Cracking the World's Shell: A Collection of Drabbles
One
mentalyoga
Altar
The arena looms menacingly before her. It is a vacant infinity with all the possibilities of eternity and miracles and shining things trying desperately to fill the void; ethereal, translucent. She tries, for just a moment, to reach out a hand and brush her fingertips against one, but like they once had in her time here, they vanish the moment they are within reach. She didn't expect anything else.
Her footsteps shatter the silence that lingers; she is almost startled, but continues. Does she remember where it fell? Can she find the exact spot where it broke into a million tiny, repressed fragments against the smooth pavement? Yes. She picks it out as if the spot in and of itself has held more of a place in her heart all these years than the feelings that accompanied it. She does not kneel before it. Perhaps those many years ago, she would have, as though it were an altar; she might have prayed to it, hoping with all of her cynical heart that some glimmer of a miracle would fall from the Castle and whisk her away from the harsh realities of life. Not now. She knows now that Ohtori was only an illusion of life. And even though sometimes the locket fleetingly crosses the wild tangles of her mind, the pain lasts only momentarily. Time has softened her; she is sensitive, but not angry.
Miracles, she's found, do not exist. It doesn't harden her heart as it once did, however. Miracles live on in the minds of the naïve, for their own existence cannot be validated without some way out of the icy reality of the outside world. Juri has no need for escapism; she looks at the world as it is, and accepts it as such.
Ohtori will not claim her any longer. The locket will not claim her anymore. Footsteps startle her once again. Are they her own?
"Juri," comes the slithering, bitter voice. The dam breaks, and the memories rush through in bursts, attacking and consuming her with a vicious greed and starved fury. The voice rams against her over and over, raping her with sadistic malice.
In her pain, she looks up to the Castle, and waits for this Miracle to end.
the Conquest
The paths down the mountain had all but worn themselves out; a mere trail of dried grass was the only hint that humans had ever risked forging through the dense greenery. And it was logical, she mused, wincing as the thorns tore at her alabaster flesh hungrily, unveiling thin sheets of beautiful crimson blossoms across the soft, pale surface. "Yes," she thought, as her ankles braved the covered gaps in the path just waiting to consume them, "only someone as crazy as I am would call this mountain's bluff."
In the latest bit of evening–almost dusting the edge of morning–she could hear the shore undulating in the distance; the gentle waves beckoned to her thirsting soul. Sometimes, though, she wondered if perhaps it were only a vicious Siren, hunting for the blood that rushed through the thin, meandering roads of her veins.
But if this mountain would just let her go–free her from this endless torment–she would return...
At nights she dreamed–rarely, for her nights were hardly peaceful–of the cocoa skin that tasted so sweet to her tongue, the lust that hastened at her touch, the eternal indigo waves cascading onto her face from above. But the face…she could not recall the face; it had become but a distant star in the overpopulated, twinkling horizon.
It was this that troubled her rest the most–where had the face disappeared to? Of all things to be stolen, why had the mountain taken this memory–this divine ambrosia–from her?
She would overcome this mountain–if only to find this face once more. She was determined to find the footpaths that awaited her below. There would lie the memory of Her face; and perhaps further on, there She would be waiting, to take Utena back into her all-nurturing embrace.
Cruel
She wears her hair free, and the ringlets cascade down upon her bared back as though she is some wild Greek goddess. Innocence is easy to feign, and she has played it well for a thousand thousand years. Her lips are painted the deepest crimson, and brush his skin delicately, with the whispers of five-hundred harem-women. Her own matching dark skin tastes of caramel, of cocoa, and is smoother than the thinnest rice paper, softer than the most elegant of hand-woven silks.
She would stab the blade through the fleshy meat of his chest, through to his slowly-beating heart while whispering sweet nothings in his ear, if only she could find the golden opportunity. Tingles shock her spine when she thinks of the possibilities; the visions of the dark red of the pool spreading swiftly, the thoughts of licking the wound clean, the power of towering--in all of her nude glory--above him triumphantly. But then, she wonders, could it have any effect at all? Perhaps she will stab through only to find that where there should be a heart, there is only a beating, breathing chasm, waiting to engulf the blade and drain her of all her resolve.
Sometimes, she questions the origin of these thoughts--but then quickly realizes that there is never a reason. There does not need to be a reason; she is cruel. Her cruelty hangs low, bat-like, in every particle of her being; perhaps one could say it was of the womb created from her tainted martyrdom, but it is of little relevance. She will always dream of his demise, of wiping the blood from her ever-scarlet lips. Maybe, indeed, it is she with the chasm for a heart.
averaging
He had always known it would end up like this.
A nameless man thrust above him--Mr. So-and-So, Miki called him--groaning into his ear, his breath hot and wet and sticky. Miki turned his face, and he just felt like vomiting.
They had met at some party–held by some other So-and-So, who was just such a wonderful host–or maybe it was at some gallery, where So-and-So was the featured artist–or was it at some café, where they had coincidentally ordered the same precisely prepared frappuccino? Miki couldn't recall, and Mr. So-and-So's moans were becoming fervent; Miki feared the worst was about to happen.
Maybe it wouldn't have come to this, had He noticed Miki only once. He was just a different So-and-So, they told Miki, but it was moot–Miki wanted this So-and-So, and this one alone. But Miki played the Invisible Man all too often, because maybe his art just wasn't artistic enough, or his piano skills not refined enough, or his boyish good looks not quite boyish enough. It was never enough.
It wasn't the first time. Miki recalled the So-and-Sos back at that dreaded Academy–the innumerable men who could never have seen Miki's eyes darting over at them beneath his heavy, soot-covered lashes. Miki recalled all of the midnights he spent dabbing tissues at average tears beneath his pillow, wishing that he really were invisible, so that he wouldn't ever have to concern himself with pretending to be invisible.
And so Miki went to So-and-So's party, or his gallery, or the café, and there was Mr. So-and-So, and he noticed Miki, hiding out behind a cerulean mane. And Miki so needed to be noticed; he needed, more than anything, to be acknowledged as a whole human being, as someone worthwhile.
And so Mr. So-and-So took Miki back to his nondescript apartment, and gave Miki some average drink–maybe it was bourbon, or a gin-and-tonic–and drew Miki's petite form into his average-sized bed, where, according to Mr. So-and-So, they couldn't both fit unless Mr. So-and-So got on top of Miki. Miki agreed, because it was an average day, and he had nothing better to do, and because Mr. So-and-So had noticed him at the right time, in the right place (wherever it was), when he was feeling generally worthless.
And so it went. Mr. So-and-So came with a heave, and fell upon Miki, his sweat-covered body sliding slippery across Miki's small frame, and Miki wanted nothing more than to go back to his home and bathe for several unnoticeable and average hours. But unfortunately, he couldn't move with Mr. So-and-So's weight anchoring him down. A few minutes later, Mr. So-and-So began to snore, and Miki realized he was going nowhere fast.
Yes, Miki had always known it would be just like this.
She Waits
Her eyes rot behind her charcoal lashes; like overripe plums, in their decay, they glisten with the juice of the inattention and torments they suffered in life.
Love. Love is, she believes, simply a synonym for manipulation, for greed, for abuse, for domination. Her brother "loves" her for the wealth of power hiding beneath her breast, he "loves" her for the Pandora's Box she keeps hidden away behind the black lace panties he told her to wear when he fucks her.
The duelists "love" her for her unspoken promises; her rotting eyes reflect the deepest, darkest desires concealed within their stopwatches, their lockets, their wicked, wicked ways.
And the Prince "loves" her because she is the Princess, the Bride. An arranged marriage must bear fruit; her womb may be barren, but her power is limitless. The Prince will call forth her fruit until he is pronounced King.
And for this, her eyes lie within their sockets, dead and awaiting resurrection. But no savior comes, for Witches--especially those who once were good--have no real emotions; they are corpses wiling away time until the coming of the End.
She waits for the succulent sweetness of the End. Always, she waits.