Disclaimers: Dawn does not belong to me.
Distribution: Sweet-hereafter.dot.nu or email me (webmistress@blackroses.com.kg)
Pairing: None. Just Dawn.
SCARLET
//
She used to scream, when she thought no one would hear her.
She liked to wrap herself in luxuries, because she knew they couldn't afford them. She adorned her body with leathers and silks and lace, loving every bit of the irony. The fabrics would slide against her tender flesh, painting elaborate designs, and she would tremble with its stupidity and its delight.
Later she decided blood was better suited for her.
It wouldn't hurt, not for her. She was something ancient and she felt nothing anymore. But it was always beautiful, the way it wrapped itself around her, rushing, lapping around her body in waves. The way the room was red when she was finished with it, and only the curtains escaped into whiteness. She hated herself after it all, naturally. She grew angry because it would never end. Because she was something ridiculously old and wise and at the same time becoming another teenaged-statistic. But the knife kept its promises, and always presented itself as something beautiful and seductive.
She kept to interesting places, where they remained invisible, as if to humour herself. She would let the knife govern her, as though it were really an animate thing, and it would color faint sketches against her, almost in protest, until she pressed it deeper. She would hiss then, perhaps not in pain, but in satisfaction at the exhibition of her ageless blood flowering, marking rivers down her legs or her abdomen. And it was never enough to satisfy her. Not until it could smear across her corpse (as she liked to think of it) and encase her like mud. Not until it was let dry and cracked when she moved because it was so thick and inelastic.
Everything marred her once-flawless shape, but it doesn't matter anymore. Blood changed all that. The exquisite purpling blemishes that trailed over her stomach like soft butterfly kisses. The thin white slivers that faded into the shadows between thighs. It was all beautiful for her. Pain was her art. Her blade the medium and her own body the beaten canvas. Every delicate stroke invoked a new splash of bold color and progressed yet another step towards the final completion. She was her own maker.
And destruction.
//end.
This short little fic has been a LONG time in the making, but it was so hard to express all the emotions I wanted the reader to go through. I was running out of ideas so I just left it and came back whenever I had a new little burst of words.
I'd really really wanted to do something like this for a long time. I'd been through this. I'd felt it. And I wanted to share it, horrible as it was.
It was also something magnificent.
Please let me know what you think. Feedback is well-loved.
Distribution: Sweet-hereafter.dot.nu or email me (webmistress@blackroses.com.kg)
Pairing: None. Just Dawn.
SCARLET
//
She used to scream, when she thought no one would hear her.
She liked to wrap herself in luxuries, because she knew they couldn't afford them. She adorned her body with leathers and silks and lace, loving every bit of the irony. The fabrics would slide against her tender flesh, painting elaborate designs, and she would tremble with its stupidity and its delight.
Later she decided blood was better suited for her.
It wouldn't hurt, not for her. She was something ancient and she felt nothing anymore. But it was always beautiful, the way it wrapped itself around her, rushing, lapping around her body in waves. The way the room was red when she was finished with it, and only the curtains escaped into whiteness. She hated herself after it all, naturally. She grew angry because it would never end. Because she was something ridiculously old and wise and at the same time becoming another teenaged-statistic. But the knife kept its promises, and always presented itself as something beautiful and seductive.
She kept to interesting places, where they remained invisible, as if to humour herself. She would let the knife govern her, as though it were really an animate thing, and it would color faint sketches against her, almost in protest, until she pressed it deeper. She would hiss then, perhaps not in pain, but in satisfaction at the exhibition of her ageless blood flowering, marking rivers down her legs or her abdomen. And it was never enough to satisfy her. Not until it could smear across her corpse (as she liked to think of it) and encase her like mud. Not until it was let dry and cracked when she moved because it was so thick and inelastic.
Everything marred her once-flawless shape, but it doesn't matter anymore. Blood changed all that. The exquisite purpling blemishes that trailed over her stomach like soft butterfly kisses. The thin white slivers that faded into the shadows between thighs. It was all beautiful for her. Pain was her art. Her blade the medium and her own body the beaten canvas. Every delicate stroke invoked a new splash of bold color and progressed yet another step towards the final completion. She was her own maker.
And destruction.
//end.
This short little fic has been a LONG time in the making, but it was so hard to express all the emotions I wanted the reader to go through. I was running out of ideas so I just left it and came back whenever I had a new little burst of words.
I'd really really wanted to do something like this for a long time. I'd been through this. I'd felt it. And I wanted to share it, horrible as it was.
It was also something magnificent.
Please let me know what you think. Feedback is well-loved.
