queenviolet
Rules? Oh, honey... Like I'd follow the rules.
Me, I'm the kind of girl who doesn't play fair. I lie, and cheat, and manipulate to my heart's content.
I don't bother with the damn rules, because the rules will only hold me down.
It's history, now.
The fear of blank, white walls, covered in brightly colored, out-dated posters.
The friendly nurses who alternately try to help and don't care at all.
The patients, who all have worse problems than you, but are willing to reach out to you.
It's history, yeah, and a lot of it is frightening.
But it's more than I have now.
California. Her beloved cousin, her only family member, her next of kin, her last lifeline.
All the way in California.
While she's here, in Hawaii, a tropical paradise, battling with herself for dominance, for balance, for peace.
She's not sure she can find it.
Carmelia carefully put on her makeup, having to stop almost constantly to steady her shaking hands.
She was nervous, more nervous than at her coming out ceremony, or when she hosted her first ball.
But that was alright, she supposed, applying a wisp of eyeliner below her eye, and a thicker stripe above it. She switched to the other eye. Tonight, there was a lot more at stake than just her dignity.
She set down the makeup and smiled confidently at herself in the mirror. Tonight, she would bring those bastards to their knees.
Sometimes I think about revolting against this good girl impression people get when they look at me. Maybe get my hair dyed a little darker, make myself a somewhat-cliche version of punk-ish, goth-ish style. And that would be great fun.
But I think that, for now, I can revolt in my head, and smile at the people who scoff at me. So what if they think I look weird in boot-cut jeans and long shirts? I can still kick their collective ass.
It takes a lot to make me a coward. I'm stronger in the face of adversity than I am when there's nothing to face. I want to stand up for myself, tell people who I am, why I'm different, and that they're going to shut up and deal with it.
Your thoughts, words, presence, drain me. Tugging at my heart, pushing at my thoughts, influencing me into being something I'm not.
When you're around... I become a different person. Good or bad, it doesn't matter: This isn't who I am.
"You're lucky to be alive."
Am I? Can being alive be considered "lucky"? I don't think so.
Being lucky is being here, in my warm bed, snuggled up to my boyfriend. It's having a family that accepts me for who and what I am.
Living isn't the important part. It's being you that makes you lucky.
He pushed her boundaries, her mind, her will. He pushed her until she wanted to give in, and still she sparred, still she trained, still she fought.
Sometimes, he used knives. Sometimes, staves. Sometimes, he wouldn't use anything at all, simply chasing her around the practice mat, landing blows at every opportunity.
And then, one day, he'd driven her too far.
I've never been able to really commit to anything. Any thing at all. If I think I'll want a hamburger, I'll hold off until the last minute, simply because I might want a hot dog instead.
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