Quartz Stonewall [D4] [Finished!] Jan 14, 2012 17:39:19 GMT -5
Post by Zoë on Jan 14, 2012 17:39:19 GMT -5
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quartz elle stonewall
district four // eighteen // female
"sometimes i think it's difficult for beautiful girls. people don't see past their looks."
On overcast days where the light is just right: not too dark to cloak your vision in shadow, nor too bright to blind yourself from what is standing right in front of you, you can see your reflection in pools of water. It stares back at you, a perfect outer shell of you created not by man-made mirrors or sheet of glass, but by the complete and utter mystery that is mother nature. The water shows you what others see. It mimics your every move, your every blink, your every breath. But touch your reflection, and it distorts, rippling across the transparent surface. Now the water has consumed your entire being, the distortions and waves and bumpy currents that flaw a reflection that blinked back at you.
The water knew your shell. Now, it knows your layers.
Can you hear it laughing? Underneath the blonde, sea-soaked strands that cling to your skin for warmth - yet their icy touch causes your body to shiver under a slowing pulse that races through your veins as blue as the water below - it cackles. Never trust anything that doesn't reveal its deepest secrets. You should never attempt to cross a river without testing how deep it is. Neither should you jump into the ocean without knowing there aren't rocks right beneath your limbs before they snap and break like twigs. It howls with a ferocious mockery of the scar that trails across your knee where they cut you wide open 'till you grinned. Because the water doesn't just show you the scars that litter your skin underneath your clothes, it shows the ones under your skin, too.
Blue eyes blink back at you: once, they look curious, twice, they look lost, three times and they almost seem happy again. Your eyes are playing tricks on you, my dear. You could have sworn that for a moment, in the rippling currents they glared back at you with a ferocity that shook through your sun-stained skin and settled in your bones cracked and mended by doctors and time that ticks on. How long will you stay there, huddled by the edge of the salty sea? So small you look, so weak. Every inch of you once strived to hide all of this behind a veil of a stranger that you wore for years. Now there is nobody to hide from but the ocean below and all of its secrets that it absorbs - yours too, underneath the surface. So sad, you look, so sullen, so sunken in doubt and grief and purple bruises underneath your eyes that mark where the night kissed you goodnight but kept you awake. I can change that, the water calls, your freezing lips moving in your reflection. (Whether it's the ripples of the wind or your own mind slowly slipping is unclear - but then again, so is everything else these days.) I can make you whole again. Just come on in, we won't keep you long.
So you breathe in once, and take the plunge.[/justify][/blockquote][/justify]
"that's the thing about pain. it demands to be felt."
You awake to the ocean pouring into your lungs.
There is nothing quite as spectacular as the art of drowning. And I say art in the most sincere of forms, because art is an expression of yourself, and drowning is how you do just that. It starts off with periods of time when you're fine, you really are. You've got everyone around you convinced so well that you start to believe it yourself. You can go out, do things, see things that you haven't felt like doing before. This is the first layer: the bright, bubbly girl who has a temper and a mean streak at times, the girl who you tiptoe around because you're not quite sure who she is at times. She's the girl you've created in your futile acts of vanity in the hopes that others will respect you, because you can't respect yourself. You snap when you're moody, you cling to people you care about and then push them away again. By this stage, the layers underneath become more apparent. Like the tide, you come and go as you please. Only it's not as you please, not really. There's a force above your head that pulls you back and forth, nobody really knows why it happens, it just does.
Sinking has become a normality. At first, it was peaceful. Watching the light that bounces off the surface shimmer against the flexible glass panes, the translucent entrance between paradise and the real world, it was all magnificently tranquil. Air bubbles float around your head as your mouth breaks out into a smile - the first real smile you've felt grace the space between your ears in a long while - feeling the calm waters encompass you, surround you, keeping you safe. Perfectly still, if only for the slow, steady motion of your body ready to hit the sandy bottoms only a few safe metres from the world above.
But then hands start to wrap their seaweed-fingers around your limbs, dragging you down. Not to a steady, solid ground - but into a dark, swirling chasm that makes your lungs ache and legs burn as you realise that the sea is not forcing her further and further away from the panes - now solid, sealed and unbreakable, making it impossible to go back to where you departed no matter how many times your fists slam against it’s prison - but that the anchor in your chest is pulling you down, down, down into a whirlpool of skin, bones and starving lungs.
"what's depression like?" he whispered in the darkness of the night.
"it's like you're drowning. except you can see everyone around you breathing."
[/color]You've heard it all too often before. Her Daddy built a boat and named her after his little girl, and that little girl spent day after day row, row, rowing her little boat gently down the stream and was convinced she was a mermaid. All those years she spent exploring the ocean, holding her breath, making friends with the fish the rest of the District hauled out of their home and watched them die for survival. The little girl would sit on the rocks and wave goodbye, a sombre weight at the bottom of her heart that told her she'd seen this happen before.
You know a story of a little girl who was born into a world not of freedom and peace, but of terror and dictatorship - although she had years to learn that. Come on now, the water calls, recite it with me.
She made friends with the ocean and the other little boys and girls that lived around the seaside, pattering up and down the sandy shores with her hand in her Daddy's whilst her Mother watched gravely from their home, her heart breaking in two with the sinking realisation that her little girl did not belong to her. Not really, anyway. And the anchor that she clung onto her for so many years ended up dragging her daughter down with her, too.
She spent the rest of her teenage years locked up at the bottom of the ocean, treading water in her desperate attempts to scream for help - but all that the ocean let leave her mouth was oxygen. Doesn't this sound familiar to your ears? That's because it's your story. It started with a little girl and ends when she realised that the ocean she thought was her friend, her only solace, was in fact her enemy that clung to her tightly, refusing to let her leave. It could not live without her, and she couldn't live without it either. It needed her to thrive, to form, to breathe.
But what the ocean does not realise is that little girls need to breathe, too.
misfits // the fault in our stars // unknown
re-write // finished O9.O6.2O13