Disclaimer: Not mine.
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Bubbled Fate
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Quiet.
Oppressive, biting quiet threading through the dormitory. No one there to fill the noise – all the screams are outside while those who can, enjoy the last day.
Only one clambers into the silence.
Her hair is matted. Her eyes are bloodshot. And she doesn't care any longer.
Mind replays the aching days when her heart was whole, before the whispers that continue each year. The looks upon her brothers' faces while they tried to not be disgusted.
(Or that's what she thought.)
The light shifts through the windows. The sun alternately hiding and appearing from behind a veil of whipped cream clouds.
Glinting sparkles. Harsh sharpness.
A blade, stolen.
No one has seen it, no one knows she has it. No one knows of her plans. Nor her. She is an enigma to them; a ghost of something good but lost in a stroke of emotional paint. Blessedly, she begins to thank whatever higher being that classes end and the feast is a grand one. The remembrance of a generation will be the pitter-patter of crimson tears.
The shedding of so innocent blood in the name of who believes they are the righteous. Their hearts' delusions as they will inevitably age and face the unbearable facts about the casualties.
A breadth of her once-held sanity whips through her mind. The voice of reason trying one last time to deter her from her chosen path to live amongst the stars.
Her heart thuds.
Eyes close reflexively; tightens against the hardest of venues.
Mouth a taut line of white.
And her hair slips around her body as the wind blinds through the drapes, long red on stout black. The patch on the robes a stark reminder of the indomitable past.
The unconquerable hate.
The noise continues, the professors' voices high over the students. The directions reminiscent of the ones given in the beginning of the year to those learning their way in a fearful world.
Still the children's happiness continues.
They speak of a reality where peace rules, there is not hatred.
She sighs against the thought – they speak of it yet do not put theory into practice, and she wonders why.
The dreams were grand many years before, when she was young and brainwashed to see only the light.
Now the dark consumes her thoughts and actions. The ever truthful depths of morose fact blazing next to the wilted cold of deluded love.
Brazenly, she retrieves the instrument.
It winks at her as dusk begins to set. An iris of orange with a pale yellow pupil winking at her as she tilts it with utter distain. Chants at her in an archaic language she only-just understands.
The redhead ducks away from the flickering fire light; paintings watch her every calculated move while she moves across the room. Her destination trite, clichéd, but lacks any imagination to change it.
She dims the lights and slides to a bathtub. Her fingers play over the faucet; grips the knob and turns until the blast of chilled water jolts to a spectacular heat in nearly burns her fingertips. Light bubbles dance across the surface, as though searching for their promised land to come yet their fate lies open to her knowing mind.
Her fate and theirs' mingling together.
Clothes dispensed with, her skin threatens to peel away at the first touch of the liquid.
The sharpness glides across her skin, stains the bath a horrid, blasé pink.
Again.
Flesh parted in furrows, dripping.
And her heart gradually slows; a touch of a smile.
Then peace.
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*v* Cassie Jamie *v*
angelusaquiluscaelitus@hotmail.com