Post by PetitePirate on Jun 21, 2004 22:03:56 GMT -5
i was reading sleep (my favorite of my fanfics) over and feeling all angsty and morbid...so i decided to write this...i hope it's not TOO morbid for you guys...it starts out kinda slow, but it picks up, promise.
Our footsteps echo on the damp wooden stairs. Twilight falls between the cracks in the walls. I slip my hands into their pockets to hide their shaking.
She holds her hand on my back, the way mum would when I was sick. Why does she hold me like this? Like she loves me. No. Like she pities me. Like she is shameful.
Ashamed to look at me. I am thankful for her help, but deep inside, she makes me sick.
She closes me in the room and locks the door. She doesn't speak. She never speaks.
Some nights I look out of the boarded windows, waiting for the moon to come behind a cloud. Waiting for it to rise. Sometimes I pace, or close my eyes and wish that, just once, it won't happen. It always happens.
Tonight, I like on the dusty floor. Feeling the starlight on my face, and wonder, wondering.
How long will it take to recover this time? To heal the scratches and bandage the bruises and mend the breaks? How long will it take for the scars to be covered so I can go off to class again?
Not long. It never takes long. I'm always fine in time for next month.
SO the trouble isn't the cuts or the scrapes, or the bites or the clawas. It's the scars, the scars you can't see. Not the emotional scars, I'm not talking metaphoricly. Emotional scarring is easy enough to hide. The one's that are harder, harder to preted aren't there are the ones on my arm that I have to see every bloody morning when I get dressed, the ones I pull my sleeves over anxiously, hoping no one notices. The ones on my chest that she says she can't fix. Those ones, that hurt whenever I laugh. Those scars.
You see? No, you can't see. You're not lying on the floor here next to me, holding your breath until the moon comes out.
It's a cycle. And it's not the regularity of it that bothers me. Or the frequency. It's that there's truly just nothing I can do about it.
This is never going to stop. It's not some illness I'll recover from or some stage I'll outgrow. This is really me. And there's nothing I can do about it.
Except one thing.
It scares me that I'm considering it. Because genreally, my life isn't so bad. I've got good parents, and three best friend that I love more than anything. I love my school.
But I can't take this cycle. And I can't beat it.
So what kills a werewolf, anyway?
Something lurches inside me and I feel myself transform.
Our footsteps echo on the damp wooden stairs. Twilight falls between the cracks in the walls. I slip my hands into their pockets to hide their shaking.
She holds her hand on my back, the way mum would when I was sick. Why does she hold me like this? Like she loves me. No. Like she pities me. Like she is shameful.
Ashamed to look at me. I am thankful for her help, but deep inside, she makes me sick.
She closes me in the room and locks the door. She doesn't speak. She never speaks.
Some nights I look out of the boarded windows, waiting for the moon to come behind a cloud. Waiting for it to rise. Sometimes I pace, or close my eyes and wish that, just once, it won't happen. It always happens.
Tonight, I like on the dusty floor. Feeling the starlight on my face, and wonder, wondering.
How long will it take to recover this time? To heal the scratches and bandage the bruises and mend the breaks? How long will it take for the scars to be covered so I can go off to class again?
Not long. It never takes long. I'm always fine in time for next month.
SO the trouble isn't the cuts or the scrapes, or the bites or the clawas. It's the scars, the scars you can't see. Not the emotional scars, I'm not talking metaphoricly. Emotional scarring is easy enough to hide. The one's that are harder, harder to preted aren't there are the ones on my arm that I have to see every bloody morning when I get dressed, the ones I pull my sleeves over anxiously, hoping no one notices. The ones on my chest that she says she can't fix. Those ones, that hurt whenever I laugh. Those scars.
You see? No, you can't see. You're not lying on the floor here next to me, holding your breath until the moon comes out.
It's a cycle. And it's not the regularity of it that bothers me. Or the frequency. It's that there's truly just nothing I can do about it.
This is never going to stop. It's not some illness I'll recover from or some stage I'll outgrow. This is really me. And there's nothing I can do about it.
Except one thing.
It scares me that I'm considering it. Because genreally, my life isn't so bad. I've got good parents, and three best friend that I love more than anything. I love my school.
But I can't take this cycle. And I can't beat it.
So what kills a werewolf, anyway?
Something lurches inside me and I feel myself transform.