Naerys Cristos // D2

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INFORMATION

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BIOGRAPHY

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You move as if you are trying to run from yourself - shivers rippling below ivory skin. When you reach out slender hands, it's almost as though you are trapped in a nightmare and quite aware that you're dreaming; you're tied up and know there is nothing to but wait, and yet still your heartbeat quickens and your pulse thunders and every corner of your mind is echoing with a single word: run. Try as you might, there is no fleeing from the monster in your mind - he and you have become intertwined in the years since he called your unsteady sanity home. (Here, you reside, in a world between the lunatics and the fools.)

Your eyes are dull and worn - too common are the footsteps that trample over them, grasping hold of the little girl who resides there and snatching her away. It is in those fleeting moments that you no longer rest there in the grey-blue expanses - instead the demon crawls from your heart and takes the reins. (And he will destroy what he touches, for that is his curse. It is a shame that the only thing within his reach is your life.) A crown of blonde hair frames your face, so pale it's almost white. Often enough, you can be found with flowers and petals laced through the icing-sugar strands, but no amount of witchery will ever be enough to ward away your enemies.

. . .


You're quiet - (you have to be, to make up for terrible, hollow screams that the demons sing when they hold your throat) - indecisive, and far from brave. The only reason you put up with the stranger in your mind is that you are afraid of what being alone will sound like. A silent, empty head without the constant demands of another is enough to stop you from insisting that the monster leaves. And so you live in fear of him, and you live in fear of your own weakness. (Part of you aches to be free, but that angel on your shoulder was never enough to conquer the darkness elsewhere.) Ever since you were a tiny child, you never spoke up, never let the sweet and harmless thoughts in your mind spill further than your lips. This, of course, is another reason why you cannot help but love the terrible inhabitant you host - he makes you reckless and wild and free.

As the youngest of three, you never had it in your heart to argue. What others wanted, you gave - over and over again you listened and wondered and obliged, fetching whatever your siblings wished for and following the strict rules of your mother without question. Never curious, always a witness. (And then one day everything changed, of course, and the devil came knocking.) You were bored - that's the story you tell yourself. Weak, useless, lonely, perhaps. Even so, when he asked to stay a while you knew deep down he meant forever. Stable, and reliable and consistent he waits, occasionally deciding it's his turn to pull the strings on your life.

You mend and you fix and bind back together the seams of your life each time, secretly just a little glad for the distraction. (That's not the only thing you need to heal, for each time Mirri does her best to banish the devil from your soul with her blood, you are the one with the needles and bandages once you are yourself again.) Mama cannot know, and so you hide it. That's what you want to be when you stop being the baby of the family and become an adult on your own. (You wont ever be alone, not really, but you ignore that.) With wide eyes you watch as others have dreams and aspirations, but through the curtain of ashen blonde hair you can see that the road ahead continues on. Keep on mending, returning the fabric of what should be back to the place it belongs. (A healer, that'll do. If Mama approves.)

. . .


Mama says you shouldn't approve of the cousins, for they dabble with the devil. (If only she knew.) Even so, you cannot quite bring yourself to be anything more than mildly interested in the apparently forbidden things they practise - impurities are fascinating and yet fearful, and so you skirt around the fringes of your cousins lives, learning without intruding. It is almost as though you cannot bring yourself to feel passion about anything at all, because in the last few years you have watched your mother dissolve into obsession before your eyes, and nothing has ever seemed quite so unsteady. At the very least, you are consistant - (bar the things you cannot control) - and never allow yourself to be anything less than disciplined in your approach to everything.

(She taught you that before she toppled from the edge of what is good and fair.) You worry you'll follow her into the abyss. When you fear, it almost consumes you, gnawing at your bones and itching in your blood. Only the darkness can reassure you, reminding you that no matter what changes, no matter how many people spin away and die and change and grow and flee from your life, he will stay. This is why, despite your protests to your desperate and loving sister, you cling to him. ("No, Mirri, I want him gone as much as you do. I'm sorry. I'm trying." And, later, "I'm ever so sorry, I am, please, forgive me.") You are a little girl who talks to the demons in her empty heart, and this is all you ever want to be.

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COMPLETE

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