#how to wrap my head around the violence of this week. and so few je/wish ppl i know irl are antizi/onist and ppl just expect me to be | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

felswritingfire · 3 years

Text

April Brain Rot #11

Prompts:

74. Rome

46. "Hold me just a little longer."

15. Tackle Hug

Rook Hunt x Reader

Summery: The Gods are waging war and you wait for your God to come back patiently. But, when the war leaks into the mortal realm, will he be able to get to you in time?

TW: Blood; Violence; Threats; Religious Themes (very loose)

Word Count: 1,594

A note from Fel: This one, I've had done for over a damn week??? Like, I love Rook to death and my girlfriend really likes this one so like * high fives self * ALSO I LOW KEY WANT TO DO A SERIES WITH THIS??? IT'S JUST- I HAD SO MUCH FUN (if y'all want to send in any requests centered around this, you will own my whole H E A R T)

It had been a long time since he had waved to you, walking off into the forest, his bow slung over his shoulder with his quiver of arrows hanging from his hip. You had watched as the shadows devoured your god that night.

The seasons had changed and yet the angry clouds, rumbling with thunder lingered throughout each of them. Now, a thin frost had covered the fields, leaving you to shiver and pull your shawl closer to you. You stood at the start of the forest, the looming trees acting as a wall. You grip your basket tight in your arms, shifting the dried meat and the few fruits and cheeses you managed to save, the loaf of bread still warm. Your friends had tried to tell you not to go- told you that the gods would not be back for a long time. The war in their world was too important. You knew that. You knew that the first time a shower of red poured down on you and the fields you were tending to. You had watched as your neighbors fields faded, still hesitant to pray to lord Epel for good harvests. And, yet, you couldn’t just give up- not on your god, not on the one who so gently took your hand that night and saved you from the bandits who had burned your village to the ground; who burned your family to a crisp.

“You have no need to fear,” he had said to you, picking you up in his arms and cradling your head close to his heart. “I will protect you no matter what, for you looked up to me and asked for me to save you, Mon Clair de Lune.”

He had taken you to this village, where the gods held a special spot for the people- giving you the home closest to the forest. He had asked you if you knew how to draw a bow and you told him you did. You think that’s when the two of you truly connected.

The laughs and shrieks of joy as he would chase you around the fields and trees just to wrap his arms around your waist were memories you held dear to you everytime he went back into the forest to answer Lord Vil’s calls (no one could deny Venus his wishes).

“I will be back, Mon Clair de Lune. Je t'aime.” He whispered into your hair, running his hands along the expanse of your back.

It had made you nervous when he was hesitant to let go, like he was afraid he wasn’t going to come back. He pressed a kiss to your forehead and cheeks before turning and waving with a soft smile.

You sigh, another shiver shot through you as the wind picked up. Your eyes squeezing shut and you blow a breath of white air out from your lips. Maybe you’d see if Ace (you refused to call him Lord Ace, you were much too close for that by now) could dial down on the winds- though it might not even be him dictating these winds for once.

You sigh, turning to go back to your home when you hear a strange gurgling noise to your side. You furrow your brow- it almost sounds like a creek, you think as you turn to see where the noise was coming from. There, off in the distance, a black mass pulsated and writhed. You felt yourself go stiff as it jerked to and fro, red dots rolling around the expanse of its flesh until they finally pointed forward to look at you. The basket in your hands dropped as you turned to dash somewhere away from the village, as you hear flesh tearing and a bone rattling shriek leave from somewhere behind you.

You rush past the fruit fields and through the flower beds, praying that Jack could forgive you as you feel the delicate stems crunch beneath your foot. The sound of thundering steppes racing behind you causes a ball to form in your throat, pushing yourself to run faster and faster.

You had hit the creek, the bottoms of your wool pants and boots frigid in the rush of cold water as you slosh through it. You’re almost to the other side when you stop: yellow eyes stare at you through the leaves of the bushes. The shrieking comes to a stop behind you and you look over your shoulder to see the black mass staring past you as you turn back. The eyes had moved, now well above the branches of the tree, you can make out long arms, veins straining underneath skin, and white teeth glinting in the light of the early morning sun.

You nearly begin to rush up stream when a voice says, “I wouldn’t.”

You freeze, looking back at the pair of eyes to see a long snout peeking out from the bushes.

It’s mouth smiles, showing off sharpened fangs, as it steps further into the light. It towers over you, hunching over as it pushes branches out of the way. “You look delicious- all of the humans here do.” It hums to itself as it takes more heavy steps towards you. “Maybe it’s because you all have been blessed by the gods-” it throws its’ head back to release a wheezy laugh- “the ones that left you to fight a war they won’t win.”

“The gods will win.” You’re surprised with how much confidence you say it, but you try not to let it show as you watch it tilt it’s wolf-like head to the side.

“Not if you are all dead. Gods have nothing without their worshippers, you know?”

You shiver from the mix of the cold water and the realization, crinkling your nose at the smell of rotten meat and old blood that wafts from it’s hulking body. You look up at it, glaring. “Do-” you almost gag at the smell and it almost seems to laugh- “do not doubt the strength of the gods. They’ll come back to us and they will save us no matter what.”

“You put so much stock into them, human.” It crouched on its haunches, sliding a hand under your trembling chin. “So cute and delicate.” You can hear the other behind you shuffle, grunts and wheezes following its movements. The other in front of you laughs again as it watches your gaze begin to shift. “Do not take your eyes off of me.” Your eyes stare at it, swirling with a dread that it finds positively delectable. “I will take your head without you realizing it.”

Your vision began to grow glassy as its maw stretched wide; hot, humid breath, that smelled of rot, hitting your face as a row of giant teeth showed itself to you. You clasp your hands together, praying with all your might, with every ounce of your soul, that Rook would come and save you. That your huntsman would come and shoot down the beasts that wished to devour you.

Just like that night when he had first saved you.

"Si ma lune prie pour que je vienne, je le ferai.”

The creature screamed in pain, the sheer volume shaking your bones and piercing deep into your skull. It shoved you away, your body falling under the frigid stream of the water. You hear a muffled scream from above as you break the surface of the water. You gasp as you suck in air, dragging yourself to the side of the bank where Rook rushes to meet you.

You're leaning on your elbows as you catch your breath when Rook’s body barrels into yours, knocking you back with a loud ‘oof!’ coming from you. His face nestles into your neck and you swear you feel him tremble. “R- Rook?” You wrap your arms around him, running them along his back to see for any wounds. “Are-” you breathe out a cold breath- “are you ok?”

He’s muttering in that tongue he adores so much (French- you remember him calling it), squeezing you tighter.

“Rook?”

“Hold me just a little while longer.”

You freeze, your eyes blurring with tears at his tone: devoid of everything carefree and casual. He sounded like he was in pain. You wrap your arms tighter around him, burying your face into his neck.

“I am so sorry, Mon Clair de Lune. I should have come sooner.” He pulled away, his hands cupping your face as he pressed his forehead against yours, his green eyes glassy. “Were you afraid?”

You blink, trying to keep the tears from spilling over your bottom lashes. “I was.” You close your eyes. “But, I knew you would come for me. I knew the gods wouldn’t abandon us.”

He laughs, soft and tired. “You are too important for me to let you die so easily.”

“And I will not die so easily as long as you will it.” The quiet that settles between you two is gentle and you can’t bring yourself to want to leave his embrace despite the cold of your wet clothes seeping into your skin and making your bones ache. You open your eyes to look into his. “Is… Is this truly going to be a war?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I’ll stay by your side. No matter what.”

“And I shall protect you no matter what, Mon Clair de Lune.”

He presses his lips against yours and you let yourself melt into it, holding onto the last semblance of peace that may allow you rest for a long time.

Thank you for reading!

#Twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland imagines #twst #twst x reader #twst imagines #twst rook #rook hunt #rook x reader #x reader #non bianry reader #gender nuetral reader #not a reblog #April brain rot #tw: religious themes #sfw #tw: threats #tw: blood #tw: violence

132 notes · View notes

chirpycreations · 4 years

Text

How Villians Sleep At Night Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: This story will NOT be my usual happy, bit of violence sorta thing. It will contain some mature themes and language. I don't mean Undertale genocide mature either. I mean abuse, manipulation, depression, low-self-esteem and possibly suicidal thoughts (I'll clarify this list as I work on the story). This isn't something I'd let my 12-year-old sister read so if you're under 14 I probably wouldn't recommend it.

Alrighty, with that out the way, happy reading!

- - - - - - -- -

Cold, windy and cold. The light snow began its descent, its final journey, landing down on his nose and everything around. Drawn like a magnet, he felt his hand jump outwards, catching one of these fallen angels, only for it to dissipate in a matter of seconds.

He paused a few meters from the door, turning back to the tall building which loomed over him. He must look different from when he arrived. His body felt chocked by the bandages around him. Ribcage, vertebrae and skull, left arm laying lazily in a sling. It wasn’t just his recent addition of battle scars and bruises those. His clothes, or more accurately, now his clothes. Donated to him by a friend. They were too small, too tight, too familiar. Sleeves of the tired blue hoodie just surpassing his elbows, trousseaus mimicking shorts, and pink fluffy slipper which, judging by their size must have once belonged to his friends older brother.

The wind wrapped around him as if in a hug to congratulate, or was it to comfort? Both would be appropriate given the events that had passed.

Regardless of its intent, he pulled the scarf up to his nose, covering up the sensitive bone beneath. It was still raw from only having been recently reintroduced to the world that lies around it. A world much colder than the one he had known 4 weeks prior, and for more reasons than just the winter chill, gesturing its commiserations.

He found himself drawn out from these thoughts by the moaning of the snow behind. Crunch, crush, crumble. The snow settled under the weight of the oppressive foot.

He didn’t need to face its domineering owner to know who was approaching. The sigh of heavy boots and ragged breaths. He’d come to know them well.

“I am guessing you did not come to congratulate me on getting out of the Hospital?” His voice was coarse, rusted form lack of use over these last 4 weeks. Those in his defence, he had spent the last 3 weeks asleep and the option to practice such activities had not been appealing this last week, despite his visitors who had shown no such hesitation.

“That’d be correct.” The voice replied, his usual grim tone clouding over.

He could picture the cowboy standing there in the snow. His thick brown jacket, heavy boots and purple scarf, no doubt pulled up high like his own. Yellow beady eyes, peering through the falling snow. The only thing which could penetrate it was the scar running through his left socket. Two lines were torn deep into the bone like a knife through a cloth, jagged edges jumping out at those who dared ask the question; How?

He held onto these images just a little longer. He didn’t want to face him: Judge, jury and executioner. Didn’t want to break the illusion, see the bullet, the disappointment, hate and pity which followed in his final moment. Not now, not from him. Not a reminder of how far he’d fallen. How much he had failed everyone. Them. Himself. Not now, not yet.

The judge let another ragged breath escaped into the wind, then spoke again, his voice still harsh, “We need to talk.”

He almost laughed: Predictable.

He’d imagined this meeting over the last week, dreaded it.

Each time he imagined this outcome, each time only worse. The path so far smiled in his favour, but was it actually kindness? Or the sympathy of fate while deciding which hand to deal him next?

“I expected you would say that. Maybe somewhere a little warmer? I know a suitable spot.”

- - - -

The change of scenery was nice. He had seen too much white: White walls, white snow, white dust. It all blended together after a while. Instead, the calm beat of rain sang out drowning these thoughts; drip, drop, plop. The soft squelch of moss beneath his shoes and cool blue glow of flora. A welcomed change.

He sat on the lone bench, once home to an abandoned quiche to which he believed was adopted by Frisk some months earlier during their last run. A last bid to make their wrongs right? He couldn’t help the bitter smile that came with the thought. They had been the same all along, hadn’t they?

“Alright, let's get this shit over with. I’ve got better things to be doing than dealing with the fucking mess ya’ve made me, bless yar heart.”

The judge; to whom he’d come to know as Apollo, Wayne or his more commonly called name: Justice, over the last 5 months was the same as always. Grumpy, ill-tempered and foul-mouthed. Not knowing better, you’d think it was any other ordinary day. Paperwork, lack of sleep or maybe Squirrel might have contributed to the slight dip in mood, but otherwise, you wouldn’t think different. He knew different. He knew it was his fault.

Justice had taken to standing in front of him. He’d pulled out a dictaphone, notepad and pen. Bad cop, good cop? No, there was only one of him. He didn’t see Sarge or Chara, so obviously he’d been decided as an ‘easy’ case to deal with. Even so, it didn’t feel much like an interrogation. For anyone else, Justice would tower over them like a mighty dictator, interjecting fear and obedience. Then like a master surgeon he would dissect them for his answers. For him, however, the same was hard to say. Even while slouching, his lanky body continued to meekly rise above the judge, even if by only a few centimetres.

The situation felt a little... uncomfortable, but not more than that.

The dictaphone clanks as Justice sat it down on the bench. A bone finger reached out and pressed ‘Record’.

That's it then. No more hiding, no more delays. The inedible was always going to happen. He could only stall for so long.

“Interview #597883. Interviewing S-"

“Hoshi”

His interruption was met with silence, annoyance and confusion. For this story, he is ‘Hoshi’.

Was.

“...Interviewing ‘Hoshi’.” Justice finished his annoyance still very present. Strike one, maybe?

“For future review, this interview will be documented. All information discussed will be kept confidential and on a need ta know bases with only those holding clearance.” The note pad was empty. Did he really know all this off the top of his head? How long had he been doing this?

“You will answer all questions given to you, with nothin’ but the truth and will not withhold any information regardless of its contents. Should ya be found to be lying or withholding anything, then all evidence for your case will be rendered void. Do you understand?”

Tap,

Tap.

Hoshi rushed into an answered upon noticing the impatient pen's rhythm upon the paper. “Yes...s-sir.”

“Justice'll do.”

The silence was his reply, a slight nod of the head.

“Look, I ain’t gonna sugar coat this for ya. You’re in some deep shit here and really fucked up. I don’t think I have ‘ta tell ya how serious the charges you’re looking at are.” He paused, taking a breath, or was it a sigh?

“Endangering the life of a Creator & leaking sensitive information regarding the Bar & it’s Patrons to an unknown 3rd party is pretty fuckin’ serious, and should’a already contributed to 4 accounts of sansicide on you’re head if it wasn’t for sheer fucking luck.”

“That being said,” He added after a moment,

“You did speak out about it and put your life on the line to take the brunt of the consequences (, even if a little late).” He mumbled the latter half, scowling down on the words as if their existence in that order should sentence them to a fate far worse than his own.

“While try’na throw your life away is fucking dumb and won’t fix what you’ve done...myself, Z-Stars and other agreed ya deserve a chance. As well as the numerous vouches towards your character we received, evidence collected would suggest possible fowl play to some extent. Whether this is true or not, I intend to find out.”

How had he gotten here? Everything was going so well. Everything was going according to plan. It was simple enough. Fool proof. 'Hoshi proof', Shadow had even teased him often enough. If any common fool could do it, he would be fine. He couldn't fail.

But still...

- - - - -

"Que se passera-t-il si cela ne fonctionne pas?"

("What shall happen if this does not work?") He asked. He'd felt the fear call at him through the fog of his mind. It's worrying pleas, he could barely make them out, but it seemed logical to respond to them. By responding to them, they would leave. He'd be alone again with the fog. The nothingness. It had grown on him, the emptiness inside.

"Je suppose que ça dépend de la façon beaucoup don't vous voulez rentrer à la maison, n'est-ce pas?"

("I guess it depends on how much you want to get home, doesn't it?") His Shadow replied, in broken french.

Unlike him, his Shadow wasn't native to his tongue. Despite this, however, Shadow had insisted they use his tongue to communicate. His language was less common than English. It meant they had more privacy, 3.29 times more to be precise, and as a bonus, their target also didn't speak it.

"Tu t'inquiètes trop. Je serai là si tu gâches. Maintenant préparez-vous, ça ne devrait pas être trop long maintenant."

("You worry too much. I'll be there if you mess up. Now get ready, it shouldn't be too long now.") Where was he now then? Why wasn't he by his side? Whispering flattery... advice... encouragement...like he'd always done. Telling him how stupid and pathetic he was, how he couldn't do anything, wouldn't be anything.

Apart of him wished he could tell him he was right... again.

"D-d'accord. Merci mon amie."

("O-ok. Thank you my friend.")

- - - - -

A hand waved in front of him, ending its journey with a flick on his nose. He blinked hard twice looking up and meeting the angry gaze. Ah right, he was still here.

“You’ve got one chance ‘Hoshi’. The truth or I can make a start on locking yar ass up for eternity so I can get some brain bleach and drink the rest of this fucking nightmare away.”

"..."

“Choice’s yar’s really, but ya should know a lot’a folks stepped forward to vouch for ya. It’d be a shame to reject their forgiveness ‘cause it ain’t often you make friends like ‘em who’re willing ta stick by your side no matter what.”

It took a moment for Hoshi to find the right words. He’d know his decision since he’d first awakened.

“Where would you like me to start?”

A weight placed its self upon his shoulder: a hand. It stayed for a moment, lifting and coming back down with a pat. The judge had a smile projected onto his face, it couldn’t have been his own. In all the time he’d know him, he’d never truly smiled (unless sarcastic of course). Maybe he was seeing things? After all his left eye was still tucked away under bandages, deemed too damaged to face the elements.

“That’s the spirit, boy.” No, the smile was real.

He let his eye drift upwards, meeting Justice's almost unnatural gaze. Too kind and gentle, too out of character. If anything, the uncanny expression on his face made him feel even more uncomfortable than the whole integration.

The weight removed it’s self completely,

“The begging. Include all the details ya can remember. We need ta know who we’re fuckin’ deal with cause whoever these folks are, they’ve already made it pretty fuckin’ obvious they mean business.”

“I-I...I am sorry.”

“I know.”

They remained in silence for a minute, nothing more could be said: The damage has been done. All they could do now was pick up the pieces and hope there was enough glue left to save the situation from shattering further.

“Let’s make a start kid, somehow I doubt this’ll be quick.” He flipped his pen around. It stood at attention, ready to follow his every command.

“O-ok.”

This is it, then: the true story.

It was so long ago, so many things had happened since then. Could he even remember how it started? How it happen? But then again, the better question was how much would he let himself remember? He’d tried so hard to bury it, pretend the illusion was real, fight back the pain, the tears, late at night when white lies clawed at him. Slowly digging themselves up from the shallow graves he’d hastily buried them in.

He preferred the illusion. It had a happy ending.

Was going to, at least...

Was heading that way before the events of one month ago.

The incident.

His ultimate failure.

His betrayal...

He smiled meekly, he...he was a terrible person. He knew that much was certin. No.

A mess, not a person. A mess of lies, illusions and shredded memories. That was a different story, however. Maybe he would get to tell that story one day too. But till then... this is the story of Hoshi, Sans.

His story.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Cover & Chapter 1 art

[TOSD] How Villians Sleep At Night by me

Justice Sans by Vangold

#justice #sans #undertale #undertaleau #hoshi #story #litrature #storywritting #waterfall #past #incident #6monthdeal #creatorandcreation #talesofstardust

3 notes · View notes

atlaswriting · 5 years

Text

“We aren’t waiting for Jason?” I ask and I can’t tell if the hitch in my voice is because of relief or remorse.

Nodding slowly, I have to force my grip to loosen on my suitcase when the driver tries to pry it from my hands, “I can sit in the front!” I offer, enthusiasm spilling out of my mouth and like some sick magic trick pulling my shame with it. “I know you must have missed Abram, you’ll want to catch up.”

Gigi is quick to grab my hand and stop me from reaching for the handle, “I wish I could,” she says sadly, “riding in the back of cars really messes with my menopause. I hope you don’t mind, though, Elise?”

I part my lips to question how the two were related, but Gigi wasn’t the type of woman you questioned. Instead, I harden my shoulders to keep my visible disappointment at a minimum. My knees shake a little too much as I slide across the seat, pressing my body as close to the door as possible. When Abram sits beside me, I tighten my legs together.

“What’s wrong?” Abram cocks his head to the side, using his right hand to pull the car door closed, “I don’t bite.” There’s a hint of menace that twitches at the corner of his lips. And I swallow hard, the memory of what that mouth can do haunts the hallow of my skull.

The entire drive to the airport my shoulders are rigid, fingernails dig into the palm of my hand and the sharpness is a welcomed, controlled sting.

“I hear you and my grandson are getting on well,” Gigi slows her gait to match mine as we head toward the chartered plane. I watch absently as our luggage is loaded into the under carriage and wait for Abram to disappear before I compel myself to walk faster.

“He told you?” My heels skid on the pavement and my hand tightens around my phone with such vitriol I’m afraid it will shatter in my hands, “It was one time—no, sorry, merde, it was twice but—,”

She laughs and nudges me up the stairs, “I was talking about Jason, dear girl.” Before I walk into the cabin, she reaches for my elbow, “Do I have to mention that pesky tangled web or should I trust that you understand?” Her voice is low, threatening in the most terrifying sense, but the smile on her face conflicts the acidity in her words.

I swallow hard, searching for the right thing to say—something that wouldn’t place me on the Missing Persons list, “I understand,” I tell her, “it’s less like a web and more like a noose.” I admit.

Her eyes flicker over my face and her mouth splits into a maternal smile, pulling me flush against her chest, “I assure you that noose only gets tighter the further you jump.”

♡ ♡ ♡

We arrive in Paris and are greeted with a calming snow fall. Flurries that would be romantic had the anvil of regret not dropped heavily into my belly. I pull my jacket tighter around my thinning frame, realizing then how little I had to keep myself warm.

Our home in Paris is beautiful. Dark red bricks encased in vines. It had once been an apartment complex, but Cerise decided it was too lowly of her to have to share her home—she decided, against my father’s wishes, to buy the entire building, informing all the tenants ( personally ) that they had until the week’s end to move out.

I wonder how often she thought about that and felt proud, felt powerful.

“Elise, there you are,” Cerise rises from the couch, back pin straight and lips puckered tightly together. She wraps her arms around me, mechanically and pulls me—with a thud—against her chest. Her mouth just barely presses to both of my cheeks, “chérie, je peux à peine tenir mes bras autour de toi,” she whispers.

The smile on my face becomes too strained. Malachi comes from behind my mother and pulls me into a hug I wouldn’t describe as tender. Abram is next—all I can do is watch as his fingers dig into his sons’ shoulder, a warning to not step out of line.

I feel the shout rise in my chest, but bite it back when I feel my mother’s hand tug me away.

“Unfortunately,” she begins, “We have an unnecessary visitor—,” her words darken and it’s hard not to notice the rage that boils behind her eyes, “don’t go getting excited, Elise—she isn’t going to stay long.”

There’s a familiar weight in the tapping that grows closer and I can feel my heart leap into my throat. “Anais!” I shout, hardly giving her time to enter the foyer before I throw my arms around her. She hugs back, winding so tightly around me I can almost feel the broken pieces of me shift into place. “You’re back from Italy!” I rest my head under her chin and inhale the comforting scent of lavender and sandal wood, “tu m'as manqué,” I say quietly.

“And I, you, little one,” She pulls away to cup my cheeks and presses a kiss to my forehead.

Anais makes her way around the room, blatantly skipping Cerise and Malachi, she brings Gigi into a hug, “I’ve heard awful things about you,” she awards the matriarch with a kiss on her cheek, “and I love them all.”

Anais’ gaze eventually falls onto Abram and she pulls him in, “Is this the young Rose boy I’ve heard so much about?” She runs her thumb over his cheek, grazing the yellowing bruise under his eye, “Much more handsome than you’ve described, sœur,” She doesn’t need to look back to notice my mother’s scowl, “You look nothing like your father,” leaning close Anais drops her voice, “quel chanceux êtes-vous.”

“Actually,” Cerise starts, voice cutting through the moment, sharp as any knife, “that’s Malachi’s bastard, Abram. Elise’s beau is off with his mother.”

“Ah!” Anais says nodding, pulling away from Abram who seems uncomfortable under the heavy gaze of my aunt, “A bastard! Even better… Les meilleurs d'entre nous sont.”

The silence that follows is palpable, broken up only by Gigi’s laughing.

I’m careful not to meet my mother’s watchful eye, afraid of what I’ll find if I do.

♡ ♡ ♡

“You wrote to her?” Cerise finally corners me into a guest room hours later, after the twins arrive and dinner was finished, after liquid courage had been pumped into her veins. Her fingers’ encircling my wrist is painful and I wonder where all this rage has come from.

I’ll be the first to admit that I inherited her black anger, a decaying sore that spreads throughout our body—but I’ve never seen her like this. “Elise Beatrice, how selfish of a girl are you?” she demands, teeth exposed, tiny sharp things that threaten to bite through me.

An unamused scoff leaves my barely parted lips, “I’m selfish? For wanting to spend Christmas with my aunt, mother, I fail to see your logic.”

Her fingers recoil, turning her back to me, Cerise runs her hands through the tangle of dark brown hair before reaching down to her wine glasses and swallowing what was left. “Anais has no business here—in this home—and you had no business inviting her.”

“She’s my aunt! She’s your sister—,”

Cerise throws the wine glass against the wall, “Family isn’t always blood, what don’t you understand? She is no more my family than your father is yours.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying. I try to steel my spine, harden my heart at the mention of that word, but the little girl in me beats her fists against my chest and a few rogue tears fall down my cheek.

At the sight of this, my mother rolls her eyes, “Crying? I raised you better than that. Je ne t'ai pas élevé pour être faible,” she says coolly. Slipping her sweater off, I notice the light bruises that litter her bicep. My eyes follow the violent trail down across her elbow and land on her wrist.

“I don’t think you’re mad at me for inviting Anais here,” I tell her, finding my voice. Bitterness poisons my words as I bite them out through clenched teeth, “You’re afraid your sister will see you as the mess you are. You’re terrified she’ll see that once again, you’ve found love in a man whose fists beat louder than his heart.” Her brown eyes stare back at me, horror mixed with something more—something malicious I had never seen before, “You’re afraid that this will be it—that Anais will finally be better than you at everything.”

Cerise delivers a resounding smack to the right side of my face—so loud that my ear is ringing long after she pulls her sweater back on and disappears into the hall, swallowed by the dark.

I don’t know what makes me cry more—the violence or Abram standing in the door seconds later.

“Abram, just go,” but he doesn’t. I try and stoke the fire in my chest but all my fight has become embers—a ghost of the flames it used to be. Instead, I stand in the middle of the room, shoulders hunched staring at the boy who despite all the warnings, keeps running toward my storm.

In this story, Abram can’t help but become Icarus.

In this story, it’s only a matter of time before I burn his wings.

“Why don’t you ever listen to me?” I fight through his silence, holding my arms up to keep him at a distance—but as usual, he disregards my walls, knocks into me—a one man wrecking ball. “Leave me alone,” I beg with a little less feeling.

He catches me before my faulty knees give into the shiver, before I crumble into a mess on the floor. He falls with me; arms wrapped tight even as I struggle ( half-heartedly ) to push him away.

I find my anger in my throat and I yell for him to go away—to leave me alone. I yell that I hate him and when there isn’t anything left in my lungs, I lean in to him. Let the comet that has become of my heart hurdle into my ribs so cruelly I can hardly breathe.

#thread: ablise #thread: all

0 notes