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 Posted: Sun Aug 11, 2013 5:30 pm
[ task 1 ] The shrine wasn’t so quiet this time when Rostym approached to find out about her new task. There was a soft hissing, which made her slightly nervous as she moved about. Another challenge perhaps? She’d faced the fog and the valley and the darkness, surely a little hissing would be so bad . . . There were two statues this time, and the plaque on the empty pedestal only brought out more questions out of the naturally curious soul.
Who created what? Projects? Replication?
There were strange, possibly dire implications Rostym didn’t know how to approach. They made her shiver nevertheless.
The goddess seemed busy when she stepped towards her this time, the source of the hissing seeming to be from the many cables and links she was working with. The little shadow stood quiet until she was given a bag and a new task.
Chests and hearts . . . It sounded simple enough, but she felt a little uneasy as she turned to the narrow opening. It was pitch black within, and her pendant gave her little comfort in its light, her core feeling small and frail in comparison.
Thunk. Thunk.
Was that the noise a heart made . . . ? No, her journey could not be so quick.
Thunk. Thunk.
The darkness slowly peeled away to reveal three massive doors, giving her a little deja vu from the beginning. These, however, gave clearly different vibes: one level and content, another unnerving and distorted, and the third . . . The third seemed to be radiating terror itself. She could not look away.
She should look away.
She walked towards it, her own curiosity her downfall. Nervousness rose in her throat as she touched the symbol of the tree, looking for a sign about whether this was correct or not. If it frightened her, why did it draw her so? Could she handle what lied within? What test would she weather for something as important as a heart?
 Doubts. That's all they were. Rostym shivered and forced herself to continue, for if she did not have faith in herself, who would?
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Posted: Mon Aug 12, 2013 12:31 pm
And the silence pressed against her ears again, like it had before. She did not have the memory anymore, but her body did—and déjà vu struck hard as she hit against something solid--
“-na.”
A crate. She fingered its edge to keep from bumping into a corner next, listening to the soft chorus of -na, -na, -na. Was that someone’s name? It sounded vaguely familiar . . .
There was a shape sticking out of the crate, she realized. -Na. Na? It was lumpy and not cut smooth like the box’s form. She touched it and felt it was firm yet pliant. Would it be hard to cut through, she wondered? It was shaped like her arm, which disturbed her on a deeper level than she could name. Rostym gently took the swaying form into her hands, feeling it with trembling fingers to follow where it was attached. The darkness pressed against her, hungry and impatient.
Something else overrode the whispers. Thump-thump.
Her fingers trembled as she found the chest. Inside it, something throbbed a deep red bright enough to illuminate the—the container. The flesh.
She understood with a cold pang how not all chests were made of wood.
Rostym swallowed hard, wishing she could do this blindly. It was one thing to fight monsters and another to . . . to steal a heart. The goddess said they no longer needed it, but . . .
Snip snip snip. The scissors cut through after a few seconds of resistance, and slowly but surely she made her way towards the heart. Just a little hole would do, wouldn’t it? Dead or not, she did not want to mangle needlessly.
The “-na” was starting to sound suspiciously like a “no.”
Larger and larger the cavity became, enough to hold both of her hands. Rostym reached in carefully and felt the heart beating thump-thump in her little grasp, her insignificant and soon to be soiled grasp. There were attachments around it, she realized, thinner but plentiful. The scissors snapped of their own accord.
Something gushed. Something else snapped.
“LINA!”
The shriek nearly made her drop the heart back into its chest with a gasp, but she was held fast by a vicegrip on her hand—
“—nd anyway, why do you call me that?”
She would have said he was walking her home, but that implied friendship or some other bond. He was more of an acquaintance that she kept running into, a repeating event that trailed like a shadow in her wake.
He scoffed. “Because ‘Ursulina’ sounds like a ********’ fifty year old, and I don’t wanna date no saggy tits McGee.”
She bristled. “Who says we’re dating?”
“Who says we’re not?”
“I do.”
He laughed a little, and she felt like a child who had missed the punchline.
All it had been was just one game. A cornerside table with three little cups. Find the ball, win the bucket. And the bucket had been full of quite a few bills . . . Greed had overtaken her. Greed now followed after. She should have known better than to want something for herself; she had wanted money, and thus God saw fit to make her poorer.
“Babe, c’mon.” He was putting up the charm again; she could practically hear his honey-sweet grin even though her eyes were resolutely facing forward, searching for her bus stop—wondering if she should take a detour or lose him on a busier street first. “Babe, I was kiddin’ about the name thing. You look like a sweet kid; lemme walk you home at least, it’s the least I can do after cheatin’ you’ve some money.”
“I’m catching a ride, thank you.”
“I bet mine’s sweeter.”
Her fingers drummed along the spine of her binder; her backpack felt like a boulder on her back. “What do you want from me?” she asked, giving him a sidelong glance behind her bangs. There had to be something, because why else would he be bothering her so much?
“A chance,” he said simply.
“At what?”
“To make you smile, of course.” And he gave her that honeysweet smile again, the one that she knew had charmed other girls at school before. How many times had she heard his name in tandem with others like “greasy”, “douchebag”, and worse besides? Why did they get the talents at charming hapless people? What Godforsaken black art did they practice to make someone who was known to be at best a gray area in morality somehow shine like a white knight? All of it seemed to fade at how very sweet that expression was, the kind that was like a sunset: warm and contained and, while anyone could see, somehow when she looked upon it, it seemed only for her.
“Look, I know you’ve heard people talk s**t about me, but I know they’ve talked s**t ‘bout you too, Lina. Are you gonna tell me all of that’s true, too?”
She stiffened almost immediately, her wary eyes turning colder; and then she started to walk faster.
He clicked his tongue and pursued her, long legs able to cut the distance easily. “Lina, look. I know you’re not a lot of people’s favorite right now. Neither am I. It makes sense.”
No, it didn’t. Why would anyone care about her all of a sudden?
She felt a hand on her shoulder, something so simple so heavy at the same time. Her steps faltered.
“Listen. You and I, we’re better than some God damn high schoolers—we’re smarter than what a few d**k suckers say. But the shittin’s not gonna stop unless you make it stop because they’re just that mindless—and frankly I could use some better publicity.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Think about it, okay?” he asked her, his fingers trailing off. “I’m not who they say I am, and I bet you that whole bucket’ve cash you aren’t either.”
She kept moving forward, steadier now that his grasp wasn’t there. But the idea had already been planted, its roots stretching at a phenomenal rate. She was tired, she realized, very, very tired of being alone on this. M------ was her best friend, but she had found a boy within a week of the rumors in hopes of making them stop. They’d only grown worse. And she was so sick of having to hear about what they did, how happy it made her feel to finally be with someone and how M------ hoped she would find someone too—there was someone there for everyone, no? And it made her so very, very bitter the longer she had to smile for them.
She was tired of being happy for someone else. M------ had copped out because she couldn’t handle the pressure of a few wrong assumptions, and she expected her to escape through someone else anyway. No-one else was lining up to be around her right now. A bond for mutual gain was the best she could scrounge up, huh?
Fine. Just . . . fine.
“Think about it,” he called to her. “I’ll come find you at school tomorrow, a’ight?”
But she had thought, turned it over and examined and scrutinized and shook and felt the sting of tears as she realized that life was not like her stories. There was cruelty and there were misgivings and there was a chance that none of this would even work out. But in a world where no-one wanted to fully support her, where even her best friend had given in to the rumors and said she’d support her if she was, you know, it didn’t matter to her (Why would it? She wasn’t one, but if she had been then why would it—?). She would settle for the one soul who thought it worth his while because she had nowhere else to turn but the slowly growing abyss.
“I wanna see that smile~”
She would come to find out he wanted so much more.
And its hand slid from her with a final raspy sigh. The Heart beat no more.
Rostym trembled as she took it and gently placed it in the bag, her ears almost flattened against her head from how harshly the darkness pressed upon her.
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Posted: Mon Aug 12, 2013 1:21 pm
It was getting harder to walk. Rostym had practically expected the floor to give in like the other areas had, crumbling away and leaving her to fall into an infinite darkness. But this was the mission her goddess had given her, and she could not falter.
Slosh. Slosh.
Her heart tensed with anxiety, but her feet continued to move steadily as the water rose above her feet. Calves. Up to her knee.
“Give it back.”
It was growing colder. She turned her head, but nothing presented itself. Only darkness greeted her, urged her to continue forward.
Slosh. Slosh. It rose higher and higher, soaking her to the core. Her fingers clutched at the bag as if it were a life jacket pressed to her chest, hiding the glow of her pendant. Was she even going the right way?
“Please, give me back my—”
The rest was garbled from underwater. Her lifejacket had failed her.
Cold clammy hands were around her throat, forcing her down so far she couldn’t tell what was up or down now. Air escaped her like it was giving up the ghost, and had Rostym known how to grow as pale as one, she would have—for his eyes were almost as sunken as she was, going down below.
“—now or never.”
Her heart was beating a mile a minute, blood rushing to fill her colds hands and feet and somehow failing to bring life to them. She was frozen in place, his face hovering above hers, dressed in a sharp tux that he looked so handsome in—and so very terrifying in the twilight in. Like a stranger come to town to woo and then widow. It was too sharp, gleamed with a hard light where had once been something soft and romantic.
She stepped back; there was a wall pressed to her like a conniving conspirator.
“I’ll make it worth your while,” he said softly, his visage somehow frightening all the more from how quiet he was. “First me—then you.”
Her mouth was dry as the desert and sealed shut because if she opened it further air would leave her, and her heart ached—
“Well?” He raised a hand and she flinched, expecting a blow. Instead, fingers came to tilt her chin up, her neck offered to him in its gold necklace’d splendor. A soft noise left her, almost a whimper. “I know you’re curious—you always are. And I think you’ve earned a reward for bein' so good to me lately.”
He grinned his charming little grin, but it didn’t reach his eyes—those remained bright and clear as sharp glass. “Isn’t that what couples do?”
Her necklace hung like a noose.
“I gave you that pretty jewelry, and you played so beautifully tonight . . . Let’s cross the boundary just once, huh?”
Never just once. He’d always want more once the inch was given.
His fingers dug into her so painfully and, somehow, Rostym heard his words hissed from that hollow-eyed face.
“Give me back my heart.”
Take it . . . Take it all back, just let me go . . .
Please, Jack.
The one who had pulled her from darkness plunged her back in. They say that when two people broke up, they still carried a piece of the other with them—that a heart didn’t always break in an even two parts, but sometimes in jagged and unfair proportions, and it had left them both in need and in want of something more. And now, it seemed, he wanted all of it back.
“Please, be gentle,” she whispered.
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Posted: Mon Aug 12, 2013 1:45 pm
The darkness encroaching on her this time was more gentle. Maybe it was okay to give in.
Why?
A single and singular question to be sure. She was from Paranoia, it was natural to be inquisitive. Suspicious. Forethinking.
Why should I give up?
His collar of cold fingers continued their assault, but for a moment Rostym forgot the pain; she was struck by the simple, belated thought that she was still on a mission. She had come so far, high and love, hot and cold, flying and falling—why should she give it up to this creature who had already failed?
Why?
There was no reason at all. There was no excuse.
She had to fight, not for herself only but for her goddess. For her chance at becoming something.
The scissors flashed in her hands and arced like a silver meteor, embedding itself into the figure with blind desperation. There was a terrible shriek that pierced her ears—
And then she was alive and coughing up something dark and liquid. Wheezing for a few moments, Rostym regained her bearings and shakily got to her feet. A light was presenting itself at last, and her anxieties began to slowly fade as she stepped towards the door.
She felt a pair of eyes weighing heavily on her. She realized her scissors were gone.
She did not look back. The terror no longer held her enchanted.
Her memories and emotions battled like little monsters in her heart, and she did not know which she wanted to triumph.
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Posted: Tue Aug 13, 2013 10:53 pm
[ task 2 ] “You cannot escape forever.”
What would she want to escape? Was there anywhere else beyond here? Was Forever a place? Rostym pressed her lips together to keep all the questions coming out, for something told her they would not be indulged. This was a Task, and she needed to listen.
Eat or be eaten. Her eyes widened at the dagger offered, and she took it gingerly as it would break if she was careless. She would have to . .. take care of herself? Wasn’t that what she had been doing from the very beginning? Every quest, every Task, every battle done of her own volition? Or were these Tasks, mandated by the divine themselves, the only time she was ever truly free?
What did it mean to sacrifice? Rostym watched as her dagger rusted to an aged dark red that seemed to suit the goddess just fine.
“You are ready.”
Was she?
“Go.”
She had to be.
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Posted: Tue Aug 13, 2013 11:11 pm
It was too cold. She woke slowly much like she had when she had first been brought into existence, only . . . when had she fallen asleep? A small panic rose within her as she wondered if she had somehow, in the myriad of battles and quests, gotten so tired she had fallen asleep on the goddess mid-task explanation. Was this her punishment?
She sat up and was berated by white. The shadow had to squint and covered her eyes while they grew adjusted, though even then the color just seemed off. Sterile and unfriendly. She wanted out.
Luckily there was a door, though her feet forgot what their purpose was for a moment, her movements clumsy and sluggish as she tried to process what had happened, how had she arrived here . . . the dagger was still with her, still a comforting rusted color. Maybe this was the task, but . . . what was she expected to do? Rostym reached the door and carefully opened it, peeking outside.
Another hallway? This one stretched out, but perhaps it would lead her to her destination if she was patient. Everything was such an awfully clean color, it hurt to exist there . . . But she plodded on regardless, eyes ahead.
Thud.
She jumped at the noise and whipped around. Nothing but the open door she had left was there: and that too, surprisingly and puzzling, revealed an empty room where the table had once been. Nothing in this world stayed in place, did it . . . She faced forward once more and began to move forward—
Thud.
This time, her glance over her shoulder revealed a shadowy figure; her heart skipped a beat.
It was him. He had the scissors still.
Thud. Screech. Thud. Screech.
No, no no no not here, not now—! She wasn’t ready.
She didn’t run. She flew.
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medigel rolled 1 4-sided dice:
3
Total: 3 (1-4)
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Posted: Tue Aug 13, 2013 11:12 pm
In her haste, she did not realize when the doors had struck her--or the other way around. How she did not see, she did not know. But her feet scuffed the floor and she fell against the doors with a dull thud and a soft cry.
“Have you grown clumsy as well as stupid, little cub?”
She didn’t know what stung worse: the fact that it could talk, or that it somehow knew her while she was left, once again, in the dark.
“Your hands were decent, and your mouth I could give a passing grade on. But your feet were utterly hopeless. You claim you had music in your heart, but you couldn’t even handle one dance with me without ******** it up.”
[ Distance: 45 ft ]
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medigel rolled 1 4-sided dice:
2
Total: 2 (1-4)
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Posted: Tue Aug 13, 2013 11:16 pm
Her heart was racing, making her lose focus. Breathe. Look around. Calm down. She had to stop fidgeting; just because this thing taunted her didn’t mean she wasn’t in control.
Rostym looked to her left and snatched something that broke up the pattern of pure, awful white: a slip of paper stained with red. Blood?
Calm down.
It had four simple letters: ACEG. What did that mean? It had to be part of a code, didn’t it?
[ Distance: 40 ft ]
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medigel rolled 1 4-sided dice:
4
Total: 4 (1-4)
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Posted: Tue Aug 13, 2013 11:19 pm
There was another paper close to it. Ignoring the way the thing thud screech thud screech, Rostym plucked the second slip and read it swiftly. A=0, B=1, C=2.
Think, Ross. Do simple math.
She eyed the keypad on the door and began to count out on her fingers. And then, shakily, praying with all her heart, she entered 0, 2, 4, 5 as fast as she could. The door hissed and she heard the click; correct.
Thank the goddess.
The shadow did not dare look back, the noise enough to let her know she could not linger further. She slipped past the door as soon as the opening was wide enough for her.
[ Distance: 35 ft ]
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medigel rolled 1 4-sided dice:
2
Total: 2 (1-4)
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Posted: Tue Aug 13, 2013 11:27 pm
Gray. Oh sweet, sweet gray. She breathed a sigh of relief and thought to herself she would never take the color for granted again.
She did not know where she was, but that wasn’t new. The trees’ empty branches beckoned her onward and, nodding to herself, Rostym continued her flight; perhaps they would shield her from the creature, or at least buy her time. On and on she ran, never growing breathless because the adrenaline came to her in a large burst: it was almost the victory lap.
Not yet, she reminded herself. Not yet. She needed to face her fear, but first . . .
There was the bridge.
It was just like the Aether Cliffs, she reminded herself as she stepped forward. Old wood did not frighten her. It would not so long as she remembered one step at a time . . . That was the only way to approach things, the only way to be methodical and not become overwhelmed. To stay in control.
It creaked as she moved across, but Rostym resolutely did not look down lest the distance make her panic. In hindsight, that might have helped her avoid the more ancient planks.
Snap.
A swoop in her stomach made her sick as she fell forward with a cry, hands and face scrabbling against the bridge as she landed. Her foot had been caught.
Thud. Screech.
No no no no—!
Calm down. Calm down.
Rostym winced and turned to inspect the damage. Yanking it proved fruitless, and no matter how she twisted her foot it remained lodged. Her options narrowed quickly as she spotted the black figure draw close, its scrapes all but against her ear at this point. Think.
Sharp realization came to the shadow. She bit her lip as she remembered her dagger.
Rostym thought to do this without looking, but that might have made it worse. A moment’s pain for a few more seconds. Seconds that could mean existence or death. That was what it meant to sacrifice.
The first cut was ragged, and she had to bite back the shout that wanted to leave her. Not enough. More. Pretending her foot was an enemy and the dagger simply one of her Agony’s Twin set, she slide the blade back and forth as fast as she could—and eventually it cut all the way.
Lightning didn’t move faster than she did to get back up. Hobbling was better than lying in wait to be prey; this, she would take as a bargain. Her foot was, strangely, already regrowing, so perhaps it was not so large of a sacrifice after all.
Nevertheless, she sent a prayer to the goddesses.
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medigel rolled 1 6-sided dice:
6
Total: 6 (1-6)
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Posted: Tue Aug 13, 2013 11:39 pm
And then there was a house at the end of the road.
Dead end. That's what she first thought when her eyes scanned for another road. Not end of the line, not final destination: dead end. Because something had to give here; here, she had to make her final stand against the black creature that pursued her so relentlessly.
That suited her just fine.
As Rostym turned around, she noticed something glow; her dagger had lost its rusted look and had begun to regain some of its red sheen back. It was a call to arms if there ever was. Now or never.
She understood.
Thud. Screech. Thud. Screech.
It had no expression, just blank eyes and particular features she did not have an attachment too: the only one she did, of course, were the rusted scissors still in its grasp.
There was no pause. In unison, they both lunged for one another, weapons glinting.
The tears in her eyes were probably easy to discern in the darkness; melancholia always seemed to have its own light, just enough to outline, to etch out the sadness.
“Lina, what . . .”
His hands were tight and warm, holding her wrists together in a rare gesture: begging her.
“What were you thinking?”
She had thought too much. A novel couldn’t have enough pages to fill what she had thought about, not if it ran in a series even. The power of an idea was so underestimated: what it could create, imply, become resilient against. One had slid itself into her mind, just one: and what an awful sin it was. But how many little sins had they committed already? How many venial ones could be cashed in to become a mortal sin? She had already spat at God before, what was one more time? No boundary had been set.
“Lina.” The voice grew harsher. “Talk to me.”
Her throat hurt.
He gave a harsh sigh and left her hands alone, grabbing her face instead so that she was forced to look into his eyes, because she knew that looking away would only make him shake her, and oh her body ached enough as it was. It hadn’t mattered moments before; then, it had just been a vessel, a useless vessel she felt nothing in. With him, it was her prison.
“. . . Oh.” It dawned on his expression, but he was not satisfied by his own intuition. Then again, he was never truly satisfied, just as she wasn’t; that’s what really kept them together. “ Oh. You sorry little whore, I can’t believe . . .”
Had he really figured it out, then? It wasn’t so hard if he put the pieces together and gave her a modicum of respect as far as intelligence ranked.
“You? You’d pull that on me?” A humorless chuckle left him involuntarily; a personal tic. “Heh. I can’t . . . God damn, Lina, you are just one piece’ve ******** up work, y’know that?” He started shaking his head. “Crazy. ********’ crazy, that’s what you are.”
She knew. She’d always known, since the time she saw shadows to the time she started to create character voices for stories in her head, she’d known. She had thought that maybe, because he saw those things no-one else did, that maybe he would be okay with it. That maybe their brands of crazy could intermingle without being volatile or self-destructive.
He let her go, fingers curling into fists as he stood up and sighed again. She had wanted him to get angry, to snort like a bull and strike her and snap her out of this heavy, heavy mood. But as ever, he was calm. He was just so god damn calm that had she been able to speak, she would have taunted him for being too stupid to think she wouldn’t notice his wandering eyes in the first place.
“I was waitin’ for the whole ‘you can’t ever leave me’ shtick. That ain’t comin’ up next is it?” he asked derisively. “’Cause if you’re sittin’ me down for a show, I better have a damn good one. C’mon then, Lina, let’s have it.” He clapped his hands and gave her an expecting look. She did not move or speak; it was hard enough to breathe.
It had been a mistake, but . . . it brought him here, didn’t it? And for just a moment, for a transient window in time, she had been in control and he had been begging. And it felt good as sin, even as a deep and aching sadness overcame her at how far they had both fallen.
“Well?”
She had practiced with daggers; this one was simple to plunge into his chest once more. Just like any other enemy, all it really took was one well-placed strike to win.
Rostym had no emotion stirred as the figured dissipated, only an emptiness like when she had been at The Wall. What was different, however, was that there had been proof of her struggle this time: the dagger gleamed an even brighter red, and as she gazed upon it, the emptiness ebbed away to comfort and satisfaction.
Things were as they should be.
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Posted: Wed Aug 14, 2013 8:21 pm
[ task 3 ] Rostym did not know what she had expected when she had first stepped in to be granted her next Task. Frankly, she didn’t know what to expect of herself anymore, not with the changes she had been undergoing: subtle ones that had been innocent at first but were now starting to really take root.
“Yet, you are still so little.”
She supposed she was. They all were, in a sense, still in their infancy. Still trying to find their way around while their mothers, their goddesses, showed them the way. To where? (to who?) She wanted, needed more.
But a smile was a pleasant surprise to behold, and she could not help but return it, shy as it was. Taking the offered cookie, Rostym nibbled and listened wide-eyed as Longing spoke of emotions, of names that gave her different little twinges: of love and happiness and despair and hate, things she had almost entirely felt already and yet could not be bothered to remember. But the idea of feeling, of knowing the meaning of why they had hearts at all . . . It enticed her as much as that door’s terror had. For what could be more curious than to feel something over just about anything?
“Thank you,” Ross said with a bow once her cookie was finished. “I will make it the best that I can, because I do love you!” Or perhaps she would not; who knew? She would, of course, once she took those steps forward, into the garden of gray.
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Posted: Thu Aug 15, 2013 12:00 am
This place was white too, but . . . not that white. Not sterile and impossibly perfect, but a different sort of white: soft, quiet white. It was hard to explain, and she did not know where such an explanation would have come from (even to herself it made little sense), but . . . Then again, the new additions from those blessings were odd things.
Her feet made crunch crunch noises on the solid fog below, which pleased her in a simple and somewhat confusing way: she did not know why, but it was nice to hear a new sound. To taste it with her ears. And there was something playing in the background too, something too soft for Rostym to catch at first but loud enough to know there was noise there. And for her eyes, a table stretched out, two simple dots of color for her choice.
One radiated happiness and warmth, and almost immediately her hand was drawn towards it. And yet when her eyes fell on the second, she had to pause. There was something sad and forlorn about the jar, some sort of melancholic charm that drew her in. Anything could learn to be happy, she thought, but it takes a certain kind of sadness to evoke something that beautiful. That perfect strain of pain and longing and tension, tempered by the smallest, fading hint of hope. It was complex and thus, intrinsically, more appealing. It was more.
What wasn’t complex was its tag’s instruction: and she drank without thought. And the more she drank, the more she wanted. The more she thought. The more she wondered what was she forgetting? What had slipped her mind, what was nagging her like a crack in the perfect facade, a painting turned crooked and glued to stay so, a simple thing that could ruin the most beautiful piece of art? Her fingers drummed on the table until it swiftly turned and smacked them away: denied even the chance to show her dissatisfaction and thus lead to more. Was she not supposed to feel the spectrum after all?
She wanted the bitter taste out of her mouth and reached for the chocolates without thought, because they were darkest and smoked as if alive, and oh if she consumed something that lived perhaps she would feel better. But its sweetness was saccharine and, while indeed overrode the bitter taste, it left her with most conflict than before in her Heart. It was hitting her so hard: was this too a sacrifice, to feel pain and uncertainty and fear and anger and a host of other things at once? The chocolate felt too heavy in her hand, and she let it drop onto its plate before scrabbling for something to drink, something else to wash out the offending tastes of bitter and sweet, the brief spark of fear to approach the suddenly ominous teacups quickly washed out because she was a predator, she had no need to fear—
—the sound of applause. They weren’t supposed to technically, not between pieces. What did that poster say in the hall? “Only Communists applaud between pieces.” She would have laughed if she hadn’t been on stage already, sweat accumulating on her brow, her fingers, her pits; the antiperspirant was in for the long haul. Hair pulled back in a tumble of curls. Makeup fighting against her own body, dolled up to cover that stress zit on her chin. Dress airy and comfortable, if starting to loosen at the knot (Papi’s hands had begun to tremble a little more than they should have—age or nerves, she didn’t know). Feet also sweaty, able to squeak in her heels if she wiggled too much (They wouldn’t hear it, would they? How hard were they actually listening?).
Two pieces done. Oh God, two out of three out of her way. So long, Valse; Poulenc’s lightheartedness had drawn them in, even elicited a little laugh here and there. Good bye, Nocturne in C-Sharp Minor; the florid trills and simple melodic theme created by Chopin had calmed them down. And now, the pièce de résistance: the reason why she had to stick to two simple (and somewhat dissatisfying for that reason) songs.
As she had before, Stormy turned her head and smiled to the crowd before bowing her head. This was her moment of pride: sixteen years old (soon to be seventeen in three weeks when Christmas rolled in), introduced to the piano the moment she entered kindergarten, called talented and gifted, high hopes for you, never stop playing. It had been shaky at first, but what climb wasn’t? Rounding off the recital was not stardom, but it was a step towards it—a handful of minutes in which people could see her, actually, physically see her. It was nerve-wracking. It was frightening. It was amazing.
And yet, all of that happiness, that bubbly feeling of almost being at the end, or proving herself, was put to a stop when she saw his face.
Jack was simply smiling, of course. Thumbs up. Eyelids half open, catlike, leaning back against the pew with lazy grace that had once charmed her. Go get ‘em, cub.
Her boyfriend had promised he wouldn’t come. He knew what his presence did to her, how rattled she had been after their last fight.
Her fingers shook as she turned back to the piano, ebony and ivory suddenly sharply outlined, stark in color or lack thereof. Stormy panicked for a moment; where did her hands go again? What was her piece? All she could think of was him, of his subtly smug air, the indolence rolling off him in waves no doubt. Of course he would come. Why would she believe he would respect boundaries when he had not done so in the past?
Rachmaninoff. Remember? Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C Sharp Minor. That’s the one.
Her hands curled into position, palms up, just the tips. Deep breath. But she couldn’t breathe, or they would hear her. And it was his fault she faltered, his fault she had lost her moment of concentration, had heard the tiniest of murmurs. Is she okay? Did she forget? Is this the last piece or can we go? She had been fine until he came, and it burned her to know that one smile was enough to make her shake, lose her confidence when she had so carefully taken the time to bring it back up. Hours of work, days of practice—
The first few notes, appropriately, were belted on. Maybe it was too loud for a beginning (Wasn’t it mezzo forte, not forte? Or was it fortissimo?), but she didn’t care. She quivered not with nerves but with anger, because he had promise, he’d promised, and she was such a childish freak that her day could be ruined because one person had smiled.
She hung on those first three octaves like they were tolling bells, warning bells, alarm bells that went off in her head because she should have known he would never leave her be now, because giving in was being weak, and oh she knew what happened when she cracked in front of him. She could picture it now: looming over her like a mountain she couldn’t hope to scale, casting a shadow that swallowed her whole.
He was the left hand: solid low notes followed by subtle ones, following the melody in dark harmony before falling back to solid, solid blows. And she was the right hand: a soft tune made with the whole of her hand, of her being, fingers splayed because Rachmaninoff had such large hands and she did not; her were smaller than most by at least an inch, small enough to be encompassed and taken and led along, because smaller meant innocent, right? Smaller meant there wasn’t a lot of room left for more.
The melody haunted the church, moved from dark to a modicum of hope, almost bright—soured by simple transitions in the left hand. Of course they were. And then they jumped, moving up and down slowly before being dragged back down to join the left hand, digging lower and lower until melody became supporting noise, following the unforgiving yet soft notes of the left hand. Slower . . . slower . . . and softer and softer.
She hated him. Stormy never thought she would have known such a word, not when her Father had taught her that she could not use a word she did not know; it hadn’t been in her vocabulary until now. Hate. Four letters to symbolize something so powerful. Was that possible? Could she hold that much emotion, that much passion for someone?
No. It spilled into her music before it became too much.
The notes rose and fell at a slightly faster tempo, retarding midway because it was a false end (a false promise), and what do you know, she finally knew how to vent it out! The noise became raucous, rising higher and higher, louder and louder, faster, faster, more. And she imagined images to go along with it like she always did, personal music videos because they provoked her so: and she imagined him bent and cowering, struck again and again until his hands were up, shaking, his face almost unrecognizable, misshapen by fear and by her own two hands.
But physical pain wouldn’t have been enough. A body could recover, but she wanted his soul crushed, for his mind was not worth touching and he had no heart.
Her fingers became a blur as she hit the highest notes and led them down a crashing descent, clamor and noise and melody fighting for the forefront of their ears as she put her whole being into the piece. And how nice it would have been to stand over him for once, to catch sight of the top of his head and realize she was the one on top now, she could grab a fistful of his hair and knock him against the wall, shout accusations at him (Who is she? Why does she matter more?), jab her finger in his face and deride him for his poor and soon to be castrated life because he was a reason birth control existed, he was the reason God had cursed his brother with Down’s and the reason his mother couldn’t stand to look anyone in the eye anymore and the reason his dad had wanted out in the first place, and if he so much as tried to speak before she was done she would kick his teeth in and make him swallow them all so he could convert the calcium and grow a real spine.
The cacophony of notes suddenly unified again into the three opening chords. I. Hate. You.
It felt so good to think at last, to not fear being capable of thinking something so dark. Vindicating, really.
And she was no better, not really, but she reveled in that flood of emotion and fed it to the piano, how her hands crashed against the keys and made sweet, dark music that cried out, and maybe it was too dramatic, the silly musings of a teen who only just now realized her (ex)boyfriend was a loathsome creature, but she did not care. For she had found a dark muse to sacrifice her music to, and for the length of the climax, between each clean pedal, every sharp or flat, every precise dissonant chord, she reveled in it. And when it came time to decrescendo at last, oh, it came too soon, a soft smothering of notes, a pillow to the face while she sat on him and let him suffocate, or a very simple slap to his face, or a spiteful rumor to dwarf the original that had plagued him, details only a girlfriend could know (So small! Poor boy), or maybe she would do nothing at all and let it all simmer until she exploded and caused a true scene even he couldn’t brush off.
Or perhaps she would let this one go, too. Hate was sand in her fingers, caught under her nails and every crevice, but the bulk of it left with every passing second, every little bit closer to the end of the piece, and left her without the body of it but still feeling its stinging, bitter reminder with each moment.
There was emotion still in that quiet finish, still a ghostly quality that rang in the church that, after such spectacular noise, felt hollower than before, a tunnel forced to be larger until it was cavernous.
And then it was filled with applause. She didn’t hear her bench scrape against the ground when she pushed it back and stood. They were standing, a fusillade of hands smashing against each other in active approval, a horrible and proud and very human noise. And he was standing with them.
Smiling. Clapping slowly. Every smack of it somehow audible despite the crowd, like a heartbeat that refused to be buried or stop. Proud of you.
Malice was not always active—sometimes its beginning was softer. Sometimes it was an image, a wish, a want, an idea—the intangible first, as all things large and small were once. She wanted his head on a pike. She wanted his head on a platter. She wanted his head rolling while someone sang merrily and kicked it like a soccerball. She wanted his head on his shoulders square and tight so that the level of humiliation and shame and pain she would put him through could be fully comprehended. Malice was not the rush of fury that came first, but the chilly, soothing notion that came after: the certainty that vengeance would, one way or another, be exacted.
More sweet than that was knowing that he would never see it coming: that kindly, little Stormy couldn’t possibly hold negativity in her heart, not when she had been so good at being simplistic and airheaded, at being innocent and untouched, at being submissive and doe-eyed and all other things people believed could stay in this world.
She smiled back (it was the baring of teeth), and then she set her arms at her sides and bowed. Malevolence didn’t begin with a roar, but with a hiss in the ear: What matters more than what makes you happy?
She didn’t know. At the moment, she didn’t quite remember what “happy” was.
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Posted: Thu Aug 15, 2013 12:03 am
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Posted: Thu Aug 15, 2013 12:28 am
Tea Guest Log Colour of Tea Tasted: Deep Dark Red. Description: It starts off exciting, prideful. Like the peak of a moment, before it descends into fear, hate, Power, Pride again. Until it finishes with a bitter anger. Your commentary on its flavour: The memory started off pleasant, of a excitement of a girl. As it progressed though, Vaneda felt her hands clench on the table, digging into the cloth. She tried to balance the hate out with the fury on the piano, of the song that spoke levels of the girl's feelings. Every stroke the girl made, every chord pinged a distant memory of a boy who held her heart. And crushed it with easiness. She pretended to be strong in those memories.... But true strength was this here. She respected it, She envied it. And so, She smiled, looking at the table one last time. She didn't see happiness. But she had seen a battle win in war. One for the girl. None for the other.
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