Challenge [174] Before;
Title: Masked
Word Count: 500
Warnings: Larxene angst.
Notes: In second-person perspective. Have fun!
Originally for the kh drabble community on livejournal, decided to post it here. (:
But no, you will never, ever return of to what you were before.
Decayed, destroyed, dilapidated.
And oh- the feeling returns to you, very much like a heart would to a heartless. The memory lingers almost hauntingly in your mind, a feeling of which you despise, for you are ultimately strong and possessive now.
"Begone with you." You hiss, with a sharp, eloquent tone of which you overuse, of which familiarity clings to. No, there are no lesser nobodies, no humans in the vicinity, but only yourself, your useless dilapidated self.
Your breath is caught in an array of twisted pants and screams as you struggles to fight the emotional conflict inside. Some even go to say that you're mad. But no, you're only mad on the inside. Only.
"My dear, the mask you attire is one of no use." She calls, rasping albeit elegant. You recognize the voice as the person who made your other life miserable, her. The one who made you resort to experiment with darkness, the one who made you scream with a nerving type of rage.
The strength and the possessive desire begins to falter in you, much reflecting an eerily flickering television screen that passer-bys often screeched at for fear of an ill omen.
"You're not strong and possessive."
Your mind is faltering also, the strand of sanity that remains intact begins to waver as you clutch onto a wall to stabilize yourself, preventing yourself from acquiring an unnecessary seizure of some sort. A harsh, reckless scowl caresses your face as a heedless, trembling hand releases a shower of pointed blades, equipped with the vigour of sharded lightening.
Glass beads of sweat sting your forehead as you realise the blades you threw were pointless, mirthless laughter crackling from parched, battle-torn lips as your knees begin to sink to the marble floor. The cold, pearly white marble is all your electric blue eyes can now see.
And they fade- scrawls of memories that dash by in your head, memories of you being weak and unnoticed. This is why a smile always caressed your face, for your other was the opposite. The flashes, the violent screams begin to sink back into the nothingness, the mask of boldness intertwining with your timid face.
Silent rage pulls you to your feet, shadowed walls an almost positive effect on your wellbeing. The hand that once was permanently drawn back into pockets is slammed upon an ivory wood door, making the innocent flinch upon your command.
It's her room, of course. The witch. And this was why you loved teasing the little girl, bringing her down to nothing more than a shell with no ambition.
The strength and possessive desire streams through you once more as careless words crackle from your mouth, despite the lapse of madness that fate planned out for you upon scaling the deserted corridor.
And how you hated, how you loathed and despised that little runt of a nobody, because she mirrors your true, mask-less self.