05-20-2018, 07:09 PM
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★ WHEN MY HEART IS MADE FROM GOLD AND FORGIVENESS SEEMS TOO BOLD
It was a mess. Hazel was a mess: sobbing and dusty and exhausted and fucking terrified out of her mind. Terrified that her old life would follow her into her new one and she would never escape it, no matter how far she ran. That one morning, she might wake up and find Mother in her doorway, bottle of whiskey in hand and clothes from the previous night still on. That one day, she might look down and watch all her old scars - all her permanent reminders of what a horrible daughter she was - reopen and bleed onto the floor. People would stare and point fingers and spread rumors; closer friends would ask what happened and want to know more. They would say it was for her own sake: making her dig up all those horrible days and nights she had spent alone and feeling worthless.
Fear made her head hurt. Fear made her nails scrape against her arms. Fear made her press as far into the corner as she could go, like she might melt into the walls. Hazel wanted her past to leave, to fade away and never come back because she wasn't fucking strong enough to face it yet, or ever.
Hugging her knees tighter to her chest still, Hazel noticed the barest of shadows in her doorway, and then a tremor in the floor that cracked the cement. Immediately, she flattened herself against the wall, mind too polluted with panic and raw terror to realize that it was Bastille, not Mother. It was all there - the sudden movement towards her, the crunch of glass under shoes, the heavy presence of someone larger dropping to the floor and leaning into her personal space, suffocating her. Her breath hiccuped, a whine sliding out. "No," She whimpered, horrified because she didn't know if this was even real; she was so sure that she had woken up, that the memory was just that: a dream. "No, no - please, no -" She shrank away, near hysterical.
And then he grabbed her wrists.
And electricity crackled across her skin.
Shock rippled, snapping across her arms like a whip. There was so much that sank into her skin; there was so much: warmth and softness and foreign sensation and fucking pressure. Pressure that felt familiar and old and drove a spike of fear so deep in her heart Hazel really did burst into hysterics then, shrieking and trying to wrench her arms away. "Let go! Let go, stop it -" She begged, reality still fuzzing in her brain. Her mind confused Bastille's attempt to help as Mother's biting and unrelenting grip, the phantom pain of nails digging into her skin lighting up her nerves as his fingers got too close to the scar she hid underneath the bandanna. Hazel didn't even register Luna, just kept trying to get out of the iron clamps holding her down.
"Let me go, please, it was an accident, I-I didn't mean to break it!" She sobbed, still trying to twist out of his grasp. But he held fast, and was undoubtedly stronger. When he pulled her close, Hazel's panic flared brighter than it ever head before, her aura nearing radioactive. He was crushing her and she couldn't pull away, couldn't get free, couldn't escape and couldn't run. It was suffocating, all encompassing and objectively fucking terrorizing, and she couldn't breathe. She didn't hear him, what he said, couldn't match his breathing if she wanted to. Her head was light with lack of oxygen from hyperventilating, and she tried to suck in a breath, tried to get air to her lungs, and -
And.
It wasn't whiskey and gin that filled her nose. It was smoke and pine - campfire smoke that accompanied the woodland smell of pine. It was fresh and it wasn't sour. It didn't clog her throat and send her heart slamming into her ribcage - it...it just cracked across her senses like ice.
All at once, Hazel fell still, fists still holding handfuls of Bastille's shirt and chest heaving. She stalled, mind in limbo somewhere as she tried to struggle through the thick fog and understand what the hell was going on. Another breath in brought more smoke and pine, stinging the back of her throat and making the back of her tongue taste sweet. Then came a voice, deep and steady, murmuring something into the top of her hair. Slowly, her senses came back to her, with them returning guilt and confusion and pain.
Hazel lurched back, breaking from his grip before the sensation of skin and proximity could send her spiraling again. Her back hit the wall and she looked up, finding a boy with messy curls and icy blue eyes sitting in front of her. "Bast," Hazel said breathlessly, like she was just now figuring out his name.
Deus - Deus, had he - was that who she had been lashing out and kicking at? Fuck. Shame rose like a wave to engulf her, and she dropped her forehead to her knees, viciously rubbing her hands over her face to try and get rid of the shaking and the tears. "Oh god, I'm sorry," She mumbled. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean for - you didn't have to - you shouldn't have seen...that." Hazel stumbled over her words, wanting nothing more than for him to forget everything. "Can we pretend that didn't happen?" She asked, still not looking him in the eye. "...Please?"
Fear made her head hurt. Fear made her nails scrape against her arms. Fear made her press as far into the corner as she could go, like she might melt into the walls. Hazel wanted her past to leave, to fade away and never come back because she wasn't fucking strong enough to face it yet, or ever.
Hugging her knees tighter to her chest still, Hazel noticed the barest of shadows in her doorway, and then a tremor in the floor that cracked the cement. Immediately, she flattened herself against the wall, mind too polluted with panic and raw terror to realize that it was Bastille, not Mother. It was all there - the sudden movement towards her, the crunch of glass under shoes, the heavy presence of someone larger dropping to the floor and leaning into her personal space, suffocating her. Her breath hiccuped, a whine sliding out. "No," She whimpered, horrified because she didn't know if this was even real; she was so sure that she had woken up, that the memory was just that: a dream. "No, no - please, no -" She shrank away, near hysterical.
And then he grabbed her wrists.
And electricity crackled across her skin.
Shock rippled, snapping across her arms like a whip. There was so much that sank into her skin; there was so much: warmth and softness and foreign sensation and fucking pressure. Pressure that felt familiar and old and drove a spike of fear so deep in her heart Hazel really did burst into hysterics then, shrieking and trying to wrench her arms away. "Let go! Let go, stop it -" She begged, reality still fuzzing in her brain. Her mind confused Bastille's attempt to help as Mother's biting and unrelenting grip, the phantom pain of nails digging into her skin lighting up her nerves as his fingers got too close to the scar she hid underneath the bandanna. Hazel didn't even register Luna, just kept trying to get out of the iron clamps holding her down.
"Let me go, please, it was an accident, I-I didn't mean to break it!" She sobbed, still trying to twist out of his grasp. But he held fast, and was undoubtedly stronger. When he pulled her close, Hazel's panic flared brighter than it ever head before, her aura nearing radioactive. He was crushing her and she couldn't pull away, couldn't get free, couldn't escape and couldn't run. It was suffocating, all encompassing and objectively fucking terrorizing, and she couldn't breathe. She didn't hear him, what he said, couldn't match his breathing if she wanted to. Her head was light with lack of oxygen from hyperventilating, and she tried to suck in a breath, tried to get air to her lungs, and -
And.
It wasn't whiskey and gin that filled her nose. It was smoke and pine - campfire smoke that accompanied the woodland smell of pine. It was fresh and it wasn't sour. It didn't clog her throat and send her heart slamming into her ribcage - it...it just cracked across her senses like ice.
All at once, Hazel fell still, fists still holding handfuls of Bastille's shirt and chest heaving. She stalled, mind in limbo somewhere as she tried to struggle through the thick fog and understand what the hell was going on. Another breath in brought more smoke and pine, stinging the back of her throat and making the back of her tongue taste sweet. Then came a voice, deep and steady, murmuring something into the top of her hair. Slowly, her senses came back to her, with them returning guilt and confusion and pain.
Hazel lurched back, breaking from his grip before the sensation of skin and proximity could send her spiraling again. Her back hit the wall and she looked up, finding a boy with messy curls and icy blue eyes sitting in front of her. "Bast," Hazel said breathlessly, like she was just now figuring out his name.
Deus - Deus, had he - was that who she had been lashing out and kicking at? Fuck. Shame rose like a wave to engulf her, and she dropped her forehead to her knees, viciously rubbing her hands over her face to try and get rid of the shaking and the tears. "Oh god, I'm sorry," She mumbled. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean for - you didn't have to - you shouldn't have seen...that." Hazel stumbled over her words, wanting nothing more than for him to forget everything. "Can we pretend that didn't happen?" She asked, still not looking him in the eye. "...Please?"
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WITH EVERY HEARTBEAT I HAVE LEFT
i will defend your every breath; i'll do better