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[sup]c) miithers[/sup]
★ WHEN MY HEART IS MADE FROM GOLD AND FORGIVENESS SEEMS TOO BOLD
ooc there’s a tl;dr at the bottom of the post! But first and foremost, because it’s crucial: this happens the morning after Margaery’s death. Margaery’s dead for three days, and Yikes it doesn’t take long for Haze to snap. Again, human au, because that’s necessary, too. trigger warning: abuse. If you’re sensitive to that sort of thing, I would skip the italics. Here we go!
Note: you can skip to the little ★ to start reading! The first few paragraphs are nonsensical gibberish.
Here’s the thing about art: ninety percent of the time, the outcome is different from the initial thought.
You can have this fantastic, marvelous idea that you can’t wait to set down on canvas. You might not have the exact logistics of getting from point A to point B, but you know what it’s going to look like. It’ll be a beautiful, gorgeous piece that people will put on Pinterest and Tumblr and will flock to buy because they’ll want it in their apartments and their living rooms. You can feel it, deep down, all the way to your bones. Motivation slips into your blood, and you won’t rest until your masterpiece is finished.
But there’s a catch: you’re human.
You might have dreams and you might have fantasies of all these fantastic, amazing things, but they’re blinding, and they leave you disappointed more often than not. It sucks, but there’s the tea. Art...art can be slippery, and sometimes creates that odd loophole of a different ending being even better than what you had originally planned. They say art embodies life, which...makes you think.
Hazel had believed it.
Hazel had, once upon a time, believed that anywhere else would be better than her home. She used to have grand delusions that white picket fences and Sunday cookouts lived peacefully and separately alongside tragedy and romance and everything that made the world interesting. She used to believe that art was the perfect way to capture life in all its beauty. Art was not meant to depict shadowed alleyways and dark rooms; art was meant to capture the sound of children’s laughter and the sunshine.
Because who wanted to look behind the curtains? Who wanted to see the scars and the tears and the blood spots on the kitchen tile? Why look there when you could look at what was on stage - at the magic?
It didn’t take long for the answer to surface: because there was only so much light the world could give.
Hazel had joined the Ascendants by sheer force of fear. She was on the run like a coward, and hid it with a cheery demeanor. Hid it with sunshine and light and innocence. She hid the scars, the blood, the tears, all of it - just so she could start over. So she could have her clean slate. So she could write her own script with her own white picket fences. So she could get rid of that scratching, low-simmering anger that always threatened her temper. Deus, did that anger give her a run for her money sometimes.
Like when it surfaced at the worst sort of times.
★ Hazel haphazardly tossed her paintbrush back in the water jug with a harsh sigh. It had been a day. A day since Margaery Mikaelson-Folie had died in childbirth. A day since one of her first friends, her mentor, her idol, had taken her last breath. Hazel scrubbed her hands against the denim of her faded overall shorts, palms hot with friction. A few days since Bastille found had more or less found out about her past.
Deus, she wanted a do-over. She wanted to start the week again, so when Monday rolled around, she wouldn’t feel Margaery’s hair slide through her fingers when she looked at her ashen, lifeless face. She wouldn’t feel the heat haloed around the other woman, calling for Hazel’s touch. She wouldn’t remember all the sweet things Margy said to her over time. Wouldn’t remember how she’d slowly replaced Mother in Hazel’s mind.
She wants a do-over so she never walks into that goddamn stable; so she doesn’t have an almost goddamn meltdown in front of their Seraph who’s a complete mess and thinks she doesn’t want to be near him because she can’t fucking touch people. Because she can’t handle how much and how overwhelming it is when he touches her, when she can’t smell anything but drugs and alcohol on him and how it shoves her back into her past and blinds her with it.
Fuck.
Hazel rubbed her knuckles against her eyelids, hating how she felt them come away wet with unshed tears. “This is stupid,” She told no one, petulant. It was stupid, wasn’t it? Crying couldn’t bring Margy back; crying couldn’t make the knot in her chest go away. Because Margy wasn’t going to pop up like Bastille did. She wasn’t going to come back to life, because the world was cruel and heartless and Hazel was a child. Crying wouldn’t make the rift between her and Bastille disappear, even if she couldn’t stand that she was beginning to associate him with fear and he probably knew.
“This is stupid,” Hazel insisted to no one, ignoring how her voice cracked and broke. She could feel her fingers curl into fists, feel her nails dig into her palms. Shaky, she slammed them against her side and stared at the ceiling, lower lip trembling. She wanted to scream, because she knew she was being dramatic and she didn’t care. She bit down on her lip so hard she tasted blood, but it didn’t change anything. Her mood was swinging wildly in every direction, and she felt like coming apart at the seams.
With a frustrated noise, Hazel stormed out of her room before she could tear her hair out. She needed a distraction; something to take her mind off of Margaery and the itching despair her brain was confusing for anger. Something to take her mind off the scar that was burning underneath her bandana, off of Suite’s absolute misery, and off of Bastille and all the horrible, shitty things he said to Margy. Because that was a whole other can of nasty she didn’t want to open.
The NPC’s she passed in the halls gave her odd looks; one tried to reach out with the beginnings of a concern, but Hazel waved them off, insisting that she was fine and brushing past them. She needed distraction, she needed a distraction, she needed a distraction -
“Arion, veni!” The girl called as she reached the doors of the observatory. The Thoroughbred didn’t take long to show up, looking like he was expecting carrots or another treat. Hazel felt a pang of guilt; it wasn’t Arion’s fault Margy died, and it wasn’t his fault that she was so distraught over it. It wasn’t his fault that things got so twisted between her and Bastille. The girl mumbled something of an apology before vaulting onto his back, not caring that she had forgotten a saddle pad or a bridle. She’d ridden him bareback plenty of times before.
Hazel spurred Arion in the general direction of the ruins in the far corner of the territory, knowing people didn’t visit the titled “City of Stars” very often. It would be quiet, secluded. It might be far enough away so no one could hear her scream her heart to the sky. She buried her face in Arion’s mane, letting him stretch his neck into a full gallop. Hazel clung to his back, breathing in the smell of hazy and grass and letting the wind roar in her ears. All she could do was wind her fingers deeper into Arion’s mane, letting the pressure stim dull the turmoil in her nerves for a split second.
She felt Margaery’s death coming. She knew it was coming - she could have gotten there before everyone else and she could have helped her. But that didn’t matter either, because it was too late. Hazel was too late, and as usual, useless. Her only contribution was sunshine and smiles because she couldn’t fight, she couldn’t read, she couldn’t heal. She was a goddamn walking burden. A burden that had a dark past with darker secrets. A burden that was a trainwreck of a person.
It was all so endlessly frustrating, so infinitely aggravating. So goddamn impossible to get away from. She was trying so hard to move past it, to move forward instead of backwards. She’d even confessed part of her past to Suite, hoping that it would offer some sort of relief from the horrible fear of being looked down upon even more than she already was; hoping, praying, that it would allow her to finally start her life. But Hazel turned, ran into Bastille, breathed in that smell of alcohol and drugs and got her bandana ripped off and found it was all still too much.
”Just the golden girl, aren’t you? Just everybody’s favorite little present, all gift wrapped with a big, shiny bow to hide how much you hurt on the inside.”
Hazel jerked, eyes flying wide open, because that was the voice that had been prominent in her mind for the past few days. That was the voice that definitely wasn’t hers, the voice she had been ignoring. That was a lot louder than normal, and startled the fuck out of Hazel, who lost focus right as Arion cleared the creek that tumbled towards the coast.
With a startled shriek, Hazel felt her head slam into the ground.
“Oh, poor baby. Did someone fall off their chair?”
Hazel sat up, tears in her eyes and pain blooming in the back of her skull. She blinked, fuzzy vision focusing on the woman crouched in front of her and lower lip puckering as she nodded. The woman, with her tan skin and dark eyes and red checkered apron, frowned.
And Hazel’s heart stopped.
Her arms, skinny and smooth, reached out for her Mother’s support, while Hazel yelled and screamed at herself to stop, to get up and run, because what was about to go down would haunt her for the rest of her life. Didn’t she see the red webbing Mother’s eyes? Couldn’t she smell the foreign, bitter smell that was wafting off her clothes? Clearly not, because the confusion was a sharp, electric shock to the brain when Mother’s lips, flattened to a thin line, didn’t move and neither did she.
“Then get up. You’re six, I shouldn’t have to pick you up off the floor when you get clumsy.” Mother grunted, standing up on those stupid red pumps and walking back across the kitchen.
“But it hurts,” Young Hazel whined.
Mother leveled a glare at her from the sink. “Suck it up, Hazel. You’re not a baby. This is what you get for standing up in your seat when you shouldn’t have. Quit whining.” Hazel felt herself recoil, but slowly and surely drew herself back into her seat at the table, where her dinner sat, cold and mushy on the paper plate.
”It’s cold,” Hazel announced, frowning at the food and poking at it with her fork. The slam of cutlery against glassware made her jump.
“Goddammit, Hazel.” Mother snapped, voice like fire. “That’s what you fucking get when you let it sit for too long. Maybe if you hadn’t been standing up like an idiot, then you wouldn’t have fallen, and then your food wouldn’t be cold.”
Hazel felt tears well in her eyes as she obediently scooped the cold food into her mouth. Mother was never that mean.
From inside the instant replay, Hazel dropped her head back, trying to ignore the shaking that was starting in her fingers as she squeezed her eyes shut. If only she could go back and tell herself that wasn’t even the worst of it. That wasn’t even the half of it. If only she waited until next week, when she spilled her milk on the floor…
“Yeah, you had it so hard, didn’t you, golden girl?”
Hazel’s eyes snapped open.
She wasn’t at the kitchen table anymore. She sat above a frothing white abyss, the ceiling made of nothing. Hazel would have found it quite beautiful, actually, had she not been so deep in her own head and itching with the feeling of someone watching her.
”Always afraid that you wouldn’t get your next meal. So terrified that Mommy would come back early.” The voice mocked in her ear, sugar sweet and feminine. Hazel whipped her head to the right, and caught the wisps of dark, chocolate curls and tan skin before it vanished in a puff of smoke.
The voice spoke again, disemboded and echoing: “So angry, so self-righteous, aren’t you, Hazel?” It practically purred. Hazel could feel her pulse beat hard and fast, the her comprehension whirling and trying to recalibrate itself. This voice wasn’t being very fucking nice, whoever they were, and it was bugging Hazel that they were in her head.
“Get out of my head,” Hazel told it, testing the waters. The voice laughed, high and loud. Hazel turned, searching; the thick sweep of long lashes curled over cold, dark eyes. Freckles. Smoke.
“Sweetheart, I am your head,” It cooed. “Doesn’t matter, though; you wouldn’t have figured that out for months. Or until that cute little boy toy of yours - what’s his name? Bastille, yes, that’s it - told you, at least. That boy knows things.” Hazel blanched, too much of that incorrect and confusing, because what the fuck -
“Don’t think too hard, lovley. You’ll hurt yourself. Anyway,” Hazel scrubbed her fingers over her face; why did this girl sound like she was her age? “You can credit those nightmares and that one panic attack to me, by the way. Artists deserve credit.”
Hazel frowned. “What nightmares?” She asked warily. She hadn’t had any nightmares recently. Aside from the ones she was anticipating tonght over Margaery, anyway.
“Did I not send those? My bad. Must be the bad wifi signal. I’ll make sure those get delivered soon.” The voice assured. Hazel’s heart and stomach sank to the floor. “Until then, a little more fun seems to be in order.” The girl’s voice was wicked, turning the dread in Hazel’s stomach to cold, hard, fear.
“Wait - wait, what? Who are you? Hold on -” Hazel flung herself to her feet, whirling in every direction, searching for the girl.
“Poor Hazel; always so confused, so at odds with yourself. So torn up inside, so tired of hiding things away from people but still wanting comfort and protection like a weak little bitch.” The girl taunted, voice dripping with satisfaction. Something told Hazel this girl could feel how her insides were doused with ice and fire. This girl could tell that Hazel was about to get angry, and Hazel was fucking terrified to find out how that was going to go.
“You’ve been hiding your emotions for so long - your jealousy, your anger, your concern - that this freedom is driving you crazy. Sometimes you wish you were back in that house, in that room, with your deadbolt and one tiny window, just so you could have a moment of silence.” She sneered.
“Stop it!” Hazel cried. “That’s not true!”
“Isn’t it? You’re tired of feeling, Hazel. You’re exhausted. You want it all to go away, you just want it to be quiet for one split second so you can collect yourself, yeah? Sometimes you wish you never made friends here because you know they’re the root of all your problems.” Her voice was growing, louder and louder; Hazel slapped her hands over her ears, trying to block it all out.
“No! My friends have nothing to do with my issues!” She yelled.
“Oh, yes they do.” The girl countered. “That woman you seemed to care for so much? You couldn’t save her. You just pushed her further towards the edge. That cute boy with the blue eyes? Trouble. Already spiraling right after Mommy: using alcohol and drugs to cope. Your sorry ass is probably the reason, but I can’t speak for him. You want to help him because he’s terrifying you, but you can’t, and you know it.” Hazel gritted her teeth. “Just admit it, Hazel, you don’t want to be here! Admit that it was easier at home!”
Hazel could hear the grin in the other girl’s voice, and she didn’t care. She could hardly feel anything other than the rising tide of red surging behind her eyes. She couldn’t save Margy, she couldn’t even fucking read the letter she wrote (partially because she still couldn’t read English and partially because she already lost it), she couldn’t comfort Suite - so thank god Cooper took over that task - and she definitely couldn’t save Bastille; it was all so fucking frustrating and she was so sick of being weak and tired -
“THAT HOUSE ISN’T MY HOME!” Hazel finally screamed, falling to her knees and crumpling over, fingers curling into her hair and tears burning her eyes.
Everything fell deathly silent. And then, ever so softly: “No?”
Then there was a blinding flash of light. And Hazel felt sunlight on her skin.
She cracked her eyes open, and found short, chubby arms and tiny hands grabbing at a bubble before it popped in her face. Despair coursed through her system, because that was the last one…
“Hazel! Sweetie, over here! Look!” Hazel jerked around, squinting against the sun and peering across the green lawn, and up the porch steps to the woman with tan skin and straight black hair. Mother waved a bubble wand, filled with solution. Childish laugheter pealed out of Hazel as she ran for the new bubbles, clapping tiny hands to catch them all.
Hazel felt her throat clog as her anger receded. She remembered this. She was...what, three? Four? Young enough to still be in diapers. Didn’t matter. She could feel the grass tickle her toes and the sun on her face. She could hear Mother’s fond laugh, her gentle gasps of “Look! There’s one!” Hazel wanted to turn away from this bittersweet scene, knowing that it was too far in the past. She wanted the tears to dry up; she wanted the feel of safety and warmth; she wanted...she wanted her Mother…
Then the scene flickered; crackled with static and froze, like the connection went haywire.
Suddenly yelling was filling her ears and nails were digging into her arm, the sour smell of alcohol clogging her nose and throat and it was so much, there was so much - she was crying, trying to stifle sobs through bleary eyes as her mother dragged her to the closet, and fuck, Hazel was going to get whiplash -
“You rotten, good for nothing waste of fucking space -” Mother was snarling, fumbling with the closet doorknob while Hazel shook and whimpered, vehemently shaking her head because not the closet, not the closet; it was smaller than her room and the bathroom and was awful to sleep in -
But it didn’t matter what Hazel wanted - she’d learn that soon enough - because her bloody palms were already hitting the back wall of the closet as she tripped over the supplies, earning at least four new bruises, and the lock was clicking behind her and it was just pitch black -
Hazel flung herself upwards with a shrill cry, head pounding where it slammed against the ground and all other points of contact sore and throbbing. Everything hurt, her stomach was rolling with nausea, and she couldn’t open her eyes but she could still feel Mother’s nails digging into her skin, could still feel the jagged cuts in her palm as she worked herself into another panic attack. Her heartbeat skyrocketed, breath coming in short gasps like the oxygen wasn’t getting to her lungs as she curled over, pressing her head to the cool earth as the sun beat down on her back, shaking like she couldn’t get warm.
Fuck, fuck - she didn’t even bother to worry that this was in broad daylight, that people might just find her a fucking mess. She couldn’t get the images out of her head; couldn’t get the feeling of betrayal out of her system - couldn’t get the confusing mess of who the hell that girl was and why she had control over Hazel’s memories and mind like that.
Arion stood not far off, refusing to leave but not quite worried enough to stay in one spot.
tl;dr this is a long one, but please don’t read the whole thing? Oh my god? Anyway, Hazel takes off on Arion and falls off because she wasn’t paying attention (smh) and blacks out. She meets one of her souls, (but doesn’t realize it) finds out she’s an absolute bitch, and experiences several different flashbacks. The only important one is the one that reveals her mother wasn’t always abusive! Now she’s practically in the middle of the territory having a breakdown. 3,565 words!
Note: you can skip to the little ★ to start reading! The first few paragraphs are nonsensical gibberish.
Here’s the thing about art: ninety percent of the time, the outcome is different from the initial thought.
You can have this fantastic, marvelous idea that you can’t wait to set down on canvas. You might not have the exact logistics of getting from point A to point B, but you know what it’s going to look like. It’ll be a beautiful, gorgeous piece that people will put on Pinterest and Tumblr and will flock to buy because they’ll want it in their apartments and their living rooms. You can feel it, deep down, all the way to your bones. Motivation slips into your blood, and you won’t rest until your masterpiece is finished.
But there’s a catch: you’re human.
You might have dreams and you might have fantasies of all these fantastic, amazing things, but they’re blinding, and they leave you disappointed more often than not. It sucks, but there’s the tea. Art...art can be slippery, and sometimes creates that odd loophole of a different ending being even better than what you had originally planned. They say art embodies life, which...makes you think.
Hazel had believed it.
Hazel had, once upon a time, believed that anywhere else would be better than her home. She used to have grand delusions that white picket fences and Sunday cookouts lived peacefully and separately alongside tragedy and romance and everything that made the world interesting. She used to believe that art was the perfect way to capture life in all its beauty. Art was not meant to depict shadowed alleyways and dark rooms; art was meant to capture the sound of children’s laughter and the sunshine.
Because who wanted to look behind the curtains? Who wanted to see the scars and the tears and the blood spots on the kitchen tile? Why look there when you could look at what was on stage - at the magic?
It didn’t take long for the answer to surface: because there was only so much light the world could give.
Hazel had joined the Ascendants by sheer force of fear. She was on the run like a coward, and hid it with a cheery demeanor. Hid it with sunshine and light and innocence. She hid the scars, the blood, the tears, all of it - just so she could start over. So she could have her clean slate. So she could write her own script with her own white picket fences. So she could get rid of that scratching, low-simmering anger that always threatened her temper. Deus, did that anger give her a run for her money sometimes.
Like when it surfaced at the worst sort of times.
★ Hazel haphazardly tossed her paintbrush back in the water jug with a harsh sigh. It had been a day. A day since Margaery Mikaelson-Folie had died in childbirth. A day since one of her first friends, her mentor, her idol, had taken her last breath. Hazel scrubbed her hands against the denim of her faded overall shorts, palms hot with friction. A few days since Bastille found had more or less found out about her past.
Deus, she wanted a do-over. She wanted to start the week again, so when Monday rolled around, she wouldn’t feel Margaery’s hair slide through her fingers when she looked at her ashen, lifeless face. She wouldn’t feel the heat haloed around the other woman, calling for Hazel’s touch. She wouldn’t remember all the sweet things Margy said to her over time. Wouldn’t remember how she’d slowly replaced Mother in Hazel’s mind.
She wants a do-over so she never walks into that goddamn stable; so she doesn’t have an almost goddamn meltdown in front of their Seraph who’s a complete mess and thinks she doesn’t want to be near him because she can’t fucking touch people. Because she can’t handle how much and how overwhelming it is when he touches her, when she can’t smell anything but drugs and alcohol on him and how it shoves her back into her past and blinds her with it.
Fuck.
Hazel rubbed her knuckles against her eyelids, hating how she felt them come away wet with unshed tears. “This is stupid,” She told no one, petulant. It was stupid, wasn’t it? Crying couldn’t bring Margy back; crying couldn’t make the knot in her chest go away. Because Margy wasn’t going to pop up like Bastille did. She wasn’t going to come back to life, because the world was cruel and heartless and Hazel was a child. Crying wouldn’t make the rift between her and Bastille disappear, even if she couldn’t stand that she was beginning to associate him with fear and he probably knew.
“This is stupid,” Hazel insisted to no one, ignoring how her voice cracked and broke. She could feel her fingers curl into fists, feel her nails dig into her palms. Shaky, she slammed them against her side and stared at the ceiling, lower lip trembling. She wanted to scream, because she knew she was being dramatic and she didn’t care. She bit down on her lip so hard she tasted blood, but it didn’t change anything. Her mood was swinging wildly in every direction, and she felt like coming apart at the seams.
With a frustrated noise, Hazel stormed out of her room before she could tear her hair out. She needed a distraction; something to take her mind off of Margaery and the itching despair her brain was confusing for anger. Something to take her mind off the scar that was burning underneath her bandana, off of Suite’s absolute misery, and off of Bastille and all the horrible, shitty things he said to Margy. Because that was a whole other can of nasty she didn’t want to open.
The NPC’s she passed in the halls gave her odd looks; one tried to reach out with the beginnings of a concern, but Hazel waved them off, insisting that she was fine and brushing past them. She needed distraction, she needed a distraction, she needed a distraction -
“Arion, veni!” The girl called as she reached the doors of the observatory. The Thoroughbred didn’t take long to show up, looking like he was expecting carrots or another treat. Hazel felt a pang of guilt; it wasn’t Arion’s fault Margy died, and it wasn’t his fault that she was so distraught over it. It wasn’t his fault that things got so twisted between her and Bastille. The girl mumbled something of an apology before vaulting onto his back, not caring that she had forgotten a saddle pad or a bridle. She’d ridden him bareback plenty of times before.
Hazel spurred Arion in the general direction of the ruins in the far corner of the territory, knowing people didn’t visit the titled “City of Stars” very often. It would be quiet, secluded. It might be far enough away so no one could hear her scream her heart to the sky. She buried her face in Arion’s mane, letting him stretch his neck into a full gallop. Hazel clung to his back, breathing in the smell of hazy and grass and letting the wind roar in her ears. All she could do was wind her fingers deeper into Arion’s mane, letting the pressure stim dull the turmoil in her nerves for a split second.
She felt Margaery’s death coming. She knew it was coming - she could have gotten there before everyone else and she could have helped her. But that didn’t matter either, because it was too late. Hazel was too late, and as usual, useless. Her only contribution was sunshine and smiles because she couldn’t fight, she couldn’t read, she couldn’t heal. She was a goddamn walking burden. A burden that had a dark past with darker secrets. A burden that was a trainwreck of a person.
It was all so endlessly frustrating, so infinitely aggravating. So goddamn impossible to get away from. She was trying so hard to move past it, to move forward instead of backwards. She’d even confessed part of her past to Suite, hoping that it would offer some sort of relief from the horrible fear of being looked down upon even more than she already was; hoping, praying, that it would allow her to finally start her life. But Hazel turned, ran into Bastille, breathed in that smell of alcohol and drugs and got her bandana ripped off and found it was all still too much.
”Just the golden girl, aren’t you? Just everybody’s favorite little present, all gift wrapped with a big, shiny bow to hide how much you hurt on the inside.”
Hazel jerked, eyes flying wide open, because that was the voice that had been prominent in her mind for the past few days. That was the voice that definitely wasn’t hers, the voice she had been ignoring. That was a lot louder than normal, and startled the fuck out of Hazel, who lost focus right as Arion cleared the creek that tumbled towards the coast.
With a startled shriek, Hazel felt her head slam into the ground.
“Oh, poor baby. Did someone fall off their chair?”
Hazel sat up, tears in her eyes and pain blooming in the back of her skull. She blinked, fuzzy vision focusing on the woman crouched in front of her and lower lip puckering as she nodded. The woman, with her tan skin and dark eyes and red checkered apron, frowned.
And Hazel’s heart stopped.
Her arms, skinny and smooth, reached out for her Mother’s support, while Hazel yelled and screamed at herself to stop, to get up and run, because what was about to go down would haunt her for the rest of her life. Didn’t she see the red webbing Mother’s eyes? Couldn’t she smell the foreign, bitter smell that was wafting off her clothes? Clearly not, because the confusion was a sharp, electric shock to the brain when Mother’s lips, flattened to a thin line, didn’t move and neither did she.
“Then get up. You’re six, I shouldn’t have to pick you up off the floor when you get clumsy.” Mother grunted, standing up on those stupid red pumps and walking back across the kitchen.
“But it hurts,” Young Hazel whined.
Mother leveled a glare at her from the sink. “Suck it up, Hazel. You’re not a baby. This is what you get for standing up in your seat when you shouldn’t have. Quit whining.” Hazel felt herself recoil, but slowly and surely drew herself back into her seat at the table, where her dinner sat, cold and mushy on the paper plate.
”It’s cold,” Hazel announced, frowning at the food and poking at it with her fork. The slam of cutlery against glassware made her jump.
“Goddammit, Hazel.” Mother snapped, voice like fire. “That’s what you fucking get when you let it sit for too long. Maybe if you hadn’t been standing up like an idiot, then you wouldn’t have fallen, and then your food wouldn’t be cold.”
Hazel felt tears well in her eyes as she obediently scooped the cold food into her mouth. Mother was never that mean.
From inside the instant replay, Hazel dropped her head back, trying to ignore the shaking that was starting in her fingers as she squeezed her eyes shut. If only she could go back and tell herself that wasn’t even the worst of it. That wasn’t even the half of it. If only she waited until next week, when she spilled her milk on the floor…
“Yeah, you had it so hard, didn’t you, golden girl?”
Hazel’s eyes snapped open.
She wasn’t at the kitchen table anymore. She sat above a frothing white abyss, the ceiling made of nothing. Hazel would have found it quite beautiful, actually, had she not been so deep in her own head and itching with the feeling of someone watching her.
”Always afraid that you wouldn’t get your next meal. So terrified that Mommy would come back early.” The voice mocked in her ear, sugar sweet and feminine. Hazel whipped her head to the right, and caught the wisps of dark, chocolate curls and tan skin before it vanished in a puff of smoke.
The voice spoke again, disemboded and echoing: “So angry, so self-righteous, aren’t you, Hazel?” It practically purred. Hazel could feel her pulse beat hard and fast, the her comprehension whirling and trying to recalibrate itself. This voice wasn’t being very fucking nice, whoever they were, and it was bugging Hazel that they were in her head.
“Get out of my head,” Hazel told it, testing the waters. The voice laughed, high and loud. Hazel turned, searching; the thick sweep of long lashes curled over cold, dark eyes. Freckles. Smoke.
“Sweetheart, I am your head,” It cooed. “Doesn’t matter, though; you wouldn’t have figured that out for months. Or until that cute little boy toy of yours - what’s his name? Bastille, yes, that’s it - told you, at least. That boy knows things.” Hazel blanched, too much of that incorrect and confusing, because what the fuck -
“Don’t think too hard, lovley. You’ll hurt yourself. Anyway,” Hazel scrubbed her fingers over her face; why did this girl sound like she was her age? “You can credit those nightmares and that one panic attack to me, by the way. Artists deserve credit.”
Hazel frowned. “What nightmares?” She asked warily. She hadn’t had any nightmares recently. Aside from the ones she was anticipating tonght over Margaery, anyway.
“Did I not send those? My bad. Must be the bad wifi signal. I’ll make sure those get delivered soon.” The voice assured. Hazel’s heart and stomach sank to the floor. “Until then, a little more fun seems to be in order.” The girl’s voice was wicked, turning the dread in Hazel’s stomach to cold, hard, fear.
“Wait - wait, what? Who are you? Hold on -” Hazel flung herself to her feet, whirling in every direction, searching for the girl.
“Poor Hazel; always so confused, so at odds with yourself. So torn up inside, so tired of hiding things away from people but still wanting comfort and protection like a weak little bitch.” The girl taunted, voice dripping with satisfaction. Something told Hazel this girl could feel how her insides were doused with ice and fire. This girl could tell that Hazel was about to get angry, and Hazel was fucking terrified to find out how that was going to go.
“You’ve been hiding your emotions for so long - your jealousy, your anger, your concern - that this freedom is driving you crazy. Sometimes you wish you were back in that house, in that room, with your deadbolt and one tiny window, just so you could have a moment of silence.” She sneered.
“Stop it!” Hazel cried. “That’s not true!”
“Isn’t it? You’re tired of feeling, Hazel. You’re exhausted. You want it all to go away, you just want it to be quiet for one split second so you can collect yourself, yeah? Sometimes you wish you never made friends here because you know they’re the root of all your problems.” Her voice was growing, louder and louder; Hazel slapped her hands over her ears, trying to block it all out.
“No! My friends have nothing to do with my issues!” She yelled.
“Oh, yes they do.” The girl countered. “That woman you seemed to care for so much? You couldn’t save her. You just pushed her further towards the edge. That cute boy with the blue eyes? Trouble. Already spiraling right after Mommy: using alcohol and drugs to cope. Your sorry ass is probably the reason, but I can’t speak for him. You want to help him because he’s terrifying you, but you can’t, and you know it.” Hazel gritted her teeth. “Just admit it, Hazel, you don’t want to be here! Admit that it was easier at home!”
Hazel could hear the grin in the other girl’s voice, and she didn’t care. She could hardly feel anything other than the rising tide of red surging behind her eyes. She couldn’t save Margy, she couldn’t even fucking read the letter she wrote (partially because she still couldn’t read English and partially because she already lost it), she couldn’t comfort Suite - so thank god Cooper took over that task - and she definitely couldn’t save Bastille; it was all so fucking frustrating and she was so sick of being weak and tired -
“THAT HOUSE ISN’T MY HOME!” Hazel finally screamed, falling to her knees and crumpling over, fingers curling into her hair and tears burning her eyes.
Everything fell deathly silent. And then, ever so softly: “No?”
Then there was a blinding flash of light. And Hazel felt sunlight on her skin.
She cracked her eyes open, and found short, chubby arms and tiny hands grabbing at a bubble before it popped in her face. Despair coursed through her system, because that was the last one…
“Hazel! Sweetie, over here! Look!” Hazel jerked around, squinting against the sun and peering across the green lawn, and up the porch steps to the woman with tan skin and straight black hair. Mother waved a bubble wand, filled with solution. Childish laugheter pealed out of Hazel as she ran for the new bubbles, clapping tiny hands to catch them all.
Hazel felt her throat clog as her anger receded. She remembered this. She was...what, three? Four? Young enough to still be in diapers. Didn’t matter. She could feel the grass tickle her toes and the sun on her face. She could hear Mother’s fond laugh, her gentle gasps of “Look! There’s one!” Hazel wanted to turn away from this bittersweet scene, knowing that it was too far in the past. She wanted the tears to dry up; she wanted the feel of safety and warmth; she wanted...she wanted her Mother…
Then the scene flickered; crackled with static and froze, like the connection went haywire.
Suddenly yelling was filling her ears and nails were digging into her arm, the sour smell of alcohol clogging her nose and throat and it was so much, there was so much - she was crying, trying to stifle sobs through bleary eyes as her mother dragged her to the closet, and fuck, Hazel was going to get whiplash -
“You rotten, good for nothing waste of fucking space -” Mother was snarling, fumbling with the closet doorknob while Hazel shook and whimpered, vehemently shaking her head because not the closet, not the closet; it was smaller than her room and the bathroom and was awful to sleep in -
But it didn’t matter what Hazel wanted - she’d learn that soon enough - because her bloody palms were already hitting the back wall of the closet as she tripped over the supplies, earning at least four new bruises, and the lock was clicking behind her and it was just pitch black -
Hazel flung herself upwards with a shrill cry, head pounding where it slammed against the ground and all other points of contact sore and throbbing. Everything hurt, her stomach was rolling with nausea, and she couldn’t open her eyes but she could still feel Mother’s nails digging into her skin, could still feel the jagged cuts in her palm as she worked herself into another panic attack. Her heartbeat skyrocketed, breath coming in short gasps like the oxygen wasn’t getting to her lungs as she curled over, pressing her head to the cool earth as the sun beat down on her back, shaking like she couldn’t get warm.
Fuck, fuck - she didn’t even bother to worry that this was in broad daylight, that people might just find her a fucking mess. She couldn’t get the images out of her head; couldn’t get the feeling of betrayal out of her system - couldn’t get the confusing mess of who the hell that girl was and why she had control over Hazel’s memories and mind like that.
Arion stood not far off, refusing to leave but not quite worried enough to stay in one spot.
tl;dr this is a long one, but please don’t read the whole thing? Oh my god? Anyway, Hazel takes off on Arion and falls off because she wasn’t paying attention (smh) and blacks out. She meets one of her souls, (but doesn’t realize it) finds out she’s an absolute bitch, and experiences several different flashbacks. The only important one is the one that reveals her mother wasn’t always abusive! Now she’s practically in the middle of the territory having a breakdown. 3,565 words!
★ — hazel — "speech" — seven months — the ascendants — tags — ★
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WITH EVERY HEARTBEAT I HAVE LEFT
i will defend your every breath; i'll do better
