#doehearted01

[mauraudmore]

when: after the captain’s announcement where: the brig whom: closed to @aylumin

When the captain made his announcement, he might as well have said “In one month’s time, Violet Hale will be dead”. She felt her lips part in disbelief, as all her efforts dissolved before her eyes. All at once, she felt an unbearable weight crash onto her shoulders—as if Atlas had left his post and cursed her to bear the world instead. She could feel the palms of her hands tingling, itching with nervousness. Her tell-tale sign of distress, one that she’s had since she was a child. Panic rises from her chest, a spreading disease that crawls up and up. It has her throat now, choking the life from her. Scream. She must scream to keep it at bay, to keep herself alive.

But not here, not in front of all these prying eyes. Her intervention with the troublemaker has brought enough attention.

She pushes past the small crowd that had gathered for Malachy’s speech, her hands burning now. Unable to resist, she scratches at her palms. While on the upper deck, she attempts to be subtle about it but as she descends deeper into the Promethean, her scratching becomes more erratic. By the time she reaches her wanted destination, the Brig, ( away from watchful eyes ) her fingernails are digging into her arms and hands, causing red angry streaks in their trail.

She has failed. She has failed herself. She has failed her brother. They will be dead in less than 2 months. She doesn’t care much for her own death, its been a long time coming. But her twin…To lose the one thing in the world that you allowed yourself to love…What did she do to deserve this fate?

A question with an immediate answer: What hasn’t she done to deserve this fate?

And yet, she cannot help but rage against the unfairness of it all. She had feigned goodness, swallowed her pride, attempted to play the shrinking violet. So what if she was a slayer of friends, a thief, a marauder. She is only what her circumstances demanded of her, what the slums required for survival.

Doesn’t that count for something?

She paces frantically around the room, a caged animal. Trapped, repeats in her mind. I am trapped. It overwhelms her and in one motion she gathers her skirt between her hands and screams. Mouth wide open but partly muffled by fabric, she exhales fury until her throat hurts. Until she can feel blood pulsing in her temples.

When her voice gives out, she switches to her fists. They are already wounded, from the fight with the troublemaker. So when she strikes an innocent barrel, a furious scarlet smear is left in its wake. But she doesn't care. Again and again her fists come against it, staining the wood with her blood. Her body will gladly take the pain, if it means her heart is safe from the panic.