(no subject)
it looks like asphalt
591 // PG-13
for 5 june 10.
this is hastily written and unbeta'd extended metaphor ...read at your own risk. it's an original fic/fandom, using a character of mine, but who she is isn't particularly important.
WARNING: it does contain fairly obvious reference to dubious consent.
...am i really the first person to use this prompt?
She is making a wall of all the parts of herself that have died.
When she was young, she was beautiful and wild, and knew it. She did what she pleased, then. She had room in her heart for newcomers. She grew and adapted and changed. Those who lived with her loved and feared her, but they knew her ways; when her eyes darkened they battened down the hatches and prepared for the storm, and when the sun came out in her smile they smiled too and were grateful for the calm.
They left their footprints on her as they came and went: new instincts, new memories, old things left behind and forgotten. A little less love and a little more anger. But she was still free.
And then there were the ones who wanted something. Always prying at her, nagging, armed with curses and insults and greedy hands. She fought the only way she knew how: shrugging them off at first. Biting, hurting, pushing back later.
They weren't afraid of her like the others; they didn't respect her wildness or see beauty when they looked at her. They wanted what she had. And they couldn't take it from her. But they could tell everyone they had. Told everyone that she was theirs, even while she swore and spat and tried to drown them in her anger.
The word spread. No one looked at her anymore and saw blossoming newness or the still calm that could erupt into a gale. They saw something to plunder, dig into, improve, leave themselves behind. Take and leave empty.
Easy.
Maybe she started to believe it. Maybe there were too many. Maybe she was tired.
Mostly, she wanted it to be her choice: if she gave them something she wanted to decide, where it would happen, when it would be, which one she allowed to touch her. It was never nice; more often volcanic, dark, angry. But it was all her.
Allowing them near her didn't change that they wanted something. They just wanted more. The only question became: would this be on her terms or theirs? Did she even have terms anymore?
When she looked at herself in the mirror she couldn't see the parts of herself that could take wing, the parts that knew how to dive deep or burst into color. It was under some shell, some layer of grime. It starved every part of her and that couldn't be washed off no matter how much the scrubbing.
The more she tried, the worse she felt.
She just stopped trying. The parts of her that rippled and shimmered and glowed, that asked and floated and flew all died. It felt better. She let them go, stopped trying to hold on to it. The core of her would stay whole, somewhere, beneath the grime.
They went their separate ways. They had what they wanted from her.
These days, she has learned that the blossoms return in time. The winged things are there, waiting for her. She still has her fury and her wildness. On the days when the grime is still too thick, she has learned how to pretend that she can burst into color, how to look like she knows that she's beautiful. She looks for those who see it in her and ask nothing in return; the kind who come with soap and water, and no heroic pretentions.
The ones who can make it through a wall of dead things and come out still in awe of her.
It will take a very long time for that wall to go away.
591 // PG-13
for 5 june 10.
this is hastily written and unbeta'd extended metaphor ...read at your own risk. it's an original fic/fandom, using a character of mine, but who she is isn't particularly important.
WARNING: it does contain fairly obvious reference to dubious consent.
...am i really the first person to use this prompt?
She is making a wall of all the parts of herself that have died.
When she was young, she was beautiful and wild, and knew it. She did what she pleased, then. She had room in her heart for newcomers. She grew and adapted and changed. Those who lived with her loved and feared her, but they knew her ways; when her eyes darkened they battened down the hatches and prepared for the storm, and when the sun came out in her smile they smiled too and were grateful for the calm.
They left their footprints on her as they came and went: new instincts, new memories, old things left behind and forgotten. A little less love and a little more anger. But she was still free.
And then there were the ones who wanted something. Always prying at her, nagging, armed with curses and insults and greedy hands. She fought the only way she knew how: shrugging them off at first. Biting, hurting, pushing back later.
They weren't afraid of her like the others; they didn't respect her wildness or see beauty when they looked at her. They wanted what she had. And they couldn't take it from her. But they could tell everyone they had. Told everyone that she was theirs, even while she swore and spat and tried to drown them in her anger.
The word spread. No one looked at her anymore and saw blossoming newness or the still calm that could erupt into a gale. They saw something to plunder, dig into, improve, leave themselves behind. Take and leave empty.
Easy.
Maybe she started to believe it. Maybe there were too many. Maybe she was tired.
Mostly, she wanted it to be her choice: if she gave them something she wanted to decide, where it would happen, when it would be, which one she allowed to touch her. It was never nice; more often volcanic, dark, angry. But it was all her.
Allowing them near her didn't change that they wanted something. They just wanted more. The only question became: would this be on her terms or theirs? Did she even have terms anymore?
When she looked at herself in the mirror she couldn't see the parts of herself that could take wing, the parts that knew how to dive deep or burst into color. It was under some shell, some layer of grime. It starved every part of her and that couldn't be washed off no matter how much the scrubbing.
The more she tried, the worse she felt.
She just stopped trying. The parts of her that rippled and shimmered and glowed, that asked and floated and flew all died. It felt better. She let them go, stopped trying to hold on to it. The core of her would stay whole, somewhere, beneath the grime.
They went their separate ways. They had what they wanted from her.
These days, she has learned that the blossoms return in time. The winged things are there, waiting for her. She still has her fury and her wildness. On the days when the grime is still too thick, she has learned how to pretend that she can burst into color, how to look like she knows that she's beautiful. She looks for those who see it in her and ask nothing in return; the kind who come with soap and water, and no heroic pretentions.
The ones who can make it through a wall of dead things and come out still in awe of her.
It will take a very long time for that wall to go away.