She was born by a mortal woman. Her father was mortal too and her dreams are just a bit strange than all the people's ones.
She's a little unsociable, she likes loneliness and dark colour. She's a Marilyn Manson's fan.
But her parents were ordinary enough, and her society were the same like most teenagers have got. She loves everyone she should to love.
She's alright, although sometimes her sight is somewhere in the Unreal Spaces.
She decided to see the famous movie, called "The Lord of Rings" just 'coz she's fond of all the fantasy. And 'coz of great advertising, may be. She read the book 1,5 years ago. It was OK.
(It's untrue, it has never happened!)
She has a big argument with her teacher, who was the mother of Tolkien-fan. The teacher told her that the Middle-Earth have been real. She hated her for that words.
The mirror is revolved to a wall. Crush the smooth surface up!
The strange excitement approached to a panic has captured her, when the treasured ticket was put into a pocket of her leather jacket.
She has been confusing the time and than minutes has moved with the speed of 386th processor. If you install Windows NT into it.
She was the first in the cinema hall.
It became full soon. The Ridiculer, Sweethearts and the Real Tolkienist set down near to her. She's not determined.
Her dark-greened eyes were charmed by the screen. A fascinating show. It is pleasant. It was Simply pleasant...
Until...
-The Nine Rings have been given to...
(It's wrong! There weren't men only! They weren't old! It was two girls and three young men!)
She has shaken the idea. Like the small stone was shaken out from her little shoe... It was alien and...
(naturally? deja-vu?)
The details of the book were recollected with a scratch. While it was about the celebrating in the Shire or about Gandalf.
-It's Frodo! - suddenly explained her neighbour.
-He looks like Frodo as much as I'm looking like a dragon! - grumbled Real Tolkienist.
(No... Not Frodo!)
Elijah Wood. The actor. Just the actor.
She was trying to calm herself down. She was shoot by the enormous hatred. Her fingers have moved as if she cut something. Frodo's throat.
(Stop it!)
Perfectly. Here's the Ring. And the storm in her skull. Great. "The movie's working on me", she thought.
The heroine of a soap opera is getting well from amnesia. The foolish association. She smiled.
She was praying then. To stop it! It has obeyed. She has afforded herself to be involved in a picture.
Nine Riders have gone away from the gloomy fortress, Minas-Morgul.
(The icy breathe... My own and behind me. The billions of smells and sensations. The delightful running of the unusual horses... And fear that we bring. The unreal fear of everyone, who's on our way... We're the Ninth. We're the Evil. We've got everlasting power, can't you all hear us?! We shall execute our Master's Order and noone, even the Magic, can stop us!..)
She put her hand on the lips. Breaking's inside her. It's pulling me.
-Wow, what's a pretty guys, ain't they? - laughed the Ridiculer. - Sexy things, ain't they?
She burned him by her sight. The Ridiculer swallowed the rest of a joke.
(Why?! Did I frighten him?)
...The dog was making a noise. The unpleasant meeting was coming to an old Hobbit.
-Ssshhire? Bagginsss? - hissed the black figure in a hood.
-Hhhurrrry up! - she has reacted involuntarily. She's just a little girl. She's spectator. What language was in her mouth? It seems like the Real Tolkienist would try to use Elfish sword. Or a cross and sacred water at least.
She made a smile for him. It's OK, why are you so scared, Mr. Fan?
It was gathering. She was disconnected for special search. She lost the way out. She's with them, isn't she? Here's the power of cinema.
(The pain's killing me, the pain's killing me, dissasosiative...)
Dark Riders was chasing Frodo, Sam, Marry and Pin. The acid rage was burning in her blood.
"Kill'em! Kill'em! Let's destroy all the Hobbits!"
Let's tear them. Let's get the Ring!
It's so strange. Nobody except her can hear Rider's thoughts, but they're typed by 72th-sized font!
(Damn the Hobbits!)
Hey, babe. You ain't alright! It's the way to madness, isn't it? Presumably. The guy, one of the Sweethearts, is looking at her. He thinks, she's crazy. They're leaving. Does she really have so deformed grimace in her face?
(Full moon. When the moon dims by an egg white all the heaven, werewolves are made active. They are tormented and they cry, but soon they understand, that the Wolf's their original Essence, whomever they were pretending without the moon).
It is her full moon?
Who am I? - enraged dynamite of a question.
The teenager. The girl. One of a millions. The nobody.
(So it is easy to believe in warm palms and parent caress, so it is easy to like videogames and rock music, this is the least resistance...)
She felt her finger squeezed by her little ring. The usual ring. She wears it for thousand years!
(CALM DOWN!!!)
(You poisoned all your children for hiding all your scars...)
Manson, shut up. I don't need you right now.
It isn't Manson, it's He.
-HEY! Look at him! He has a WALKMAN! - cried Tolkienist. - Oh, they couldn't make even the Riders without any mistakes!
(Costumes! It's all costumes with mistakes. How did they dare to hail her?!)
-Shut up, - she has advised to Tolkien-Fan. He obeyed. She was surprised, so was he.
The black creations came into Prancing Pony. They were piercing empty beds by their long swords. But the Hobbits were already hidden by Aragorn.
-You're idiots! Not here! - cried she.
She was trembling. Her teeth were knocking. She's got a headache. And something else's growing in her, something deeply hidden and waking up now.
(Pass the eternity. Open a veil of a mirror).
It's sick. She has moaned.
Tolkien-Fan and the Ridiculer looked to each other, worrying is this girl OK?
The cocoon is sharpened in her. Her blood is hot, but all cools down. Now. It is her Full moon.
This is the Revival.
This is the Call.
(Do not give me names, do not give me names, I do not want to know, who I am ...)
-They called Nazguls, - said Aragorn on a screen. - Nine Phantoms. Nine Ringwraiths. They are not dead and they are not alive.
(Death is a wooden doll. What's farther?)
She has stoped, like she was on ice. Her fingers are getting dark. The black varnish on her nails looked stylishly no longer. It looks naturally. Also her black jeans. And sweater. And jacket. And...
The lava bursted her brain. Deja-vu is melting inside her. It's hunting. It's revealing.
The results of a test are positive.
The Nazguls have surrounded Frodo. Here's the celebration of a Darkness!
"I was there!"
And from the bottom of her heart or soul, breaking off heavy circuits of centuries and technocratic civilization, the shout has escaped.
It wasn't shout. It was horrifying, unlike the anything on Earth sound, which was tearing away all the ears and nerves...
The violent scream of the Nazgul.
She could not stop, even if she wanted.
She did not want.
Here's my destiny. I take proud on who I am . Or WHAT I am .
The crowd of the spectators led by the Ridiculer has rushed to an exit. They were trying to save their lives, they were on the hands of eternal Horror.
-Stop it, you, girl! - security guard indignantly hailed her.
-Oh, excuse me, - answered she. It's getting away from her. Just for being back.
She went to a latest number of sets. The spectators have calmed down.
She thoughtfully watched the rest of a film.
So, she has revived. No, she did not become invisible, who's installing the fear. She's still the human.
She was born by a mortal woman. And she was a Nazgul.
The not-human being.
(Hallo, I am the scandal-girl, the girl-air).
If hundred pathologists autopsied her right now, they would never see any differences from other teenagers. She still need food for living, she still hate Chemistry. As always. She can get a flu, or a quarrel with her best friend. Loves mum and daddy. And her boyfriend.
There's the lipstick on her mouth and the flesh under a skin. Not the shadowed flesh.
She's so usual.
Her classmates won't be scared by her next morning. She's still independent quiet girl.
As always.
But the black colour will be added on her appearance. And her favourite cat will hiss on her. And she will hate blazing sunrays even more than she used to.
Insignificant changes. Nobody will notice.
The first Full moon is the step. The ladder is lost in the gloomy sky. It is necessary to go her long way on rays of the darkly blossomed Moon.
...The movie was finished. The people were walking away, dividing the impressions.
She was forgotten after five minutes. Noone can say about strange screaming girl. It seems, their brains were changed.
She was on a street.
The embryonic spring drawn her city by clouds and evening. The silver sphere of the moon was nodding to stars.
She has frozen. She clasped her jacket.
She has silently walked home, a bit sleepy, a bit tired.
But when the crowds was far away from her and she was in a quiet place, she once again started her terrifying Nazgul-scream, which frighten away the sparrows...
She's a little unsociable, she likes loneliness and dark colour. She's a Marilyn Manson's fan.
But her parents were ordinary enough, and her society were the same like most teenagers have got. She loves everyone she should to love.
She's alright, although sometimes her sight is somewhere in the Unreal Spaces.
She decided to see the famous movie, called "The Lord of Rings" just 'coz she's fond of all the fantasy. And 'coz of great advertising, may be. She read the book 1,5 years ago. It was OK.
(It's untrue, it has never happened!)
She has a big argument with her teacher, who was the mother of Tolkien-fan. The teacher told her that the Middle-Earth have been real. She hated her for that words.
The mirror is revolved to a wall. Crush the smooth surface up!
The strange excitement approached to a panic has captured her, when the treasured ticket was put into a pocket of her leather jacket.
She has been confusing the time and than minutes has moved with the speed of 386th processor. If you install Windows NT into it.
She was the first in the cinema hall.
It became full soon. The Ridiculer, Sweethearts and the Real Tolkienist set down near to her. She's not determined.
Her dark-greened eyes were charmed by the screen. A fascinating show. It is pleasant. It was Simply pleasant...
Until...
-The Nine Rings have been given to...
(It's wrong! There weren't men only! They weren't old! It was two girls and three young men!)
She has shaken the idea. Like the small stone was shaken out from her little shoe... It was alien and...
(naturally? deja-vu?)
The details of the book were recollected with a scratch. While it was about the celebrating in the Shire or about Gandalf.
-It's Frodo! - suddenly explained her neighbour.
-He looks like Frodo as much as I'm looking like a dragon! - grumbled Real Tolkienist.
(No... Not Frodo!)
Elijah Wood. The actor. Just the actor.
She was trying to calm herself down. She was shoot by the enormous hatred. Her fingers have moved as if she cut something. Frodo's throat.
(Stop it!)
Perfectly. Here's the Ring. And the storm in her skull. Great. "The movie's working on me", she thought.
The heroine of a soap opera is getting well from amnesia. The foolish association. She smiled.
She was praying then. To stop it! It has obeyed. She has afforded herself to be involved in a picture.
Nine Riders have gone away from the gloomy fortress, Minas-Morgul.
(The icy breathe... My own and behind me. The billions of smells and sensations. The delightful running of the unusual horses... And fear that we bring. The unreal fear of everyone, who's on our way... We're the Ninth. We're the Evil. We've got everlasting power, can't you all hear us?! We shall execute our Master's Order and noone, even the Magic, can stop us!..)
She put her hand on the lips. Breaking's inside her. It's pulling me.
-Wow, what's a pretty guys, ain't they? - laughed the Ridiculer. - Sexy things, ain't they?
She burned him by her sight. The Ridiculer swallowed the rest of a joke.
(Why?! Did I frighten him?)
...The dog was making a noise. The unpleasant meeting was coming to an old Hobbit.
-Ssshhire? Bagginsss? - hissed the black figure in a hood.
-Hhhurrrry up! - she has reacted involuntarily. She's just a little girl. She's spectator. What language was in her mouth? It seems like the Real Tolkienist would try to use Elfish sword. Or a cross and sacred water at least.
She made a smile for him. It's OK, why are you so scared, Mr. Fan?
It was gathering. She was disconnected for special search. She lost the way out. She's with them, isn't she? Here's the power of cinema.
(The pain's killing me, the pain's killing me, dissasosiative...)
Dark Riders was chasing Frodo, Sam, Marry and Pin. The acid rage was burning in her blood.
"Kill'em! Kill'em! Let's destroy all the Hobbits!"
Let's tear them. Let's get the Ring!
It's so strange. Nobody except her can hear Rider's thoughts, but they're typed by 72th-sized font!
(Damn the Hobbits!)
Hey, babe. You ain't alright! It's the way to madness, isn't it? Presumably. The guy, one of the Sweethearts, is looking at her. He thinks, she's crazy. They're leaving. Does she really have so deformed grimace in her face?
(Full moon. When the moon dims by an egg white all the heaven, werewolves are made active. They are tormented and they cry, but soon they understand, that the Wolf's their original Essence, whomever they were pretending without the moon).
It is her full moon?
Who am I? - enraged dynamite of a question.
The teenager. The girl. One of a millions. The nobody.
(So it is easy to believe in warm palms and parent caress, so it is easy to like videogames and rock music, this is the least resistance...)
She felt her finger squeezed by her little ring. The usual ring. She wears it for thousand years!
(CALM DOWN!!!)
(You poisoned all your children for hiding all your scars...)
Manson, shut up. I don't need you right now.
It isn't Manson, it's He.
-HEY! Look at him! He has a WALKMAN! - cried Tolkienist. - Oh, they couldn't make even the Riders without any mistakes!
(Costumes! It's all costumes with mistakes. How did they dare to hail her?!)
-Shut up, - she has advised to Tolkien-Fan. He obeyed. She was surprised, so was he.
The black creations came into Prancing Pony. They were piercing empty beds by their long swords. But the Hobbits were already hidden by Aragorn.
-You're idiots! Not here! - cried she.
She was trembling. Her teeth were knocking. She's got a headache. And something else's growing in her, something deeply hidden and waking up now.
(Pass the eternity. Open a veil of a mirror).
It's sick. She has moaned.
Tolkien-Fan and the Ridiculer looked to each other, worrying is this girl OK?
The cocoon is sharpened in her. Her blood is hot, but all cools down. Now. It is her Full moon.
This is the Revival.
This is the Call.
(Do not give me names, do not give me names, I do not want to know, who I am ...)
-They called Nazguls, - said Aragorn on a screen. - Nine Phantoms. Nine Ringwraiths. They are not dead and they are not alive.
(Death is a wooden doll. What's farther?)
She has stoped, like she was on ice. Her fingers are getting dark. The black varnish on her nails looked stylishly no longer. It looks naturally. Also her black jeans. And sweater. And jacket. And...
The lava bursted her brain. Deja-vu is melting inside her. It's hunting. It's revealing.
The results of a test are positive.
The Nazguls have surrounded Frodo. Here's the celebration of a Darkness!
"I was there!"
And from the bottom of her heart or soul, breaking off heavy circuits of centuries and technocratic civilization, the shout has escaped.
It wasn't shout. It was horrifying, unlike the anything on Earth sound, which was tearing away all the ears and nerves...
The violent scream of the Nazgul.
She could not stop, even if she wanted.
She did not want.
Here's my destiny. I take proud on who I am . Or WHAT I am .
The crowd of the spectators led by the Ridiculer has rushed to an exit. They were trying to save their lives, they were on the hands of eternal Horror.
-Stop it, you, girl! - security guard indignantly hailed her.
-Oh, excuse me, - answered she. It's getting away from her. Just for being back.
She went to a latest number of sets. The spectators have calmed down.
She thoughtfully watched the rest of a film.
So, she has revived. No, she did not become invisible, who's installing the fear. She's still the human.
She was born by a mortal woman. And she was a Nazgul.
The not-human being.
(Hallo, I am the scandal-girl, the girl-air).
If hundred pathologists autopsied her right now, they would never see any differences from other teenagers. She still need food for living, she still hate Chemistry. As always. She can get a flu, or a quarrel with her best friend. Loves mum and daddy. And her boyfriend.
There's the lipstick on her mouth and the flesh under a skin. Not the shadowed flesh.
She's so usual.
Her classmates won't be scared by her next morning. She's still independent quiet girl.
As always.
But the black colour will be added on her appearance. And her favourite cat will hiss on her. And she will hate blazing sunrays even more than she used to.
Insignificant changes. Nobody will notice.
The first Full moon is the step. The ladder is lost in the gloomy sky. It is necessary to go her long way on rays of the darkly blossomed Moon.
...The movie was finished. The people were walking away, dividing the impressions.
She was forgotten after five minutes. Noone can say about strange screaming girl. It seems, their brains were changed.
She was on a street.
The embryonic spring drawn her city by clouds and evening. The silver sphere of the moon was nodding to stars.
She has frozen. She clasped her jacket.
She has silently walked home, a bit sleepy, a bit tired.
But when the crowds was far away from her and she was in a quiet place, she once again started her terrifying Nazgul-scream, which frighten away the sparrows...