PERDITA ⋅𖥔⋅ 29, W ⋅𖥔⋅ INTERROGATION
Dream forced out of dreaming, glow of that stirs awake and kisses you back — they told you that this world isn't for you; that you were made to live in the sky; flutter of butterfly wings clipped from your shoulders before you were able to fly. During your childhood, you wondered if this was a compliment — OR A CURSE. You look up and sky is murky, bathed in the sun's gentle blood; acidic tears melting away the heart of the city as vengeance for its grief. You ask your Father what it could possibly mean, and the ones that had spoken suddenly move away, never to be heard of again. You don't ask why — you never do. Still, you look to the sky. You decide to believe their best intentions. Foolish girl, don't you know? That anything can be made a god if only you believe. AND YOUR GOD IS NOTHING MORE THAN BOUNDLESS, EMPTY SPACE.
You were born four minutes later than your twin, all the inherited guilt, loss, and rage of your bloodline contained within them and forewarned in a single, pitched shriek that silenced the wolves and made the heavens howl in reply. When you emerged, there was not a sound at all — expression empty, doctors mystified; for a moment unsure if you were even alive. And perhaps that's what your parents had wanted all along — a blank-faced, hollow doll they could dress up in ribbons and make dance. In your glass castle, you learned to smile; you learned to laugh. Force the corners of your mouth upwards, steal light from the constellations and paint them into your eyes to look smitten. THEY HOLD YOUR HAND AND CALL YOU THE MOST HUMAN OF THEM ALL. You relish in their compliments; in the way they make you out to be A Good Daughter. A Good Girl. You relish in their affections; fill yourself up until you're full. You're good. Not empty; not a shell — but good.
You choose to believe in this. YOU DESPERATELY WANT TO BELIEVE IN THIS. You pretend not to witness the atrocities committed under your family's reign. You don't question why the ones that make you frown disappear without a trace. The sky is a bouquet of artificial flowers that are yours alone to collect. You pretend not to see the blood upon the hands of those who are made to pluck them for you. You pretend you are good; that the red of your dress isn't stained by the suffering of the world. Pretend to be anything except this endless gaping hole in which nothing dies — and nothing lives.
HALIMEDE & VOSTOK ⋅𖥔⋅ IN THAT FINAL LOOK DOES THE DEER FORGIVE THE WOLF?
TITANS. Your most cherished memories start and end with their names. FENRIR and HALIMEDE — they taught you friendship; they taught you love. THEY TAUGHT YOU PAIN. Fenrir's desertion was your first taste of reality. Never before had someone gone against your wishes; never before had you experienced loss. You thought to yourself that your chest should have ached; that you should have shed tears for the childlike innocence their protection had allowed you to hold longer than your hands should have grasped. You tried to cry — forced yourself to be sad; to feel rage. Yet, in the end? NOTHING. Just that familiar emptiness at your core. When VOSTOK approached you, you knew it was with the intention of playing into your so-called sadness. You knew he was not looking at you, but at the crown your bloodline afforded. Still, you play into his game. Show your throat for once; let him tear. Perhaps then, you'll finally feel alive.
NIX ⋅𖥔⋅ A POUNDING HEART IN THE STILLNESS, I CAN STILL FEEL YOU AMONG A SEA OF PEOPLE
Your twin. You never quite understood them, and they've never cared to explain. Throughout your childhood, you watched as they rebelled in any way they could; sneaking out at night, discarding the clothes your mother picked for them. They inherently knew who they were — who they were meant to be — in a way you were never able to fully grasp for yourself. They pointed at you and called you nothing but a doll; a puppet, sedately controlled by your family. When they were forced to live aboveground, you couldn't help but think that it was better to be a puppet — than nothing at all.
VOYAGER ⋅𖥔⋅ YOU ARE THE KNIFE / AND YOU ARE WHAT THE KNIFE / HAS OPENED, SAYS THE WIND
Despite the various functions you both attend, he is different from the other familiar faces that surround you. He doesn't pander to your interests; he doesn't seek to use your power for his own means. Yet, his gaze unsettles you. As if he can see through the practiced smiles and promises of sweet nothings. As if he knows your mind is nothing but a haze of borrowed stars; endless darkness and distance without direction, if not for their stolen glow. FINE THEN — LOOK. He'll have no one else to blame if the abyss that gazes back is nothing but a reflection of himself.
TAKEN BY ADMIN MAI ⋅𖥔⋅ NYCHAA NUTTANICHA
