THEY'RE JUST STORIES | ALEX | FANTASIES WE WISH WE OUR OWN Sept 9, 2021 8:49:21 GMT
Post by IRIS ARIELLA GAUNT on Sept 9, 2021 8:49:21 GMT
[attr="class","Iris"]Words fell from her tongue although fractured and hollow she felt the bridge widen between her heart and that of the world - she felt a disparaging thud dragging her down to the depths with every step reminding her of her place in the dirt and muck. Of her failures and her shame. Of how regardless of choice she saw the marks of violence on the skin of her brother - she witnessed the cries of her child go unheard by any ears other than her own as her father lay to rest - possibly in pieces - deep beneath the surface of the Fjord. She knew no peace, nor joy, nor silliness despite the facade she showed the word. She knew not ignorance or bliss. She knew not immaturity or childishness. She knew only the silence of her home and the smothering of parents and the reluctance of anybody to remind themselves that a woman writhed her way to the surface behind dewy-eyed spheres of transient ocean blue that saw nothing but the four walls of the homestance and the arms of an abusive partner who would have found her regardless. She was nothing but a child in their eyes - pathetic, helpless, and hopeless. Forever damned to infancy regardless of the form of her body or the wisdom that left informed lips.
She'd practised her speech in the quiet of her corner of Iceland. Rehearsing her speeches of dignity and prose in desperate attempts to mirror the graces of the dear heiress of Rosethorn. She'd never be so graceful; so poised; so refined as the world demanded she'd be. Even if she could be, what would it serve? They'd remind her of her Wiley ways; of her whoring and her partying; of the photos that circulated of exposed skin and twisted tongues; of raised thighs and parted lips gasping for air behind the tour van. Did they look to her with harrowed eyes? Did they scorn her? Scoff? Damn? What peace could she find now in the arms of her family? They turned to her as loving as they ever had but nothing had really changed. What did she have to show for her attempt to separate herself from the infantile Iris that they all knew? A fatherless child. A failed legacy. A shit ton of shame and parents who offered love as they had before but lacked the adoring glances that came from looking upon their youngest, most innocent child. Alas, it did not matter for words could be her vessel; not those uttered from emotive features but rather in fine, erasable print. Lines of text susceptible to erasure and manipulation. She'd been blessed with the gift of writing - a vessel in which she could expulse her anguish and label it as fiction. Nothing more than mutterings of a silent fantasy in her mind concealed in poetry and prose. Something another author would understand. His hands extended onto her to collect a manuscript almost too heavy for her petite form to support.
"Here." She offered softly, her palms reaching out shaded by heavy parchment - a fantasy of unbelievable proportions. A tale of wars and internal struggle in a world turned against you. A pathetic attempt at literature compared to the artistry woven by the man before her. Secret praise hidden behind the exhausted eyes of a mother damned to lack of sleep. She'd once been so open in her adoration of his craft - her form small and giggly as she followed him about in her muffled silence. Wide eyes admiring his work; a wild mind admiring everything else. Admittedly she'd been reluctant to show her work to anybody at all beyond her academic professors - though most thought her tales silly or infantile. Hardly constructive criticsm beyond the insulting. Alexander, she hoped, would be honest but also informative. A far more rehearsed eye to follow the lines as Iris turned away to collect the small bundled of wriggling life across the way. A year old yet still lost to poorly formed sleep. Much like her mother - restless. Much like her father - unco-operative and demanding. She paused by the far window, palms pressed against the heavy head of a child demanding affection. Soft sshes to support a lingering tug into sleep. Iris, never one for small talk, made her best attempt regardless. There were few she actively spoke to. Mostly out of fear of what would leave scorned pink. "Are... you writing?" She asked brightly, though a sense of uncertainty lingered behind her attempt. She'd not yet mastered the gift of masking tone and intention.
LAIKA OF GS!