Author's Note: Because this ficlet is kind of ambiguous, I thought I'd note that this is meant to be my take on the hours following Cirucci's fall from the Espada. The shinigami captain she refers to is Aizen, of course. Enjoy!
Curtains
Arrancar aren't supposed to shed tears, but she does.
Arrancar aren't supposed to cry out in anguish nor pain, but she does.
Arrancar aren't supposed to show weakness, but she does. She is weak, or so she feels.
She lays on the pretty marble floors in her elegant bedroom, painted face nestled in the center of her tangled arms, cheeks wet with salt water, and none to hear her screams or sobs but the swallows embroidered on her bedspread.
None of it is hers anymore.
Back aching, flesh ripped apart, she ignores the finger-like rivulets of crimson blood staining her dress. They put a bandage on the wound after they'd finished with her, but she couldn't stand it. It only seemed to press upon the torn skin where her number used to be, making it all the more angry and burning.
She'd rather bleed.
She'd locked the door and drawn the curtains before she let her shame and shredded pride get the better of her. She couldn't stifle it, but she could damn well keep others from witnessing it. Let her servants move her things; it was dark in here, nice and black as she liked it. She'd always liked it better that way – the way things were before the artificial sun beat the night sky blue.
The sky had been battered, and now so was she. She should've known better than to believe the sweet lies the shinigami captain had fed her.
At least there were curtains.