Psychodynamic :: [Beretta + Someith // Day 5]
Nov 11, 2015 12:42:05 GMT -5
Post by L△LIA on Nov 11, 2015 12:42:05 GMT -5
Pluck. "He loves me." Pluck. "He loves me not."
Your father gave you everything you ever wanted and it was never enough. Kittens, glittering dresses, buttercream cake on Tuesdays, for no occasion in particular. It was simply because you had asked for it and all he had to do was motion for one of his minions to hustle into action. "Get Beretta anything she wants," he would command and you took this as a challenge. How many pets with snapped necks could you leave in your sister's bed before Daddy refused to give you new ones? Would the fifth closet of new clothes be the last? The sixth, seventh, eighth? How long would it take for him to become disgusted by the scent of a month's worth of unfinished desserts spoiling in the kitchen? You never found the limit.
Nothing was too much for you, except the effort of smiling. Presents were endless, but affection was for your parents' other daughter. For most of your life you were fine with that, not thinking twice about the way your mother never touched you or how your father — a mafia boss, a professional horror story — looked nervous when you frowned. Everyone sought to appease you, but not because they cared. It was all because they knew you didn't.
Pluck. "He loves me." Pluck. "He loves me not."
You never wanted anyone's love until you realized it was the one thing you could never have.
Rampaging through the house, you smashed expensive vases, clawed apart paintings with your wicked fingernails, set beds on fire, threw chairs out windows, took an axe to the neck of each of your little sister's beloved stuffed animals. There wasn't anything you couldn't destroy. Even your mother's diamonds weren't strong enough to defy you — flushed down the toilet like a great big sparkling shit, clogging up the pipes until water overflowed. It wasn't the destruction that was satisfying, but rather the confirmation of their loyalty. No matter what you did to your family, you were still a Corléon. You can wreak endless havoc in their lives, run away without looking back, and still they will never be able to deny you. This, you supposed, was close enough to love.
Daddy dearest looked for you when you abandoned him for a mansion on the other side of the city, assembling a gang of your own. You didn't want to be found and so no one dared breathe a word. Everyone knows the only thing scarier than Don Corléon is his daughter. It wasn't until the Reaping rolled around that your family saw you again — Ama's stare fixed on you from the grouping of seventeens and your parents looking down from the crowd of spectators. You blew your sister a kiss that was as sharp around its edges as your nails or her teeth. It was sincere because it cut, a small wound on her heart because you've only ever cared about causing pain and so this is how you show true affection.
Pluck. "He loves me." Pluck. "He loves me not."
You weren't thinking about your family when you volunteered. You had more important things on your mind.
It's strange the way the ocean can make a sentimental fool out of anyone, even you. You have never seen water like this before, endless in a way that you've always reserved for describing yourself, and the waves lull you. The light glimmering off the surface seems to hold memories and you see Ama, see your mother, see your father. None of them tried to hug you when you left or told you how much they cared while wishing you luck to return. Caring is not the Corléon way.
Old thoughts of love wash up with the tide and you find yourself wondering what that untouchable word even means. Are the blood ties of loyalty that send a father searching for his runaway daughter despite his unspoken uneasiness around her... is that close enough to having his heart or should you have physically torn it from his chest? Pluck. "He loves me." You're not sure. Maybe opening your parents' chests in that way would have finally opened yours in return. Maybe, but probably not.
Love has never been meant for you — not to give, not to receive. You are too cruel, feathers fluttering away on the breeze as you absently pluck them from the wings of the bird you've trapped in your hands. "He loves me not." One wing has already been stripped bare, flapping naked and pathetic as it struggles against you. Little pinpricks of blood speckle its flesh, but you can't be bothered to pay attention, staring out to sea as feathers take their final flight without the hollow bones or tiny, fragile soul they're meant to carry. The creature ekes out a feeble cry, begging you to stop tearing it apart. It weeps.
Pluck. "He loves me." Pluck. "He loves me not."
The walls of hope come tumbling down. Agreeing with its last breath — no one could ever love you — the heart of the bird bursts in its chest, unable to hold onto its will to live in your presence. It's a mystery how anyone could want anything other than death when meeting your eyes and even the unflinching boy approaching you would agree, although, like you, he always wants death.
There is no heart in existence that will beat for either of you.
Pluck.
But one look at you and even his awful heart must threaten to stop.
[beretta's Word dies]
[food + fa that hopefully I'll have a chance to write a post about later]
[delivery word]
ibn3rFkb1-4
[dowsing rod]
1-3
1-16
1-4�1-3�1-16[food + fa that hopefully I'll have a chance to write a post about later]
[delivery word]
ibn3rFkb1-4
[dowsing rod]
1-3
1-16
