Title: Created, Then Unwound
Summary: Another day, another fairy tale falls apart.
Story Notes: Just a thought that tipped out. The title is nicked from a lyric in an MxPx song, and this story should come with a warning: 50% bitterness, 50% melodrama.
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Why must every story have a beginning and end?
A story is like life, if one character dies, others continue affected, unaffected.
There is no one beginning point, no single end.
Did Cinderella and the prince grow old and happy? Did they divorce, annul themselves, and forget their fairy tale?
Every smallest action has lasting effects, consequences that are forgotten in the happy endings. Lasting scars are smeared with convenience. End the story quickly before the real unhappiness begins.
If I say he kissed me, that could be the start, but our history arcs back long before, includes grazes and violence, harsh words and hatred. Other people intrude on the story. Other actions have pushed us to this point.
But if we could just end it at this point, where I am surprised by his shocked, desperate kiss. Delighted by feelings which threaten to burble to the surface. Delighted by his hesitancy, which he hurries to hide in brashness.
But the second after is all it takes for the fairy tale to unravel. Disgust arrives, delight passes on. In the second it takes to pull away and draw breath, the story has turned sour.
And the disgust will stay, the residue leeching into every passing day. The world has shuddered and readjusted, a broken victim of this single fairy tale moment.
Say the disgust fades, and later he kisses me again. And this time I draw away, expecting the world to halt. But find instead, it's just a second passing, and another. Would this be a better time to end? When I can kiss him again and again, feeling only in my mouth, in my fingers, where his hands brush my back?
Or is this worse, that I am so broken, so jaded, that I have failed to find disgust and horror when it is so much needed?
In the overcoming numbness I have lost contempt, so the fairy tale continues without end, without disruption.
But he is tender now, tightly claiming me in his arms, afraid to lose this fleeting possession.
And the venom is stronger than ever. Even as we lie together, wrapped desperately in this parody of love, the venom is eating us away and etching scars. Grooves and holes that can not heal, that will remain as lurking shadows, to intrude on every thought.
Our fairy tale breaks holes in us.
Summary: Another day, another fairy tale falls apart.
Story Notes: Just a thought that tipped out. The title is nicked from a lyric in an MxPx song, and this story should come with a warning: 50% bitterness, 50% melodrama.
*
*
Why must every story have a beginning and end?
A story is like life, if one character dies, others continue affected, unaffected.
There is no one beginning point, no single end.
Did Cinderella and the prince grow old and happy? Did they divorce, annul themselves, and forget their fairy tale?
Every smallest action has lasting effects, consequences that are forgotten in the happy endings. Lasting scars are smeared with convenience. End the story quickly before the real unhappiness begins.
If I say he kissed me, that could be the start, but our history arcs back long before, includes grazes and violence, harsh words and hatred. Other people intrude on the story. Other actions have pushed us to this point.
But if we could just end it at this point, where I am surprised by his shocked, desperate kiss. Delighted by feelings which threaten to burble to the surface. Delighted by his hesitancy, which he hurries to hide in brashness.
But the second after is all it takes for the fairy tale to unravel. Disgust arrives, delight passes on. In the second it takes to pull away and draw breath, the story has turned sour.
And the disgust will stay, the residue leeching into every passing day. The world has shuddered and readjusted, a broken victim of this single fairy tale moment.
Say the disgust fades, and later he kisses me again. And this time I draw away, expecting the world to halt. But find instead, it's just a second passing, and another. Would this be a better time to end? When I can kiss him again and again, feeling only in my mouth, in my fingers, where his hands brush my back?
Or is this worse, that I am so broken, so jaded, that I have failed to find disgust and horror when it is so much needed?
In the overcoming numbness I have lost contempt, so the fairy tale continues without end, without disruption.
But he is tender now, tightly claiming me in his arms, afraid to lose this fleeting possession.
And the venom is stronger than ever. Even as we lie together, wrapped desperately in this parody of love, the venom is eating us away and etching scars. Grooves and holes that can not heal, that will remain as lurking shadows, to intrude on every thought.
Our fairy tale breaks holes in us.