[Fic] Reconstruction
Nov. 7th, 2006 11:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeTitle: Reconstruction
Fandom: N/A
Word Count: 1,000
Rating: PG
Summary: What happens when it gets to whatever you do, don't panic. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
insafemode's prompt. Probably cross-posted to pawprintletters eventually.
The water was turned as hot as it would go. Both palms to the tile, head bowed, hair down around her face. She could feel it along the back of her spine, another inch. An inch maybe every six months. The steam covered the mirror and kept her from hating herself any more than she already did. It didn't help the heat over her eyes like a thin film.
She wanted to cry but she couldn't. Too rational for that.
From crash to the resurrection, and then burning up again. It was like a sugar high rollercoaster except without the tartness in her mouth or the powder along her gums. She peeled her lip raw, watched it bleed, and kissed the back of her hand. Take that, you lingering goth tendencies.
Hot water washed the blood away as soon as it bubbled to the surface. She only self-mutilated in the shower, because it was clean, and because if she cried no one would notice in all the water. If she bled no one would notice because the water washed her clean as soon as the injury split the skin. Tears erupted. She leaned forward and let it all spill out. Just let it flow and it would all be over soon.
Except it wasn't, was it? It never was. One thing followed another and when she stepped out and the world twisted sideways and she skidded on the lino only to catch herself on the wall before she cracked her head. What had happened? She was more coordinated than that. Her body, she decided, and her emotions were out of joint. Her mind was hanging on by a thread.
Towel. Toothbrush. Pills. Quickly dress, before the steam vanishes and you have to confront yourself again, older, tired. Too young to be too old.
This was the part of the story where she was supposed to lie down in defeat. Wasn't it? Something had happened.
Palms on the ground, feet flat. Stretch and bend, you're not there yet, you've barely begun. She reminded herself that she had miles to go but it didn't help. She didn't cry either. Not in the shower, can't cry. Rise slow, roll up. Remember your training. You've done this before and it took time then, you can do it again. Every vertebrae back in line, one stacked on top of the other the way they should be. Roll your mind up and down the same way. What happened? What changed? Is there anything different? Is there anything the same?
At a fraction of the angle she was before something pops free. Is it terror? Is it panic? One hand behind her head in the still-wet and sticky mess. It's actually just the hair elastic. Heh.
She told herself she was rising like a champion but it was really just make-believe.
Her body didn't falter down the stairs at least, and that was something. Falling over in the bathroom was just barely tolerable even if they did find you naked and blubbery. Falling down the stairs was a sign of incompetence.
One hundred strokes, and a hundred chant to go with it. Putting herself back together meant at least fooling herself into believing that she was beautiful, powerful. Everything she said she was. Everything she seemed to have convinced others of, that really wasn't true, or at least not as true as it could be. As her outburst had so shamefully proven.
Never mind, just breathe. One hundred strokes, one hundred repetitions. A meditation to start the day, or to balance herself in the middle of it, or to wrap it up.
Pull the pieces back together, tie them up in a pretty little bow. One braid down her back, long and getting longer every year but still not enough. Stretch black over skin because the legs need their freedom to run, the same idea behind thick black moon-boots. Running and kicking ass. She'll never make a good corporate soldier. Lace at her throat, at her wrists, sleeves dropping smoothly over the backs of her hands that curl into fists. Delicate as she is, tears will give way to temper and she'll punch you before she breaks down crying on your shoulder.
That's not true, though, is it? She just likes to think it is. That she'll defend her heart before she lets someone break it, and that's what all this is about, isn't it. She dropped her head against her curled palms and sighed. It was working. It had been a slow reconstruction and one tug on that strand always unraveled her.
There's a simple solution, if only you'll take it. You know what you need to do.
Weeping threatens to make an appearance again, so she lifted her head before it could. Soft white cream on the skin to soften it up, another disguise. Another mask. Silk over steel would be a nice image but she'll settle for skin over muscle. And she won't rub her eyes. Won't leave any trace to remind her why she's falling apart, and how.
Her fingers turned the silver around her fingers and thought about the promises they kept. One for her faith, one for her future. It wasn't that she needed to remember that, she hadn't forgotten. But something was out of joint, and the armor wasn't holding together as it used to. Nothing held together like it used to.
Her fingers curled, flexed, curled again. Out of all the options in front of her the ones that came to mind first were the most brutal ones, and that wasn't the way. She could hold it back for a short time but not forever. Or she could cut strings, but that wasn't solving anything, only running. There was only so far you could run before they caught up with you again.
Just breathe. Leaning back against the wall meant she could feel her heartbeat pounding through her chest. She told herself she was ready. Just one more minute…
Fandom: N/A
Word Count: 1,000
Rating: PG
Summary: What happens when it gets to whatever you do, don't panic. Written for
insafemode's prompt. Probably cross-posted to pawprintletters eventually. The water was turned as hot as it would go. Both palms to the tile, head bowed, hair down around her face. She could feel it along the back of her spine, another inch. An inch maybe every six months. The steam covered the mirror and kept her from hating herself any more than she already did. It didn't help the heat over her eyes like a thin film.
She wanted to cry but she couldn't. Too rational for that.
From crash to the resurrection, and then burning up again. It was like a sugar high rollercoaster except without the tartness in her mouth or the powder along her gums. She peeled her lip raw, watched it bleed, and kissed the back of her hand. Take that, you lingering goth tendencies.
Hot water washed the blood away as soon as it bubbled to the surface. She only self-mutilated in the shower, because it was clean, and because if she cried no one would notice in all the water. If she bled no one would notice because the water washed her clean as soon as the injury split the skin. Tears erupted. She leaned forward and let it all spill out. Just let it flow and it would all be over soon.
Except it wasn't, was it? It never was. One thing followed another and when she stepped out and the world twisted sideways and she skidded on the lino only to catch herself on the wall before she cracked her head. What had happened? She was more coordinated than that. Her body, she decided, and her emotions were out of joint. Her mind was hanging on by a thread.
Towel. Toothbrush. Pills. Quickly dress, before the steam vanishes and you have to confront yourself again, older, tired. Too young to be too old.
This was the part of the story where she was supposed to lie down in defeat. Wasn't it? Something had happened.
Palms on the ground, feet flat. Stretch and bend, you're not there yet, you've barely begun. She reminded herself that she had miles to go but it didn't help. She didn't cry either. Not in the shower, can't cry. Rise slow, roll up. Remember your training. You've done this before and it took time then, you can do it again. Every vertebrae back in line, one stacked on top of the other the way they should be. Roll your mind up and down the same way. What happened? What changed? Is there anything different? Is there anything the same?
At a fraction of the angle she was before something pops free. Is it terror? Is it panic? One hand behind her head in the still-wet and sticky mess. It's actually just the hair elastic. Heh.
She told herself she was rising like a champion but it was really just make-believe.
Her body didn't falter down the stairs at least, and that was something. Falling over in the bathroom was just barely tolerable even if they did find you naked and blubbery. Falling down the stairs was a sign of incompetence.
One hundred strokes, and a hundred chant to go with it. Putting herself back together meant at least fooling herself into believing that she was beautiful, powerful. Everything she said she was. Everything she seemed to have convinced others of, that really wasn't true, or at least not as true as it could be. As her outburst had so shamefully proven.
Never mind, just breathe. One hundred strokes, one hundred repetitions. A meditation to start the day, or to balance herself in the middle of it, or to wrap it up.
Pull the pieces back together, tie them up in a pretty little bow. One braid down her back, long and getting longer every year but still not enough. Stretch black over skin because the legs need their freedom to run, the same idea behind thick black moon-boots. Running and kicking ass. She'll never make a good corporate soldier. Lace at her throat, at her wrists, sleeves dropping smoothly over the backs of her hands that curl into fists. Delicate as she is, tears will give way to temper and she'll punch you before she breaks down crying on your shoulder.
That's not true, though, is it? She just likes to think it is. That she'll defend her heart before she lets someone break it, and that's what all this is about, isn't it. She dropped her head against her curled palms and sighed. It was working. It had been a slow reconstruction and one tug on that strand always unraveled her.
There's a simple solution, if only you'll take it. You know what you need to do.
Weeping threatens to make an appearance again, so she lifted her head before it could. Soft white cream on the skin to soften it up, another disguise. Another mask. Silk over steel would be a nice image but she'll settle for skin over muscle. And she won't rub her eyes. Won't leave any trace to remind her why she's falling apart, and how.
Her fingers turned the silver around her fingers and thought about the promises they kept. One for her faith, one for her future. It wasn't that she needed to remember that, she hadn't forgotten. But something was out of joint, and the armor wasn't holding together as it used to. Nothing held together like it used to.
Her fingers curled, flexed, curled again. Out of all the options in front of her the ones that came to mind first were the most brutal ones, and that wasn't the way. She could hold it back for a short time but not forever. Or she could cut strings, but that wasn't solving anything, only running. There was only so far you could run before they caught up with you again.
Just breathe. Leaning back against the wall meant she could feel her heartbeat pounding through her chest. She told herself she was ready. Just one more minute…