
and it's snarling at her, bearing white teeth in bloodied, animalistic rage.
(We're gonna fight her)
And she's crawling away; desperately trying to crawl away because she knows, somehow she knows what rage, what thirst lies beneath that
(What do you believe in?)
face, that bruised face. It's covered in harsh red lines, letters. Brooke is close enough to read them, but she doesn't have to read them because they are familiar, very familiar and she can recognize
(vengeance)
her own handwriting. Retribution. Justice. Vengeance. Retaliation. All these things she's very familiar with, because she wrote them on her mirror, once. She kept it there to remind herself what she was fighting for, what she lost, and what she needed never to forget. Her strength is just as powerful then as it is now, and this is why Brooke knows her crawling and silent pleading gets her nowhere. She lies, face up, and even though her mind tried so very hard to prevent it, there is a cold and hard wood floor underneath her head (Blood washes so much better out of wood, don't you think?) and she looks up at her assailant. A bruised, battered face with red painted words. Her attacker speaks, but Brooke
(have a nice night)
is speaking with her because it is her. And that face is her face and that voice is
(have a nice)
her voice and she is so betrayed. Her store, her home
(this is my life)
has been tainted, and bruised, and broken. She can never go back, and she can never tell anyone because how could anyone help her? Her assailant chose the perfect mask. So she lies there, hoping and waiting to be left alone. Her eyes close, not because she is unconscious (yet) but because she hopes she will be left for dead. And the footsteps that step over her are not the light steps of a Gucci heel, but heavy work boots. And the voice that speaks
(have a nice)
as she is left pretending that she is asleep and that all of this is a nightmare is not her own voice anymore. It is the deep, unmistakable voice of a man.
"Have a nice night," he says, cutting her even deeper with it's cruelty. And finally, she is left alone.
(night)
Some nights she can't sleep.
OOC: re: weird style? I wanted to do something different, going for disturbing, for this. Tried, anyway. It's italics abuse. Brooke hates me for it. I miss everyone. <3]
Some nights, she can't sleep. Images float in and out of her head, unwanted, unbridled.
(this is my store this is my life.)
But in her mind, she is not in the same clothing store she once felt so comfortable in. The walls are dark red, the floor spotted with dirt. The racks are toppled, empty, and lifeless. The floors are rug, not wood (blood washes so much better out of wood, don't you think?) and the register is over near the door. She changes the entire store around in her head, you see, because she can't bear to relive it again, that way.
But even a scenery change doesn't alter the plot. What happens
(my store)
happens. And the memory crushes the breath from Brooke. She's cleaning up, and every time she tries to hang up that cashmere purple top --
(that stupid top it doesn't even work with your complexion you see the top you just stole from me I really don't think it's your best color you the girl in the rebel shirt)
-- it falls over onto the dirty, rug floor. 'I'm not supposed to be here,' it's stubborn silence seems to say. 'I've been stolen.' And Brooke kind of hears this and understands perfectly and leaves the purple shirt right on the floor next to a black sweat jacket with the word 'REBEL' stamped on the front, as if they belong together down there on the floor.
She feels crushing weight on her shoulders. It spins her around and knocks her down, and she's right down there with the shirt and the jacket. She cries out at her masked attacker, and tries to use her hands to claw, and scratch, but
(we're gonna fight her Milly me and you together we're gonna fight her)
her arms are to heavy to lift. And everything is spinning but she sees that no, the attacker isn't wearing a mask at all. What was she thinking? There was never a mask. It is a face, an ugly face, bruised and cut
{I don't believe in karma)
and it's snarling at her, bearing white teeth in bloodied, animalistic rage.
(We're gonna fight her)
And she's crawling away; desperately trying to crawl away because she knows, somehow she knows what rage, what thirst lies beneath that
(What do you believe in?)
face, that bruised face. It's covered in harsh red lines, letters. Brooke is close enough to read them, but she doesn't have to read them because they are familiar, very familiar and she can recognize
(vengeance)
her own handwriting. Retribution. Justice. Vengeance. Retaliation. All these things she's very familiar with, because she wrote them on her mirror, once. She kept it there to remind herself what she was fighting for, what she lost, and what she needed never to forget. Her strength is just as powerful then as it is now, and this is why Brooke knows her crawling and silent pleading gets her nowhere. She lies, face up, and even though her mind tried so very hard to prevent it, there is a cold and hard wood floor underneath her head (Blood washes so much better out of wood, don't you think?) and she looks up at her assailant. A bruised, battered face with red painted words. Her attacker speaks, but Brooke
(have a nice night)
is speaking with her because it is her. And that face is her face and that voice is
(have a nice)
her voice and she is so betrayed. Her store, her home
(this is my life)
has been tainted, and bruised, and broken. She can never go back, and she can never tell anyone because how could anyone help her? Her assailant chose the perfect mask. So she lies there, hoping and waiting to be left alone. Her eyes close, not because she is unconscious (yet) but because she hopes she will be left for dead. And the footsteps that step over her are not the light steps of a Gucci heel, but heavy work boots. And the voice that speaks
(have a nice)
as she is left pretending that she is asleep and that all of this is a nightmare is not her own voice anymore. It is the deep, unmistakable voice of a man.
"Have a nice night," he says, cutting her even deeper with it's cruelty. And finally, she is left alone.
(night)
Some nights she can't sleep.