caught up in fantasy {berry and maria}

He was a dream. A seemingly real and vivid memory, that leaves as quickly as it comes. It's a fleeting feeling of completeness that swallows you down to your toes and leaves a warmth so deeply entwined within the mess of your heart that no matter how far or hard you dig you can't remove it. It's an ache that I can't seem to soothe, it's sad to think that such a pleasant memory only causes me suffering. People should be able to cherish such things, but I've been broken for so long that these plasters of these memories can't even stretch across the cracks to fix me. He's like that bittersweet taste of long forgotten joy that wakes you up in the middle of the night, with tears bridging the edge of your eyes. The sudden gasp of air that catches in your throat as you choke down the sorrow before it takes hold of you completely. I'm forcing them reluctantly away because no one can see how weak I am. How weak these thoughts make me.

I'm a foolish, foolish girl. It was imprudent of me to do as I did, to slip into the darkness and allow myself to be encompassed by that soft glow of his. It was a mistake to have stayed there that night, to have allowed myself to fall into a warped sense of security. The bruises that mar my face are the lingering reminder that I am not allowed to do as I will, that this puppet cannot outrun the strings that chain her down. I flinch away from every person on the street, expecting it to be father or one of his servants. Every time someone brushes my side as they hurry away to complete whatever tedious task that possess them at that moment, I blink, turning away hurriedly, fearing another strike to my face.

A pale finger brushes the swelling on my face, tracing the cracked ridge on my lips. I wince at the touch, dropping my hand to my side quickly. Today my hair falls completely around my face, allowing me to, if only to pretend, that I am normal. I fled the house after receiving permission to leave for the first time in a week. I ran through the streets, as though I could escape. But I know I'll return by nightfall, because if I don't they'll find me. And if I wait I'll be worse off then those minutes, hours and days of pain. Shuddering at the mere thought of what could happen, I step onwards.

I simply wander, knowing there is no escape, but also unwilling to completely succumb to the terror that claws at the edge of my mind. I know when I finally fall into it I'll stay at home and let them do as they want, my will broken. Spirit is all I have left, it seems. I don't think I have much of that. For a moment I cannot hold back the tears that flood my eyes. Hastily I brush a hand over them, forcing whatever it is that wants to break to hold, if only for a little longer.

With a steadying breath I collect myself, dropping my leadened arms, as though they are a weight too heavy for me to carry. I step forwards, my path a winding one. At first, the red that stains the ground doesn't stir anything. It's the sound that causes my eyes to drift upwards, following the maroon smears that have etched themselves into the pavement. It's blood, the realisation doesn't bring a drop of life into me, I cannot summon the will to care. The days edging into darkness and all I can feel is the edge of panic, not knowing if my return home will fit into my fathers wants, not knowing if I'll make it. But my eyes hesitate. The figure at the end of the trail of blood, making those awful sounds sits, perched on a set of stairs.

He's got dark hair. He lacks the appearance of a typical Capitolite, as do I. He looks upwards, and every moment of every dream that I clung to over the past week crashes into my mind. He's here.

I gasp, a sting of pain, quickly turns it into a strangled gulp of air as I slap my lips shut. The iron tang of blood fills my mouth and I gingerly reach a finger up towards my split lip, only to wince at the touch. Drawing it away, I momentarily glance down at the fresh blood on the tips of my fingers, behind them is Berry's blood all over the pavement, running from his nose. "Oh, Mr Berry." The words are so soft I barely hear them myself. Tentatively I step forwards, then, as though, some part of me snaps I hurry to his side, falling to my knees beside him.

"I understand." There is a loneliness haunting the depths of those eyes, those very eyes I'd dreamed of, it was something I'd accepted, and understood from the moment I'd first met him. It was the same pain that tortured my own. Tugging my sleeve downwards I reach forwards. Placing a hand against his cheek, I use the other to gently wipe some of the blood away.

His scars are just like mine.

Is it so weird that I have come to cling to the mere thought of a boy I have met only once before? That’s how ti goes in all the tories, though. I used to read fairy tales when I was younger. I'd sit, perched at the edge of my bed, flipping through the pages. There was always someone in need of a hero, and by the end the person that needed to be saved was always rescued. Thinking back on it, after mother passed I'd glance at the dust covered book sitting on the shelf and wonder when my knight would arrive. Because surely, the amount I suffered meant that I, just like those victims in those stories, was in enough pain to be rescued. But no one ever came. Even as the years have gone by I’ve never stopped waiting, searching, yes, but waiting, no. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let go of that tight knot of need that is embedded within my chest.

It was a simple childish dream to have that kind of hope. Sometimes you need that childish desire to get you through agony. No one was going to break down the door and catch my fathers wrist before he brought it down on me. No one stopped him last week, last month, last year. You’d have thought I’d have given up by now. I've never once stopped hoping that one day I'd have my hero. That small wish is the last thing tying me down to sanity, it’s waiting to snap.

Perhaps he has become a lifeline for me to cling to. A rope thrown over that abyss, something for me to grasp that isn’t frayed and ready to break. He’s a steady image in my head that pulls the darkness away. He’s a childish desire to have that hero. Maybe it was because when I was frantic it was his smile that popped into my head. With it was a surge of warmth and a fond memory, unlike any other I had experienced. He was the first life ring to be thrown out to me, the first person to try and save me instead of watch me drown. It was probably for those reasons that I had gripped too tightly to that one meeting. He’d come along when I’d needed someone.

Perhaps it is because in the nineteen years I have lived the first person to grasp my hand with warmth instead of cold intent was a boy I found on the side of a street. Just the feeling of knowing and the uncertainty of believing, if only for a moment, that here, before me, was someone who could care was enough. Unknowingly I’d made him the hero of this story. Oh how the realisation dawned as I stared down at his broken face. It seeped in and I couldn’t help but lean towards him, as though, from this current distance between us, I could not see him properly. My lips part, as suddenly that realisation turns to surprise and I draw my hand - now covered in blood - away from his face.

"I din' think you'd find me again. 'Specially like this. Pretty girls don' stick around. Not around me. Not when I'm always gettin' hurt.” Huh! He was always getting hurt, but Berry was not the only one. What a sight we would be, the boy with the blood covered face, the girl with more bruises then she could count. Being in his presence, made the marks scarring my face not so alarming. Both times I’d met him he’d somehow managed to hurt himself. Although that wasn’t a good thing it allowed my own self-consciousness at my appearance to lessen. Foolish, right? But, as soon as it fades it comes back just as strong, and I sit back an embarrassed blush covering my cheeks. Pretty? With all these cuts and bruises? With the pale cold skin and haunted eyes? A lady, but not pretty, never pretty.


The slurring speech is enough to make me giggle. Mother would have been so upset if he were in her presence. A warm smile splits my face, it crawls all the way up to my eyes. I cannot remember the last time I felt my entire face light up like this. Even last time we had met my smile had not climbed so high. The ache in my cheeks as it holds is unfamiliar, it’s a different kind of pain, it’s not uncomfortable. Not even the sting in my lips as the cut splits open wider can break the giddiness that flutters in my chest. Shrugging, I wipe more of the blood away, ”you’re not the only when who always gets hurt.”

I look away, it takes a moment for the darkness around me to sink in, and as I realise the time of day the smile dies tom my lips, instantly it is replaced by horror. Leaping to my feet I pull myself away from Berry. Late. It as too late. Oh no, father would be upset. ”Oh no.” I whisper, biting my lip to hold back the tears, I was too far away from home. The quicker I returned the less my punishment would be, if I begged with him, pleaded, got down on my knees and asked for his forgiveness perhaps I could make it better. ”I-I have to go.”

It tore at her heart and for just a moment that panic faded, and she was left staring at him, her lips gently forming a fond smile. His eyes were such a brilliant colour, and they were so very sad, so lonely and miserable and yet as he gazed into her eyes they were bright with a desperate hope that she herself knew so well. It grazed her soul like a blade and she found herself once more sitting beside him, but before she could stop herself she wrapped her arms tightly around Berry's body, fingers clutching his shirt tightly. Mother had been a wonderful person, she had always said to help people in need, regardless of the consequences, so if being punished meant making Berry happy she'd do it. She'd do it with no regret at all.

Her grip tightened as her stomach clenched, for a moment the thought of her father's fists a terrifying notion, but with a gasp, she pushed those horrendous memories away, instead letting the warmth of his body soak into hers. It was comforting, even if he didn't know what he was comforting her for. They were two broken, desperate beings simply wanting to seek out someone who understood what it was. With her head pressed to the side of his neck, she spoke, each word little more then a whisper, "I'll stay here, with you, Berry. Just as long as you promise to stay with me."