The Exposure of Self
By Chyna Rose
Disclaimer: Gargoyles belongs to Disney, not me.
Morning comes, the sun and moon change their places. In the twilight times, someone always wakes. Day or night, there are their sleepers.
She does not sleep. Not in the classic sense of the word. Even humans are considered diurnal creatures, despite the way that they have managed to transcend the boundaries of day and night.
She s a creature of the twilight. All at once between and beyond the day and the night, never belonging to either really. Forever outside; the dichotomy.
The days and nights bleed into each other. A life time stretched out to eternity. Reliving the same moments over and over again. The same board meeting. The same rage and pain.
She was not always like this. She was happy once. In love. Now she settles for contentment in front of the fire with her plans. But the seeds of discontent were sowed young. When change was not fast enough. Now everything is stagnant. Those who do not age no longer grow.
She hates the twilight hours. The pain it brings as her body melts and reforms. It is a reminder of everything she hates. Everything she lost.
She does not sleep until she absolutely has to. When the body will no longer function and the mind breaks down. She passed insanity a long time ago. She is too used to being awake during the night, and her night form is ill suited for laying in bed. She is too busy during the day with the responsibilities and obligations of her day form.
To sleep before the mind became exhausted meant to dream. And the body always wore out before the mind. In dreams the mind's defenses fell. The unwelcome spot light shined; illuminating everything she wished to hide. In her dreams all her denials left her and instead levied accusation after accusation. Red stained her azure skin and the sky held no sanctuary for her heavy wings. She dreamed of drowning in blood.
So she improvised. One did not survive for over a thousand years without learning how to toss up a plan on the spur of the moment. The harsh light of the sun kept the truth behind the dreams at bay during the day. The night became a time to plan and plot. Distracting her mind from that which she dare not face.
And in those few quiet times, where she cloaked herself in the illusion of contentment and denial, she kept herself warm by the fire and her own hate. Pushing the fear of the dream of the truth away. Believing the false comfort of her own words, that everything was going just as she had planned.
In all of Destine Manor, there was not a single mirror to be found.