Okay, this story is a short little piece about the thoughts of an unnamed woman. I'm *seriously* considering a series of pieces about this woman and her connections to everyone's favorite Canucklehead. (He's mentioned here, albeit briefly and not by name, but I still think I ought to mention it: Wolverine is property of Marvel Comics. There. Now they own me.)
Oh, by the way, this piece isn't particularly heart-wrenching, but it's not exactly happy, either.
PLEASE REVIEW!
***
"Here and There"
by Myranda Wright
***
I can't remember a time when I was innocent. I was never a child, whether or not I came from a mother's cradling womb into her cradling arms and was her daughter. If I *had* been, wouldn't there be some tiny trace, some slice of my righteousness left? Somewhere deep inside? Oh, just the notion of being unadulteratedly pure...clean, blameless, unstained by the blood and tears of myself and others, so many others...
There are times in all our lives we would rather forget, or, if we could, erase forever from the pages of memory. Those times for me are more plentiful than they are for most, a painful fact of reality that I've simply come to accept. These moments, these hateful, sour snippets of being and doing, are made far worse when they are our own liability, our own making. As they often are for me.
For the better part of my existence I can summon up no script, but thus is life. There is no instant replay, no chance to start again and flush out the bad parts, but there are those memories that have burned themselves into my flesh and mind, scarring me more deeply than I would ever have thought possible. It is all just a bleak landscape of time, an endless churning battlefield where I am lost, marred here and there with the cancer of pain and some internal evil. There, I can't find my footing, and I stumble amongst the corpses both real and imagined. There, my hands are curled into vicious fists, unable to grasp anything but the blade I carry even when my hands are empty. There, I am forever marked by darkness.
I don't know if I was always like this, a walking stranger to myself. Was I ever happy? Did I have a family, friends? Or have I always been and ever shall be a guest at my own front door, not quite brave enough to let myself in out of fear of greeting an angry host?
For all I know, I am not a daughter, a woman, a person, a human. It just may be that I have always been a cynic, a soldier, an assassin, a haunt.
I traded in my soul so long ago, I can't recall its name. Heaven is gone for me if I ever believed in its authenticity at all, but hell is so certain I can't allow myself to believe it exists. If it does, it is certainly no different from the one I've built for myself.
So I fight my way across the battlefield, searching for remnants I can't describe of a past I hardly remember, knowing only that they're there, somewhere.
But I have taken the first tentative steps away from the battlefield and into this new place where it doesn't seem to matter. Here, in the arms of the only person I know understands, for he too has turned himself into something he doesn't recognize because he can't remember what he's supposed to be. Here, where feral thoughts meet sensual conclusion, and neither doubts the outcome though it is as uncertain as ever. Here, I am safe from the horrors of my own mind, my own hand, and I can breathe and sleep again.
Oh, by the way, this piece isn't particularly heart-wrenching, but it's not exactly happy, either.
PLEASE REVIEW!
***
"Here and There"
by Myranda Wright
***
I can't remember a time when I was innocent. I was never a child, whether or not I came from a mother's cradling womb into her cradling arms and was her daughter. If I *had* been, wouldn't there be some tiny trace, some slice of my righteousness left? Somewhere deep inside? Oh, just the notion of being unadulteratedly pure...clean, blameless, unstained by the blood and tears of myself and others, so many others...
There are times in all our lives we would rather forget, or, if we could, erase forever from the pages of memory. Those times for me are more plentiful than they are for most, a painful fact of reality that I've simply come to accept. These moments, these hateful, sour snippets of being and doing, are made far worse when they are our own liability, our own making. As they often are for me.
For the better part of my existence I can summon up no script, but thus is life. There is no instant replay, no chance to start again and flush out the bad parts, but there are those memories that have burned themselves into my flesh and mind, scarring me more deeply than I would ever have thought possible. It is all just a bleak landscape of time, an endless churning battlefield where I am lost, marred here and there with the cancer of pain and some internal evil. There, I can't find my footing, and I stumble amongst the corpses both real and imagined. There, my hands are curled into vicious fists, unable to grasp anything but the blade I carry even when my hands are empty. There, I am forever marked by darkness.
I don't know if I was always like this, a walking stranger to myself. Was I ever happy? Did I have a family, friends? Or have I always been and ever shall be a guest at my own front door, not quite brave enough to let myself in out of fear of greeting an angry host?
For all I know, I am not a daughter, a woman, a person, a human. It just may be that I have always been a cynic, a soldier, an assassin, a haunt.
I traded in my soul so long ago, I can't recall its name. Heaven is gone for me if I ever believed in its authenticity at all, but hell is so certain I can't allow myself to believe it exists. If it does, it is certainly no different from the one I've built for myself.
So I fight my way across the battlefield, searching for remnants I can't describe of a past I hardly remember, knowing only that they're there, somewhere.
But I have taken the first tentative steps away from the battlefield and into this new place where it doesn't seem to matter. Here, in the arms of the only person I know understands, for he too has turned himself into something he doesn't recognize because he can't remember what he's supposed to be. Here, where feral thoughts meet sensual conclusion, and neither doubts the outcome though it is as uncertain as ever. Here, I am safe from the horrors of my own mind, my own hand, and I can breathe and sleep again.