![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Sep. 23rd, 2006 11:03 pmShelley feels distinctly odd.
The shower had felt cold, even though she turned up the heat until her skin reddened under the spray, and she could barely breathe for steam. She dressed herself - no Loira to fuss - and left her hair wet, feeling the cooling trickle of water down the back of her neck. She doesn't try to leave.
There are drawers here and there, tucked away. She opens the ones that he doesn't keep locked. Papers, combs, pencils. Drawer-like things. Apart from the knives he keeps in them all. Sometimes just a little one, sometimes fullsized-
(A gleam of metal as his left hand draws a knife from his black robes)
She steps back uncertainly, leaving the drawer gaping open, holding the blade loosely by the handle.
(Every piece of music must have its ending, Lady Shelley)
Slowly she sits down on the edge of the windowseat. They like to have things around if they want-
(-bring this on yourself--
-quite hers to trade to me.)
The girl blinks, swaying slightly until she rests her head sideways against the wall. The flat of the blade is icy cold on her palm. Idly she watches the point move as she traces her lifeline. Should probably be shorter, really, doesn't make much sense, having one so long. Waste.
She bites her lip as the sharp blade scratches through a few layers of skin, and her hand stills. Tiny dark droplets of blood well up along the white-scored line. Is that how it looks? Normally she's crying by now.
Her head feels stuffed, reactions and thoughts blotted to soft blank whiteness. Woolly. Like cotton wool, it's soft and covers you up. If you have lots. It sounds nice, about now, a warm blanket and Mum to tuck her in. But grownups don't get looked after, they don't need it.
She does. So, what...?
Dreamily she runs the blade up over her arm. It feels warm now, and with a small frown of concentration, she presses harder, not too hard.
(I hate you, I hate you I hate you I hate I hate hate, oh God...)
And that hurts. But she doesn't move, even when the first drop begins to roll down the side of her arm. Such a very little, after all.
The shower had felt cold, even though she turned up the heat until her skin reddened under the spray, and she could barely breathe for steam. She dressed herself - no Loira to fuss - and left her hair wet, feeling the cooling trickle of water down the back of her neck. She doesn't try to leave.
There are drawers here and there, tucked away. She opens the ones that he doesn't keep locked. Papers, combs, pencils. Drawer-like things. Apart from the knives he keeps in them all. Sometimes just a little one, sometimes fullsized-
(A gleam of metal as his left hand draws a knife from his black robes)
She steps back uncertainly, leaving the drawer gaping open, holding the blade loosely by the handle.
(Every piece of music must have its ending, Lady Shelley)
Slowly she sits down on the edge of the windowseat. They like to have things around if they want-
(-bring this on yourself--
-quite hers to trade to me.)
The girl blinks, swaying slightly until she rests her head sideways against the wall. The flat of the blade is icy cold on her palm. Idly she watches the point move as she traces her lifeline. Should probably be shorter, really, doesn't make much sense, having one so long. Waste.
She bites her lip as the sharp blade scratches through a few layers of skin, and her hand stills. Tiny dark droplets of blood well up along the white-scored line. Is that how it looks? Normally she's crying by now.
Her head feels stuffed, reactions and thoughts blotted to soft blank whiteness. Woolly. Like cotton wool, it's soft and covers you up. If you have lots. It sounds nice, about now, a warm blanket and Mum to tuck her in. But grownups don't get looked after, they don't need it.
She does. So, what...?
Dreamily she runs the blade up over her arm. It feels warm now, and with a small frown of concentration, she presses harder, not too hard.
(I hate you, I hate you I hate you I hate I hate hate, oh God...)
And that hurts. But she doesn't move, even when the first drop begins to roll down the side of her arm. Such a very little, after all.
