A/N: Written for Camp Potter's First Aid (angst) activity, Week One. I managed to use all the prompts.
Prompts used: Tremble / In the shadows / Fragile / Feathers / Porcelain / In retrospect / Inner demons / "He battered his tiny fists to feel something."-Meg and Dia, "Monster"
Warning: Spousal abuse, angst.
Dedicated to my mom for always knowing that no one dictates her life but her. I love you.
Porcelain In Retrospect
You batter your pale fists to feel something.
And feel something you do.
But it is her porcelain skin chipping beneath the weight of your failings, your cowardice, your caste, not the solace you desire.
She trembles, just as your fists do. The shaking of her hands held above her head, aftershocks of an earthquake that devastated her peaceful domain.
Those hands, held above her head to keep away your pale fists.
She begs you to stop.
You don't.
Seasons come and go, and she weeps feathers for tears, shed from a dying bird. Her spirit is fragile, the visage of the ideal wife cracked and crumbling.
You're haunted by her eyes these days, all dull and bleak. The rings of your marriage have turned black now. They've latched around her eyes, drawing her face gaunt with implicit words.
You wonder if your inner demons have somehow possessed her, for those eyes… they're not natural.
And this makes you frantic.
So you batter your pale fists to feel something.
Why? she cries.
To expel the demons from those eyes.
But you pause, because something's different about her this time.
Her hands aren't held above her.
Her eyes are enough in their place, and though they tremble defiantly, they aren't in the shadows of your failings, your cowardice, your caste.
It takes a moment to discern the reason behind the changes through your distraught haze.
It's a boy, trembling behind her porcelain skin.
Your son.
How could you do this to him, a mere child?
How could you do this to her?
You beg for forgiveness, knowing from the depths of your being that you aren't worthy of it. You're not worthy of this fragile creature you broke beneath pale fists.
The last piece of porcelain has been crushed.
She leaves you, taking child and dignity with.
And all you have left are two black rings, drawing your face gaunt with implicit words.
A/N: I was crying after I reread this.
Please read and review.
~Lira