eveline moriton // d8 // done

needle in the hay,
lost but in my place
peaceful in my way,
hope I never have to sew again
tumble

There once was a girl who saw. She would see things, like the light in people eyes. She could see the lies within their pupils, and the dimming flicker of despair. She could see the glow deep in the depths when a they felt love. She could read a true emotion, everyones, but her own. She would stare into the mirror, into her own eyes, trying to look into them to tell what she felt, purely, without the clouded cover of thought and self deception. But instead, they hid from her what she felt. Nothing but black dots, surrounded by icy blue rings. White spheres, so familiar, but at the same time, foreign and strange. She sees the other things in people too. The way their hands move when they talk, when they speak about something they love. Or the absence of such when the opposite is true. The ways the corners of mouths twitch, and the fullness of eyelashes, or the colour of lips. The ways chins are shaped, and the way hair falls and waves, and the length of fingers. Everything so beautiful, so beautiful, it scared her.

There once was a girl who feared. She feared everything. She feared the dust on her bedroom wardrobe and the moths that circled the lanterns in the night. She feared the night itself, the darkness, and everything that crept within it. She feared those who walked in the daytime too. She feared the people she saw. She saw them all, nameless people with featureless faces, all with the same blank slate, each different, but forgotten in the next moment. She feared the blanked face men, who her mother brought home, each of them eyeing her with greed at the sight of her cowering in the corner, the only thing stopping them, was her mother, who smelled heavy with liquor, with the neck of her shirt hanging off her shoulder, and her blonde hair cast astray. She feared the back of her mother's hand, long and bony, as it was raised, threatened to swing, as she sat, whimpering. Her fear would drive her from her home, and she would wander the district, shivering from the night-time chill, and the fear of the darkness. She would sit, shaking, in a corner of a building, hidden, sobbing into her tender hands. She feared the needles she would work with every day. She fear the bossman who would scold her each day for her poor work, and she would work, with quivering hands, her eyes stinging with tears, and she would prick her fingers, over and over, until beads of blood would appear at the tips. She feared the blood, the blood meant pain. Blood was something that meant pain, and she feared all pain, but oh, how she loved it.

There once was a girl who loved. She loved the simple life she had. She knew nothing else. That was her life. Fatherless and messy. She spoke to no one. Nobody was willing to tell her that her life was not what was normal. She wanted, when she grew old, to have a daughter, and love the bottle more than her child. She wanted to love a different man every night, and leave the house dingy, and look in the mirror, and not care what she saw, because it was nobody else's business. She loved the way her mother swayed with the music, her fingernail polish chipped, as she clutching a drink, smiling at her until the night fell, when she had drank herself past the point of motherly instincts, and every smile for her daughter had long faded away like the collection of finished liquor on the kitchen counter. She loved her mother, and she wanted her mother to love her. She feared her mother, but the love ran further than the scars. She wanted her mother, an older look alike to her daughter, to love her. With their blonde flowing hair, plump lips, slim figures and ice blue eyes, they could pass as sisters, with her mother's youth wondrously intact, nothing changed except for the look in her eyes, which were always sad. There was no day in her fifteen years of life could she remember happiness in her mothers eyes, and soon, she began to feel the same way. Her bones ached and her eyelids weighted tons. And soon she took the bottle, with delicate sips, until she didn't mind the burning in her throat.

There once was a girl who was lost. Her name was not her father's, but her mothers. Her father was a mystery, her mother speaking only of him once. He was another faceless man, who had had his way. But there were so many men, and they all looked the same. When the fatherless daughter was born, looking like her mother, there was no way to tell who's child it was. So she was raised on the bare minimums, scrounging for scraps, not starving, but struggling. She attended school, and learned how to see. She had no friends, since she had never been taught how to make them. She only watched them. She was lonely, with no one to talk to, so she kept it inside, unknowingly bottling up an explosive habit that would soon need to be satifisied. She grew wary, her fear keeping her under the sheets of her creaky mattress, along with the heavy sadness that hung around her like a fog. She was young and confused, and her dark haze of life grew into a dragging chore. Her mother needed money to sustain her addiction but was always too sick in the daytime to work, so she sent her own daughter to tackle a job in a local factory, with the terrifying needles and the disapproving bossman, and his crooked eyebrows.

There once was a girl who hated. She hated herself. She hated the people who looked at her with their sympathetic eyes, and turned away when she turned her nose in their direction. She hated her life and the things she saw. But they were so beautiful. So much hate, surrounded and confused by bubbling love. Her entire skeleton rattled with confusion, as her heart hurt with the two separate and dominant feelings. She wanted an escape from the life she hated. But at the same time, her life was an escape, but from what, she could not find her own eyes in the mirror. She wished for death, to be cold and rotting in the ground, forgotten. She wanted to be like a wave on a shore, so beautiful and powerful, yet identical to the others. She wished she could be washed up, energy spent, and disappear, like a swell on the sand, swept away by the infinite number of indistinguishable tides to come, and the billions before. But this wish for disease never took body, and so she lived on, walking, hating and loving, with no sense of purpose as she watched those who belonged there.

There once was a girl, and her name was Eveline Moriton.


tumble down as I take the ground
make a mighty sound,
know what I am,
know when I found a way


song: "needle" - born ruffians
faceclaim: - nastya siten
oDair