07-12-2018, 01:58 PM
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To a girl who lived as a real-life Rapunzel for the majority of her childhood, time was easily listed as one of her most hated things. It never seemed to pass quite right, quite fast enough. Hazel would spend days collecting trinkets and shards from around the house, stashing them under blankets and pillows for later. She’d find string and yarn, beads and newspapers with blank sudoku puzzles or crosswords. She’d collect broken jewelry and pencils she found on the floor by Mother’s office door. Scraps of paper and cardboard made their way into her room. Half of the household’s every-day clutter became Hazel’s favorite toys and pastimes, letting her occupy herself with something other than the stinging pain of the bandaged cuts on her paws.
Every knick-knack and bauble in her room was meticulously organized in little boxes lined against a wall, because cleaning was another time-waster. She’d make bracelets with sloppy designs and learned to snap the pencils in half to use as building tools. She’d tape together the frame of a house made out of those stupid yellow pencils and cover it with cardboard or newspaper, knowing Mother would come in and take it at some point.
Crafts were trivial, though; Hazel’s favorite thing to do was draw. It had been a childish experiment at first, wondering how well she could hold a pencil in her mouth. Then it spiraled: Hazel hoarded printer paper and pencils like the convenient store across the street might run out. She would practice for hours and hours, having literally nothing better to do, and slowly she progressed. Just before she ran away, she had mastered the art of pencil pressure, eagerly drawing sketches of anything and everything.
Of course...now? Now Hazel’s art things lay broken and bent in a drawer, snapped like the wisp of pride she harbored for her abilities. Nobody knew; she didn’t want them to. Art had become an excuse to her, a poor reason behind why she wouldn’t fight. She missed it. She missed it so much it would ache at times, her brain screaming for the sensation of paper under her paws again.
A sad smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she joined the small group, having spotted Caboose’s struggle. “I didn’t know you liked to draw, Caboose,” Hazel admitted. It was a horribly cliche thing to say, but. Many people doodled, but there were few who enjoyed the art of it. She took her seat next to Suite, wrapping her tail over her paws. “That’s really fantastic that you’re giving it a go — it takes a lot of practice. But drawing is mostly just muscle memory, so if you work hard enough at it, you’ll get there.”
[sup]c) miithers[/sup]
[align=center]hazel elise caelum . nine months . the ascendants . golden girl . tags
To a girl who lived as a real-life Rapunzel for the majority of her childhood, time was easily listed as one of her most hated things. It never seemed to pass quite right, quite fast enough. Hazel would spend days collecting trinkets and shards from around the house, stashing them under blankets and pillows for later. She’d find string and yarn, beads and newspapers with blank sudoku puzzles or crosswords. She’d collect broken jewelry and pencils she found on the floor by Mother’s office door. Scraps of paper and cardboard made their way into her room. Half of the household’s every-day clutter became Hazel’s favorite toys and pastimes, letting her occupy herself with something other than the stinging pain of the bandaged cuts on her paws.
Every knick-knack and bauble in her room was meticulously organized in little boxes lined against a wall, because cleaning was another time-waster. She’d make bracelets with sloppy designs and learned to snap the pencils in half to use as building tools. She’d tape together the frame of a house made out of those stupid yellow pencils and cover it with cardboard or newspaper, knowing Mother would come in and take it at some point.
Crafts were trivial, though; Hazel’s favorite thing to do was draw. It had been a childish experiment at first, wondering how well she could hold a pencil in her mouth. Then it spiraled: Hazel hoarded printer paper and pencils like the convenient store across the street might run out. She would practice for hours and hours, having literally nothing better to do, and slowly she progressed. Just before she ran away, she had mastered the art of pencil pressure, eagerly drawing sketches of anything and everything.
Of course...now? Now Hazel’s art things lay broken and bent in a drawer, snapped like the wisp of pride she harbored for her abilities. Nobody knew; she didn’t want them to. Art had become an excuse to her, a poor reason behind why she wouldn’t fight. She missed it. She missed it so much it would ache at times, her brain screaming for the sensation of paper under her paws again.
A sad smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she joined the small group, having spotted Caboose’s struggle. “I didn’t know you liked to draw, Caboose,” Hazel admitted. It was a horribly cliche thing to say, but. Many people doodled, but there were few who enjoyed the art of it. She took her seat next to Suite, wrapping her tail over her paws. “That’s really fantastic that you’re giving it a go — it takes a lot of practice. But drawing is mostly just muscle memory, so if you work hard enough at it, you’ll get there.”
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WITH EVERY HEARTBEAT I HAVE LEFT
i will defend your every breath; i'll do better