[one-shot; OC] and my tears rolled into the ocean.
[one-shot] and my tears rolled into the ocean
Series: This one-shot itself is OC-centric, but the OC belongs in this giant KHR! role-play me and Jessi have had for... a while now.
Word Count: 1710
Characters/Pairings: OCs only.
Notes: Um... this story is... really, really emotional for me. It was incredibly difficult to write, keeping Anya in character while having her cope with losing someone who was so close to her.
I've been working on this piece for several months by now, and I'm finally satisfied with this draft. It was originally going to have five sections, but after cutting off the fourth section and the beginning of the fifth, I realized that this was really all the story needed. I just cut out everything unnecessary, and shortened it, tightened everything, and... well. Yes.
I cut off the sections because I read this at the Parent's Weekend reading, and... it was... ahahahah. I read a section from "Bruised Bedsheets" last year (so that's two years of KHR! OCs, what?), and that got a huge emotional reaction from some people. But this year... lord. One woman told me I made her cry, and I got compliments on how I read and the piece for two weeks after the reading had happened. It was so overwhelming.
(Then again, I was ready to cry myself during the reading, because Connor had been expelled the day before. So that came through very clearly in the third section, I think. Ahahah.)
Oh, right. The lyrics in this story are from, "Black & Gold" by Ellie Goulding and "Satellite Heart" by Anya Marina. (Ahahahah.) I was listening to those two songs and also "Islands" by The XX as I wrote this. Over and over. .w.;
Summary: She's a lady by this point, with no need to break down and destroy her room. (I'm sorry to inform you sir, but your son--)
And my Tears rolled into the Ocean.
1. ('Cause if you're not really here, then I don't want to be either.)
When Fuyu dies in the car accident (crunch crunch), Anya isn’t sure she’s heard the news correctly at first. It takes a moment of grayscale to register what her mother is telling her. She can feel her eyes widen, but her mouth is still shut, her cheeks still and firm, her eyebrows and forehead smoothed. Her mother says something about a funeral, something about telling their older sister and flights and flowers, but Anya’s ears have begun to ring and buzz so that she can’t hear anything else.
She excuses herself suddenly, her face jammed in that position (it’ll get stuck her sister says, if you do that for too long your face will stay like that forever). The drive back to the hotel is silent, difficult, and the silence overflows and suffocates her. It forces her to pull over and put her head against the steering wheel, taking deep breaths to calm down. It takes her five minutes of dizzying breathing to contain whatever numbness she feels, and regain the feeling in her extremities.
Anya gets back to the hotel, and smooths back her orange hair, the flyaway strands irritating against her cheekbones. Looking into the mirror, she keeps her face in its usual neutral expression, platinum colored eyes flat and blank like they should be. Her hair-barely tamed today, she noticed, looking at how it was beginning to fluff-was tied back into a lazy bun at the nape of her neck, although wavy strands were falling from the loose hair tie.
Finally she frowned deeply, something like rage boiling over, something like despair (hey, Anya, you should smile more Fuyu laughs, you’re a lot less scary with you smile he says, a lot more pretty.), and her reflection in the mirror glares at her with furious intensity, her full lips pressing together until they turn white and thin.
Something in her says he left us behind but Anya ignores it and whips around from the mirror, storming quickly over to door before looking out at her hotel room-it’s really such a nice room, she notes to herself-and realizing she has nothing at all to do in her anger. She isn’t childish enough to throw all her clothes around or have a fit, not immature enough to shove everything off the desks and punch the mirror. She’s a lady by this point, full grown and independent, intelligent and strong, with no need to break down and destroy her room.
When Fuyu left (crunch crunch), no one noticed it. Her older sister was busy making dinner for her family. Her husband was probably still at work, itching to get back to his wife. Mom was at home, knitting a light blue scarf in her worn old recliner, and dad was probably at the kitchen table, sipping his black coffee and reading the newspaper-and then ring ring ring; dad picked up to hear I’m so sorry to inform you sir but your son-
Anya knows how it goes now. There’s the denial, the numbness, the time it takes to settle in. The anger and the hate, the despair, and the way it feels like everything grays and falls away. She’s not sure, however, how it must feel to be a parent hearing I’m sorry sir but-and she doesn’t want to know because even trying to imagine hurts too much.
2. (Lost in the dark, I’m spun out so far-you stop and I start.)
The funeral was a quiet affair, with no more than twenty people standing on the hillside by the barren tree. Anya could hear muted breathing, murmurs and whispers, and the soft drone of the priest speaking. It’s odd how she could have forgotten how handsome her brother is in just the four months since she’d last seen him.
His jaw is strong, sharp, and his nose is pointy in a nice way, long with a slight bump at the bridge where it was broken when he was fifteen. He has little scars all over from all his ‘adventures’, and his long brown hair, falling over his forehead and pushed behind his right ear, was combed nicely. His eyes were closed, but Anya could imagine the blue behind those cold lids, azure and twinkling with mischief. She can remember his laugh and his crooked grin, his laid-back posture and how he spoke, throaty and not quite deep. It strikes her that she won’t hear it again, and somehow that makes her feel colder.
The priest drones about something or other eternal life and happiness while Anya muses that there is a certain type of heartache that comes with events like this. She isn’t sure she feels it, because right now, her insides feel like they’re either gone, scooped out with a spoon, or like they’ve been frozen.
Later, after the service, someone asks her do you miss him, as they’re standing in front of Fuyu’s grave. She would normally say yes, of course, but she somehow finds herself without a response, because she hadn’t rehearsed this scenario (hadn’t thought someone would ask her that, because she used to think it would be obvious).
It feels like an odd topic and it makes her uncomfortable although it shouldn’t. She knows she misses him, but there’s something in her that won’t allow her to answer-maybe some stubborn pride that won’t allow her to admit she could feel. She wouldn’t be surprised. There is a certain extent Anya’s pride would go that made her childish. But the person who spoke was still holding that expectant air about them, waiting for her response.
Anya closes her eyes and stays silent because it’s the only thing she can think to do in this situation. They eventually drop the subject-she can tell because the tension in the air lessens, then they exhale heavily-and she’s grateful for that. She’s even more grateful when they move away, leaving her alone in the silence Fuyu left behind.
She dreams that night and a figure in her dream smiles, a shadow with perfectly straight teeth, so white it hurts, glowing in the darkness of his own skin. He says hello and she says who are you but he doesn’t respond, although the smile is firmly in place against his skin, all shadows and secrets. She doesn’t feel angry that he doesn’t answer, though, and so she settles into the silence, somehow full of smoke and comfort in a darkened room. The fuzzy jazz music plays and the room smells faintly like leather and cologne she remembers-but then, this is a dream, and she can’t really smell.
3. (If vision is the only validation, most of my life isn’t real.)
When she’s awake, there are gaps in her sight where she thinks people should be. Spaces of shining air, shimmering like there’s something there she should be able to see, hot air left behind by a mirage. Anya shakes her head and continues down the cobblestone sidewalk, her bag under her arm. The spots aren’t as unnerving as she thinks they would sound to anyone else, she muses to herself as she turns into her apartment building.
Anya mentions it in her dreams that night, and for once the figure doesn’t smile, doesn’t laugh. The silence is eerie and the record player in the corner of the room playing the faded jazz skips suddenly, but neither of them moves to correct it. The chairs are over-stuffed and she sinks into them nicely, feeling that snug, almost-trapped feeling raking in her chest.
She says I can’t see people clearly anymore and his smile fades and he says oh so she doesn’t say anything else. The jazz music skips more, and he looks thoughtful although he doesn’t have a face (shadows that swirl make up his features, makes her feel like someone is waiting to say I’m sorry to inform you but she isn’t sure why).
Finally, he takes a breath and she thinks he says I’m sorry but before she can ask why, she wakes up. For some reason, her chest is rising and falling faster than usual and she has a layer of cold sweat on her cheeks and forehead. The ceiling’s spinning above her, and she hardly remembers getting into bed the night before. Pushing herself up, she rubs her face slowly, looks at the covers over her legs before she at last pushes herself out of bed and her feet touch the wooden floors.
Yawning, she shuffles to the kitchen, makes herself coffee and cooks herself ham and eggs for breakfast, toasts some bread and when she eats, she does so without a sound, looking at the newspaper that had been left by her front step. She finishes and washes her plates, puts them away mindlessly, and goes into her office. She opens her laptop and notices the deep orange glowing from behind her, where the curtains are still open.
She turns her chair and, transfixed by the color, walks onto her balcony. Unlike the sunset, where the sun is on the other side of the building, the sun rises right in front of her windows. It’s odd how it strikes her, absently, how beautiful a city Florence really is. So many old buildings mixed with the new, life continuing without forgetting the past, and the sun rising on every day as if nothing’s changed-because really, nothing has. One, two, twenty, or a hundred people dying don’t affect how the world keeps moving.
When she looks at the today, rising like a phoenix, she realizes exactly how bright it is and looks at it until her eyes ache. She almost doesn’t notice when the tears begin to stream down her face and her neck, soaking through into her shirt. Her hands rest on the stone railing of the balcony. The smoke is cleared and the jazz is dead, gone, and the sun is brighter than any orange she’s ever seen and she whispers thank you to someone whose name it hurts too much to say, because he’s gone and the world keeps moving on without him, forever.
fin.
Series: This one-shot itself is OC-centric, but the OC belongs in this giant KHR! role-play me and Jessi have had for... a while now.
Word Count: 1710
Characters/Pairings: OCs only.
Notes: Um... this story is... really, really emotional for me. It was incredibly difficult to write, keeping Anya in character while having her cope with losing someone who was so close to her.
I've been working on this piece for several months by now, and I'm finally satisfied with this draft. It was originally going to have five sections, but after cutting off the fourth section and the beginning of the fifth, I realized that this was really all the story needed. I just cut out everything unnecessary, and shortened it, tightened everything, and... well. Yes.
I cut off the sections because I read this at the Parent's Weekend reading, and... it was... ahahahah. I read a section from "Bruised Bedsheets" last year (so that's two years of KHR! OCs, what?), and that got a huge emotional reaction from some people. But this year... lord. One woman told me I made her cry, and I got compliments on how I read and the piece for two weeks after the reading had happened. It was so overwhelming.
(Then again, I was ready to cry myself during the reading, because Connor had been expelled the day before. So that came through very clearly in the third section, I think. Ahahah.)
Oh, right. The lyrics in this story are from, "Black & Gold" by Ellie Goulding and "Satellite Heart" by Anya Marina. (Ahahahah.) I was listening to those two songs and also "Islands" by The XX as I wrote this. Over and over. .w.;
Summary: She's a lady by this point, with no need to break down and destroy her room. (I'm sorry to inform you sir, but your son--)
And my Tears rolled into the Ocean.
1. ('Cause if you're not really here, then I don't want to be either.)
When Fuyu dies in the car accident (crunch crunch), Anya isn’t sure she’s heard the news correctly at first. It takes a moment of grayscale to register what her mother is telling her. She can feel her eyes widen, but her mouth is still shut, her cheeks still and firm, her eyebrows and forehead smoothed. Her mother says something about a funeral, something about telling their older sister and flights and flowers, but Anya’s ears have begun to ring and buzz so that she can’t hear anything else.
She excuses herself suddenly, her face jammed in that position (it’ll get stuck her sister says, if you do that for too long your face will stay like that forever). The drive back to the hotel is silent, difficult, and the silence overflows and suffocates her. It forces her to pull over and put her head against the steering wheel, taking deep breaths to calm down. It takes her five minutes of dizzying breathing to contain whatever numbness she feels, and regain the feeling in her extremities.
Anya gets back to the hotel, and smooths back her orange hair, the flyaway strands irritating against her cheekbones. Looking into the mirror, she keeps her face in its usual neutral expression, platinum colored eyes flat and blank like they should be. Her hair-barely tamed today, she noticed, looking at how it was beginning to fluff-was tied back into a lazy bun at the nape of her neck, although wavy strands were falling from the loose hair tie.
Finally she frowned deeply, something like rage boiling over, something like despair (hey, Anya, you should smile more Fuyu laughs, you’re a lot less scary with you smile he says, a lot more pretty.), and her reflection in the mirror glares at her with furious intensity, her full lips pressing together until they turn white and thin.
Something in her says he left us behind but Anya ignores it and whips around from the mirror, storming quickly over to door before looking out at her hotel room-it’s really such a nice room, she notes to herself-and realizing she has nothing at all to do in her anger. She isn’t childish enough to throw all her clothes around or have a fit, not immature enough to shove everything off the desks and punch the mirror. She’s a lady by this point, full grown and independent, intelligent and strong, with no need to break down and destroy her room.
When Fuyu left (crunch crunch), no one noticed it. Her older sister was busy making dinner for her family. Her husband was probably still at work, itching to get back to his wife. Mom was at home, knitting a light blue scarf in her worn old recliner, and dad was probably at the kitchen table, sipping his black coffee and reading the newspaper-and then ring ring ring; dad picked up to hear I’m so sorry to inform you sir but your son-
Anya knows how it goes now. There’s the denial, the numbness, the time it takes to settle in. The anger and the hate, the despair, and the way it feels like everything grays and falls away. She’s not sure, however, how it must feel to be a parent hearing I’m sorry sir but-and she doesn’t want to know because even trying to imagine hurts too much.
2. (Lost in the dark, I’m spun out so far-you stop and I start.)
The funeral was a quiet affair, with no more than twenty people standing on the hillside by the barren tree. Anya could hear muted breathing, murmurs and whispers, and the soft drone of the priest speaking. It’s odd how she could have forgotten how handsome her brother is in just the four months since she’d last seen him.
His jaw is strong, sharp, and his nose is pointy in a nice way, long with a slight bump at the bridge where it was broken when he was fifteen. He has little scars all over from all his ‘adventures’, and his long brown hair, falling over his forehead and pushed behind his right ear, was combed nicely. His eyes were closed, but Anya could imagine the blue behind those cold lids, azure and twinkling with mischief. She can remember his laugh and his crooked grin, his laid-back posture and how he spoke, throaty and not quite deep. It strikes her that she won’t hear it again, and somehow that makes her feel colder.
The priest drones about something or other eternal life and happiness while Anya muses that there is a certain type of heartache that comes with events like this. She isn’t sure she feels it, because right now, her insides feel like they’re either gone, scooped out with a spoon, or like they’ve been frozen.
Later, after the service, someone asks her do you miss him, as they’re standing in front of Fuyu’s grave. She would normally say yes, of course, but she somehow finds herself without a response, because she hadn’t rehearsed this scenario (hadn’t thought someone would ask her that, because she used to think it would be obvious).
It feels like an odd topic and it makes her uncomfortable although it shouldn’t. She knows she misses him, but there’s something in her that won’t allow her to answer-maybe some stubborn pride that won’t allow her to admit she could feel. She wouldn’t be surprised. There is a certain extent Anya’s pride would go that made her childish. But the person who spoke was still holding that expectant air about them, waiting for her response.
Anya closes her eyes and stays silent because it’s the only thing she can think to do in this situation. They eventually drop the subject-she can tell because the tension in the air lessens, then they exhale heavily-and she’s grateful for that. She’s even more grateful when they move away, leaving her alone in the silence Fuyu left behind.
She dreams that night and a figure in her dream smiles, a shadow with perfectly straight teeth, so white it hurts, glowing in the darkness of his own skin. He says hello and she says who are you but he doesn’t respond, although the smile is firmly in place against his skin, all shadows and secrets. She doesn’t feel angry that he doesn’t answer, though, and so she settles into the silence, somehow full of smoke and comfort in a darkened room. The fuzzy jazz music plays and the room smells faintly like leather and cologne she remembers-but then, this is a dream, and she can’t really smell.
3. (If vision is the only validation, most of my life isn’t real.)
When she’s awake, there are gaps in her sight where she thinks people should be. Spaces of shining air, shimmering like there’s something there she should be able to see, hot air left behind by a mirage. Anya shakes her head and continues down the cobblestone sidewalk, her bag under her arm. The spots aren’t as unnerving as she thinks they would sound to anyone else, she muses to herself as she turns into her apartment building.
Anya mentions it in her dreams that night, and for once the figure doesn’t smile, doesn’t laugh. The silence is eerie and the record player in the corner of the room playing the faded jazz skips suddenly, but neither of them moves to correct it. The chairs are over-stuffed and she sinks into them nicely, feeling that snug, almost-trapped feeling raking in her chest.
She says I can’t see people clearly anymore and his smile fades and he says oh so she doesn’t say anything else. The jazz music skips more, and he looks thoughtful although he doesn’t have a face (shadows that swirl make up his features, makes her feel like someone is waiting to say I’m sorry to inform you but she isn’t sure why).
Finally, he takes a breath and she thinks he says I’m sorry but before she can ask why, she wakes up. For some reason, her chest is rising and falling faster than usual and she has a layer of cold sweat on her cheeks and forehead. The ceiling’s spinning above her, and she hardly remembers getting into bed the night before. Pushing herself up, she rubs her face slowly, looks at the covers over her legs before she at last pushes herself out of bed and her feet touch the wooden floors.
Yawning, she shuffles to the kitchen, makes herself coffee and cooks herself ham and eggs for breakfast, toasts some bread and when she eats, she does so without a sound, looking at the newspaper that had been left by her front step. She finishes and washes her plates, puts them away mindlessly, and goes into her office. She opens her laptop and notices the deep orange glowing from behind her, where the curtains are still open.
She turns her chair and, transfixed by the color, walks onto her balcony. Unlike the sunset, where the sun is on the other side of the building, the sun rises right in front of her windows. It’s odd how it strikes her, absently, how beautiful a city Florence really is. So many old buildings mixed with the new, life continuing without forgetting the past, and the sun rising on every day as if nothing’s changed-because really, nothing has. One, two, twenty, or a hundred people dying don’t affect how the world keeps moving.
When she looks at the today, rising like a phoenix, she realizes exactly how bright it is and looks at it until her eyes ache. She almost doesn’t notice when the tears begin to stream down her face and her neck, soaking through into her shirt. Her hands rest on the stone railing of the balcony. The smoke is cleared and the jazz is dead, gone, and the sun is brighter than any orange she’s ever seen and she whispers thank you to someone whose name it hurts too much to say, because he’s gone and the world keeps moving on without him, forever.
fin.