06-25-2018, 04:04 PM
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[sup]c) miithers[/sup]
★ WHEN MY HEART IS MADE FROM GOLD AND FORGIVENESS SEEMS TOO BOLD
Hazel’s head was pounding.
Everything felt fuzzy and out of focus; she was underwater, and her brain had turned the volume down too far. Her ears were ringing. There was grit in her mouth. Her tailbone felt bruised and sore. She tried to crack her eyes open and light seared her retinas, making her head throb under her fingers. Blood bubbled on her lip.
But it was all weak, all faded with the sensation of nails on her arms and chemicals in her nose and blood on her hands - she couldn’t focus, couldn’t pull herself out of it, couldn’t even tell if what was going on was real or not or if she was still in that mindscape. And it was that - the not being able to draw the line between fiction and nonfiction - that terrified her. Nothing felt real; the tufts of grass she clutched between her fingers were just glass shards and cleaning supplies from the closet, the smell of dirt underneath her nose sharp and acrid with chemicals.
It hurt - it all hurt so much, and Hazel sobbed those words into the ground, trembling and shaking because fuck, she could feel the blood drip down her wrists; could feel the darkness press further and further down on her chest, making her gasp like she couldn’t get oxygen into her system. It all felt familiar, a phantom haunt, a repeat of her last panic attack: the same inability to breathe, the same sheer terror coursing through her veins. But there was no corner to press herself into, no wall to hold her up; so she curled into a ball, rocking back and forth and scratching her nails uselessly at her scalp and crying like the pathetic, weak, defenseless little girl she was.
Hazel wasn’t aware of the footsteps pounding against the earth as they neared. She felt it through the earth, felt it tremble under her forearms and her knees, but she didn’t acknowledge it. Didn’t have the brain space to. She could only focus, could only spiral further into chemicals and blood and yelling and nails and fear -
Then there was warmth - a burning, searing, sweltering heat that brushed her skin. Brushed her hand. A crackle of static between the two. A heartbeat of time.
Then Hazel was flying back with a shrill shriek, heart slamming against her ribs and eyes wild and unfocused. Fire burned in her hand, scorching and unexpected and - “Don’t touch me, don’t touch me - I didn’t do it, it wasn’t me, please, it hurts so much -“ The light in her eyes hurt, it hurt so much, green and blue and brown blurring together and assaulting her senses and she couldn’t get her bearings. She tried, chest heaving and tears smeared across her face, eyes finding Shay and shaking her head as guilt poured, heavy and cold as fucking ice down her back, thoughts a jumbled mess of I couldn’t save Margaery and now Shay is suffering and I can’t help her either and she’s still trying to help me and is this even real or am I still dreaming -
Hazel shook her head vehemently - violently - crying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I can’t do it - I can’t help, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to -“ as she confused memory for reality, some sick twisted thing in her spinning it all on a fork and she couldn’t fucking take it so she curled back in on herself, head screaming and body aching and chest heaving.
She felt bad; felt distressed that Shay couldn’t help her and it was Hazel’s fault. It was her fault because she couldn’t fucking calm down, couldn’t pull it apart and separate it like normal and Deus, she really was weak and useless.
Suddenly a heavier presence loomed over her, shadow blocking the sun and aura cluttering her already scattered thoughts. It was heavy, dark, pulsing and frothing, but it didn’t feel evil. It was just heavy, just pressing down, and Hazel gasped for breath, trying to suck down air before she passed out.
Sound filtered through her seemingly water-clogged ears: a voice, a deep timbre that rumbled. It was clearer than Shay’s voice, more startling against the backdrop of fucking everything else, and Hazel almost looked up. Almost.
But then that heavy weight lowered and heat crackled, almost familiar from a time that seemed like years ago; and for a split second, it was comfortable, like a campfire - then it wasn’t, and arms were pulling her close, forcing her into someone’s lap and the heat burst into full fledged sparks and flames, dancing and branding her skin, and Hazel screamed.
If it was hard to breathe before, it was near impossible now, the crushing proximity suffocating her and lighting everything on fire like the kitchen knives that dug into her skin and - fuck, she had to get away, needed to breathe, she couldn’t breathe -
“C-can’t breathe,” She hiccuped, muffled, “I can’t breathe, please - please don’t hurt me anymore, I’m sorry -“ Hazel was struggling, squirming, trying to get free, but everything hurt and her body was exhausted and she wasn’t fucking strong enough.
Bastille was talking; Hazel could feel it against her cheek, where his heartbeat was skittering and it was supposed to be soothing, supposed to be comforting, but it was just suffocating and all-encompassing. She couldn’t focus on it, not while there was something pressing against her mind, tugging and pulling and yanking like it was the siege of Troy and someone was trying to break her walls and she was panicking because of it. She was terrified it was that girl from the mindscape, that she wanted complete and total access and Hazel was exhausted and still couldn’t tell fiction from reality but she was not about to hand over her brain to a bitch ghost. She sobbed, shrieking again, feeling the panic curl against her spine. She felt the rushing fear, the horror of being at something else’s mercy so objectively fucking terrorizing and she was pushing back, physically and mentally, refusing, resisting -
Then...a fracture. A crack.
“No, no - no -“ Hazel sobbed, desperate, Bastille’s comforts filtering out because everything burned and the wall was breaking and she was so tired and she couldn’t hold it -
When it crumbled, sensation flooded every nerve: fresh fire rolled through her system, igniting. Something ancient and dark spilled down her spine, shocking and icy and Hazel felt the persistence skitter away, shocked and startled and Hazel was frozen. Paralyzed and overwhelmed and exhausted and shaking.
Then she sucked in a breath when Bastille exhaled against the top of her hair, jerking involuntarily. Smoke and pine snagged against her senses, familiar and comforting and cracking like a whip across her brain.
Hazel tipped her head back, cracking open miserable golden optics to look at Bastille’s panicked, shaken expression, feeling its mirror image buzz in her veins.
Right back where they started.
Hazel swallowed against her dry throat, tasting blood on her lips and squeezing her eyes shut, tears dripping down her cheeks like rain. Fingers curling into his shirt, she melted into him, tucking her forehead and curve of her nose against his neck, mind too exhausted to panic at the warmth any more.
The girl in her mindscape had been right, after all: she was weak and useless and tired. Just a burden. She was the one product great for everything until she wasn’t, and people realized her lack of worth. She was flawed and broken and now everyone knew. Everyone knew she wasn’t worth fucking anything.
She couldn’t save Margaery. She couldn’t comfort Shay - she couldn’t even let Shay comfort her. Now Bastille knew about her scar and he was in her head and he would find everything out sooner or later and would force her out; would cast her far from the Ascendants because she was a weakness...just a liability.
Hazel shook, silent sobs slipping out as muffled gasps as she slumped, hoarsely whispering: “I’m sorry,” She cried. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry -“
Everything felt fuzzy and out of focus; she was underwater, and her brain had turned the volume down too far. Her ears were ringing. There was grit in her mouth. Her tailbone felt bruised and sore. She tried to crack her eyes open and light seared her retinas, making her head throb under her fingers. Blood bubbled on her lip.
But it was all weak, all faded with the sensation of nails on her arms and chemicals in her nose and blood on her hands - she couldn’t focus, couldn’t pull herself out of it, couldn’t even tell if what was going on was real or not or if she was still in that mindscape. And it was that - the not being able to draw the line between fiction and nonfiction - that terrified her. Nothing felt real; the tufts of grass she clutched between her fingers were just glass shards and cleaning supplies from the closet, the smell of dirt underneath her nose sharp and acrid with chemicals.
It hurt - it all hurt so much, and Hazel sobbed those words into the ground, trembling and shaking because fuck, she could feel the blood drip down her wrists; could feel the darkness press further and further down on her chest, making her gasp like she couldn’t get oxygen into her system. It all felt familiar, a phantom haunt, a repeat of her last panic attack: the same inability to breathe, the same sheer terror coursing through her veins. But there was no corner to press herself into, no wall to hold her up; so she curled into a ball, rocking back and forth and scratching her nails uselessly at her scalp and crying like the pathetic, weak, defenseless little girl she was.
Hazel wasn’t aware of the footsteps pounding against the earth as they neared. She felt it through the earth, felt it tremble under her forearms and her knees, but she didn’t acknowledge it. Didn’t have the brain space to. She could only focus, could only spiral further into chemicals and blood and yelling and nails and fear -
Then there was warmth - a burning, searing, sweltering heat that brushed her skin. Brushed her hand. A crackle of static between the two. A heartbeat of time.
Then Hazel was flying back with a shrill shriek, heart slamming against her ribs and eyes wild and unfocused. Fire burned in her hand, scorching and unexpected and - “Don’t touch me, don’t touch me - I didn’t do it, it wasn’t me, please, it hurts so much -“ The light in her eyes hurt, it hurt so much, green and blue and brown blurring together and assaulting her senses and she couldn’t get her bearings. She tried, chest heaving and tears smeared across her face, eyes finding Shay and shaking her head as guilt poured, heavy and cold as fucking ice down her back, thoughts a jumbled mess of I couldn’t save Margaery and now Shay is suffering and I can’t help her either and she’s still trying to help me and is this even real or am I still dreaming -
Hazel shook her head vehemently - violently - crying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I can’t do it - I can’t help, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to -“ as she confused memory for reality, some sick twisted thing in her spinning it all on a fork and she couldn’t fucking take it so she curled back in on herself, head screaming and body aching and chest heaving.
She felt bad; felt distressed that Shay couldn’t help her and it was Hazel’s fault. It was her fault because she couldn’t fucking calm down, couldn’t pull it apart and separate it like normal and Deus, she really was weak and useless.
Suddenly a heavier presence loomed over her, shadow blocking the sun and aura cluttering her already scattered thoughts. It was heavy, dark, pulsing and frothing, but it didn’t feel evil. It was just heavy, just pressing down, and Hazel gasped for breath, trying to suck down air before she passed out.
Sound filtered through her seemingly water-clogged ears: a voice, a deep timbre that rumbled. It was clearer than Shay’s voice, more startling against the backdrop of fucking everything else, and Hazel almost looked up. Almost.
But then that heavy weight lowered and heat crackled, almost familiar from a time that seemed like years ago; and for a split second, it was comfortable, like a campfire - then it wasn’t, and arms were pulling her close, forcing her into someone’s lap and the heat burst into full fledged sparks and flames, dancing and branding her skin, and Hazel screamed.
If it was hard to breathe before, it was near impossible now, the crushing proximity suffocating her and lighting everything on fire like the kitchen knives that dug into her skin and - fuck, she had to get away, needed to breathe, she couldn’t breathe -
“C-can’t breathe,” She hiccuped, muffled, “I can’t breathe, please - please don’t hurt me anymore, I’m sorry -“ Hazel was struggling, squirming, trying to get free, but everything hurt and her body was exhausted and she wasn’t fucking strong enough.
Bastille was talking; Hazel could feel it against her cheek, where his heartbeat was skittering and it was supposed to be soothing, supposed to be comforting, but it was just suffocating and all-encompassing. She couldn’t focus on it, not while there was something pressing against her mind, tugging and pulling and yanking like it was the siege of Troy and someone was trying to break her walls and she was panicking because of it. She was terrified it was that girl from the mindscape, that she wanted complete and total access and Hazel was exhausted and still couldn’t tell fiction from reality but she was not about to hand over her brain to a bitch ghost. She sobbed, shrieking again, feeling the panic curl against her spine. She felt the rushing fear, the horror of being at something else’s mercy so objectively fucking terrorizing and she was pushing back, physically and mentally, refusing, resisting -
Then...a fracture. A crack.
“No, no - no -“ Hazel sobbed, desperate, Bastille’s comforts filtering out because everything burned and the wall was breaking and she was so tired and she couldn’t hold it -
When it crumbled, sensation flooded every nerve: fresh fire rolled through her system, igniting. Something ancient and dark spilled down her spine, shocking and icy and Hazel felt the persistence skitter away, shocked and startled and Hazel was frozen. Paralyzed and overwhelmed and exhausted and shaking.
Then she sucked in a breath when Bastille exhaled against the top of her hair, jerking involuntarily. Smoke and pine snagged against her senses, familiar and comforting and cracking like a whip across her brain.
Hazel tipped her head back, cracking open miserable golden optics to look at Bastille’s panicked, shaken expression, feeling its mirror image buzz in her veins.
Right back where they started.
Hazel swallowed against her dry throat, tasting blood on her lips and squeezing her eyes shut, tears dripping down her cheeks like rain. Fingers curling into his shirt, she melted into him, tucking her forehead and curve of her nose against his neck, mind too exhausted to panic at the warmth any more.
The girl in her mindscape had been right, after all: she was weak and useless and tired. Just a burden. She was the one product great for everything until she wasn’t, and people realized her lack of worth. She was flawed and broken and now everyone knew. Everyone knew she wasn’t worth fucking anything.
She couldn’t save Margaery. She couldn’t comfort Shay - she couldn’t even let Shay comfort her. Now Bastille knew about her scar and he was in her head and he would find everything out sooner or later and would force her out; would cast her far from the Ascendants because she was a weakness...just a liability.
Hazel shook, silent sobs slipping out as muffled gasps as she slumped, hoarsely whispering: “I’m sorry,” She cried. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry -“
★ — hazel — "speech" — eight months — the ascendants — tags — ★
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WITH EVERY HEARTBEAT I HAVE LEFT
i will defend your every breath; i'll do better