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 Posted: Thu Aug 14, 2014 10:40 am
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Posted: Sat Sep 20, 2014 9:54 am
A small, plain piece of paper written in very feminine, angled script.
for the room:
→lingerie - favorite color?? (maybe not) silly
→beer, a few types?? (i don't know)
→fresh food - berries apples cheese (so much good cheese don't forget) bottled water, wine (sourced) (small space don't be wasteful) maybe red meat?? silly again
→tea, honey, coffee? cubed sugar? coffee pot (small) kettle (nice). accessories.
→plates, glasses, silverwear, small pans?
→small fridge, small wine fridge
→bath mats, soap, shampoo (splurge, something nice) conditioner, lotion, new toothbrush, toothpaste, towels, bubble bath
→high thread-count sheets x 3
→pillows (many)
→small loveseat, small table, lamps, more pillows
→lingerie - favorite color just do it don't be silly
→runic music? (to relax)
→candles (floral)
find that perfume. what was it. find it. soft pretty safe. soft pretty safe. don't forget it.
new stockings.
hair trim?
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Posted: Sat Oct 04, 2014 3:08 pm
she has never felt comfortable in her own skin. it's a startling realization, and it's terrifying and it's ugly but it's real. in so many words it is what it is but it doesn't stop her from hoping that maybe someday just maybe she'll figure it out. she'll grow into herself. when she's lying in bed alone her mind wanders on fantastical journeys that she loses herself in, and it's there and only there that she's safe. it's there and only there that she lets herself think about what things might have been like if they were different, but the same. she lets herself think about the what-if's and the could-have-been's and the what-would-happen's. she lets herself think about small and fragile things (tenuous relationships, tentative bonds, warm bodies, soft touches, gentleness) that need careful attention and need to be nurtured - and she's afraid she'll destroy it or it will destroy her and leave her even more ragged and broken than she already is.
she wants to be comfortable with herself, but she isn't. the shattered pieces are ragged and worn down and they don't fit together like they once did. some of them no longer fit together at all, and it's awful and she cries more than she's cried in a long, long time. it's like looking into a mirror that has been shattered and pieced back together but some of the shards are missing and there's nothing but gaps and holes that she fills as best she can with the pieces she thinks she should be. stronger. more capable. it doesn't work. it hasn't ever worked. it will never work. her reflection is grotesque and it reminds her of swiss cheese and she hates it. she hates so much about herself but she doesn't know what to do. she doesn't know what she's become. she's just.. tired. she's tired. she's so, so tired.
she's standing at the bridge she's crossed and it's burning, and it's burning, and it's burning and she's left there alone holding the torch. it's what she's always done, and it's what she does best. she's tired of watching after the flame, tired of keeping it burning until she'll need it again, and she's tired of feeling tired.
she's wild and erratic and dangerous and reckless but she doesn't care. those are the pieces of herself that she cherishes. those are the pieces that are left. those are the pieces that were fogged over but wiped clean. those are the pieces that still fit, the pieces that haven't broken beyond recognition. those pieces are hers and hers alone, pieces that she hasn't given away to others. she guards them with her very existence because once they're gone, they're gone.
she's running out of glue. she's running out of tape. she's running out of everything she has within reach to keep herself together. it terrifies her more than anything else does, even death. is this what it means to be human? is this what it means to live? or is this some sort of purgatory where she is doomed to live until she isn't?
she keeps herself together when she's out around the compound. she keeps up a thin veil of a facade, and it's convincing to most. sometimes it's even convincing to her. it's something she feels she has to maintain in order to survive, but who cares? they all think she's crazy - except him - and they all think she's a loose cannon and maybe they're a little right and she hates it, hates that they might be right.
she thinks about the parts of herself that she likes.
• strong.
• small.
• agile.
• fearless.
• resourceful.
• reckless.
•
it's a small list. she hangs it up inside of her medicine cabinet to look at when she's tired of looking at herself. it's got enough room that she can add to it if she wants.
she thinks about the parts of herself that she hates.
• distant.
• afraid.
• weak.
it's a short list, but she loathes it. she tears it up.
sometimes the nights are too long. sometimes they feel like they'll never end. she doesn't sleep well, and hasn't slept much since falling asleep on top of him. she doesn't want to think about how much he terrifies her, but she does, almost as if she's trying to talk herself out of letting things progress too much. she's been let down too many times. she isn't interested in going through it again. best to keep things simple. best to keep things uncomplicated. best to keep things as they are. she has so few friends, it would not do well to alienate those she has.
but it's so nice to have someone, no matter how fleeting and silly and stupid she feels.
the sheets still smell of him. it's soothing. it's comfortable. it's safe, and she can't really be angry that he left without saying goodbye.
for the first time in a long time, she lets herself feel content.
just for a little while.
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Posted: Fri Mar 20, 2015 9:01 pm
The door clicks shut behind her, and she stops, only briefly, before gliding down the hall. Her cheeks are pink - not a blushy, appealling pink. No, something deeper. Something uglier, a perfect match to the glint in her eyes that speaks of betrayal and rage and something so close to the knife-edge of hate that it's rough on her tongue and clenching in her chest - like a sharpened, burred fist that's broken past her lips, torn across her tongue and shredded her throat only to prod annoyingly at her lungs.
Just enough -- just enough -- that she can feel it with every inhalation.
And it stings. Oh, it burns.
It isn't until she's reached her own door that she tastes blood on her tongue. Her teeth are sharp, and despite Nona's protests they've ripped her lower lip open. It doesn't matter. It will heal. They always heal.
They always heal.
She hates herself a little more. She is hypocritical, and she does not loathe that part of herself.
But she's shown him things.
Little secrets, small slivers of herself murmured against sweat-beaded flesh.
Little stories, small chapters of her life whispered against his chest as she lathers the soap in her small, agile hands.
Little photographs, not real pictures but events, things that have changed her - and not everything, because what if he hears something he doesn't find appealing and he leaves?
What if she can't make him stay?
She opens the door. It closes behind her, the click of the latch an immaculate end.
And it doesn't matter, she tells herself, it doesn't matter because I can find another, a better one, one who will always do as I say. And it may not make me laugh, and it may not make me smile or cook me dinner, but it will not live with another woman.
Another woman. An inferior woman - or maybe one not as broken, as shattered, as pieced together. A woman more whole. More complete. More suitable.
But why does it matter when it shouldn't?!
She slips off her shoes. Digs her toes into the rug beneath her feet. Those small hands form fists. She presses them to her lips, because it's all broken and she doesn't really know how to fix it, and maybe she was only fooling herself - but they had an agreement, the more reasonable part of her whispers, and did you really think --
Nona flashes to life, and for a moment she is still and silent and quiet - the muscles of her jaw, they clench. The energy that creates her shimmers almost visibly.
She looks around the room. The small, safe place she's created for herself. Maybe it was stupid. Silly, foolish -- but he is hers, and not the way a soulmate might be - or a lover, even - but he is hers in ways she doesn't want to think about because it's silly and she's not really that interested in --
-- another woman in his bed, their clothes hanging together in the closet, the dresser, their scents mingling on the sheets and yet here she is, alone but with her <******** frogs --
-- relationships because there is so much power in sex, and she craves the monster in him, she needs it, she wants it more than anything just like she did with --
-- the weapon, dear Nona, is gone on that thought.
She is torn between the veil of tears and the harsh satisfaction of destruction.
For now, she decides on the latter.
She starts with the kitchen. The plates, destroyed. The glasses shatter against the wall. Each bowl gives way to the floor, splinters of glass at her feet. Her bare feet, but she does not care. It is satisfying. Nona will fix whatever she does to her body. Nona will always fix, always forgive.
The pillows.
The couch where they --
The bed where they --
The shower where they --
When did she lose the need for safety?
Where did it fall by the wayside?
How could he do this to her?
How could she let him?
It isn't rational, not at all. He's done nothing wrong, and deep down she knows it. She knows it, but right now, everything edged in jealousy -- he's done everything wrong.
Everything.
Except he hasn't, but she'll make him pay, regardless.
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