Trudge

Dec. 26th, 2005 01:31 am
arsenicwaltz: (Default)
She is walking across a desert, parched skin cracking in a dry furnace wind, her bandaged feet leaving bloody footprints behind her as she trudges ever onward through the infernal gale towards some unseen point on the horizon. Her clothing flutters from her in torn, colorless rags, leaving bare skin at the mercy of wind-driven sand. Eyelids lowered, she squints into the storm, hands wrapped and bound, and clutched protectively to her chest around an empty golden chalice. The metal weighs her down and burns her flesh, and in the golden curve of the vessel one can see flames dancing. Stretched in front of her ad infinitum is a sentry line of silver chalices, each similar and yet different from the one she holds, each containing cool water in a tiny pocket of storm-free calm. But the girl's gaze does not wander from the horizon, her blistered hands cannot stand to unclench from her burdensome treasure, and she stumbles on, unseeing. Finally, she sinks exhausted and weeping into the sand, her broken hands automatically releasing the golden chalice, which rolls quickly down the dune she has just climbed. Empty now her hands, nay, her whole body yearns towards the cup which glints merrily, far from her grasp. As the sand piles at her back, sticking in her clothes and hair, she throws out her hand in one last desperate grab, and comes back without the golden chalice, but not empty. A silver chalice, light as air and encrusted with sapphires, now lies beside her, spilling an endless stream of cool, clear water through her hands and into the pocket of calm that has reached out to envelop her.

Inside the Palace the girl turns away from the image on the page, her face troubled. The bindings on her hands shed bloodied sand onto the hearth as she stands to lean against the ornately carved fireplace. She drops her head into one hand, trying to make sense of the image and failing.

Backstory

Dec. 20th, 2005 07:30 pm
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Once upon a time, there was a little girl with wide brown eyes and lank brown hair, and an imagination full of hopes and dreams. As the little girl grew up, she was taught that nobody would value her corporeal self, and that she should focus on improving her mind. Craving attention, the little girl did so, spending hours and hours with her imagination and her eyes buried in books, completely neglecting her body. The little girl grew into a big girl, with dark eyes and a body made all of soft, unfinished curves, and the big girl was sad because she found that while her mind was by far her best feature, it was rarely noticed much less appreciated because of her outward appearance. So the big girl continued to live her life solely in her head, punishing her body when her inner turmoil was too great to bear.

Slowly, the big girl grew into a young woman, her curves hardening and diminishing under the onslaught of her unhappiness, until one day she caught the eye of a young man. Now this young man was very much unlike the girl, in that he lived most of his life in his body, and did not understand how vulnerable the girl was to him. His attentions startled and confused her, awakening parts of her she'd never learned to deal with, and when he left her, he left her wounded in more ways than one. While the girl had lived in her head for most of her life, she now craved the touch of bodies in ways she had no mechanism for coping with, and so, living in her mind and punishing her body, she learned to hide them, to squash them, to keep her shamefully uncontrolled desires secret from the world around her.

Unfortunately, she learned this trick a little too well.

Living in near-seclusion for nearly four years almost broke her entirely. Her weekends were spent trying to forget her isolation, and the loneliness that no number of casual touches could erase. Once, she found someone who awakened her imagination, her intellect, and her dreams as well as her body, only to find that he was only interested in the last part of the bargain. They parted on very poor terms. The girl went from relationship to relationship, never finding the full complement of what she needed, until one day...


The girl's pen stops here, as she struggles to find the words to ease the ache in her heart. There are none, nor does she expect that there ever will be. Regretfully, she puts down the pen, and pushes back from the desk she sits at, the brass casters of her chair sliding silently across the floor. She goes to the window of her study, pressing chilled fingers to even colder glass as she stares out into the night.

The glass fogs slightly with her breath. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I couldn't keep hiding it."
arsenicwaltz: (Default)
The frame in front of her is of a bright red wood, polished to a dull natural gleam. Inside it hangs a small scrap of plaid fabric wrapped into a cylinder by a tiny black leather strap. The girl leans agains the wall opposite, her eyes fixed on the interior of the frame, but obviously seeing further and far more than the simple symbol it contains. The black taffeta rustles softly as she sighs, closing her eyes. The Gallery is filled with a great sense of vacancy as she vanishes.

Elsewhere in the Palace, life and unlife continue as normal. The Shadows go about their business, the City bustles nonspecifically outside the walls. But inside the Parlor there is a stale, heavy gloom. On the hearthstone are scattered a pen, ink and the blank pages of a book, though it is obvious that there are many more missing. Beside the coals of a now-dying fire rests a single page, one corner eaten and blackened where it barely escaped the kiss of the fire. The page itself is filled with line after line of a black scrawl, the same phrases repeated over, and over again.

He is not interested. It would not work. Give it up.
He is not interested. It would not work. Give it up.
He is not interested. It would not work. Give it up...

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