precious

summary: dominique had it easy. tw:self harm. victoire character study. Rewrite.


Eyes glance in the mirror, at a ruined reflection. If the girl in the mirror was supposed to be a fairytale, well—she must be the unsweetened copy.

Lips as red as blood and skin as pale as snow, a little creature is captured inside a pretty little cage called Victoire.

((the cage is oh so pretty and vast, but a cage is a cage nonetheless, no matter how large or well decorated))

The shell wipes off the smeared mascara, crossing her bare legs as any traces of imperfection were erased from her skin. No, the shell must be perfect. Maman said so.

She fixes her make up and brushes her hair. It's five am and she's just finished crying.

((It's Monday morning. She always hated Mondays. ))

She pulls on her uniform; impeccable as always. Her hair is plaited and her homework is ready.

She hates mornings like this.

When the dawn is breaking and no one else is awake and she's already done, there's no one there but a shell and the creature locked inside it, as they croon sympathy towards eachother.

(("Oh, woe is you," purrs the creature to the shell. "Damned with an image of perfection, oh how sad."

"The one with the worst is surely you," the shell denies, fluttering back her response. "Damned to eternally be stuck in a shell of a girl that you used to know well."))

The other girls start to stir, and you pull on your gloves smoothly. No need for them to see your wrists, hm? The image would be ruined.


Dominique chuckles at the Gryffindor table, and the shell smiles and the creature laments.

"She has it easy," the creature sighs as Dominique glances at the shell with something akin to jealousy. "She doesn't have to pretend." she murmurs enviously.


There are marks on your wrists and you think you deserve them, deserve a constant reminder that you aren't perfect enough for them; not the creature, not even the shell.


((Sit up straighter, how'd you not get an O on that test? Stupid girl, stupid girl, she got an O, why didn't you?

There's a stray hair in your plait and why do you always wear those gloves, Victoire? Don't put your elbows on the table and I swear to God, why don't you ever talk to me any more, Victoire?))


You think you used to play the violin, but the shell never did, that was always the creature.

You stopped when you entered school.


((Oh, did you hear? Dom won the Quidditch Cup for her house. Oh, and Louis made the most innovative invention, you wont believe it!

Victoire? No, Victoire's done nothing worth mentioning lately. But, honestly, did you hear about Louis' invention, oh it's unbelievable.))


It's raining.

It's pouring and you love it. You're soaking wet, but you don't actually care. It's raining, and nobody will bring you in until the tears have been rinsed off your face, as if cleansing your being.

Really, the only places you could really cry without feeling dirty (impure wrong weak bad) was the ocean, where they felt so small, and the rain, where they blent in.

You love the rain.


footnotes;

i just wrote this in 20 minutes tops on my phone and it's probably really bad so here you go.

my tumblr is ofnightmaresandreality if you need to talk/have questions