Doors Masquerade (doorsmasquerade) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-03-28 01:47:00 |
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Entry tags: | plot: masquerade |
Who: Ephemera
What: Reveal
Where: Passages -> Home
Warnings: None
The change was only skin deep, because it was only skin deep at the outset. She lamented the loss of her paper dress when it disappeared, and even the bright red beneath the pages was something she could see the beauty in. Perhaps it wasn’t normal, seeing beauty in something that must have stemmed from violence, but the past had given her a skewed view of life, and she had learned to embrace it years earlier.
She walked home, because work was still scarce and she couldn’t afford the fare for a cab, and the whimsically romantic sundress she wore (white with the tiniest pink flowers) over a gray undershirt was a far cry from the beautifully constructed parchment creation from the evening, but she felt as much herself in it as she had in the garment from the ball, and there was no concern on her placid features.
Remembering, as she had told the prince with the skulls, was important. And so she replayed the evening as she walked, a sentence for each step - count, sentence, count, sentence, count, sentence. She had not yet been through her door, and she was ignoring the voice in her head even then, but that didn’t stop her from wondering about the others in attendance. She thought of books with similar themes, books where similar things occurred and, by the time she reached the RV door, she decided there must be a moral to the story.
Upon arriving home, she opened the military issue Bible that served as her journal, and she read the words there. She smiled. She liked being right, and she didn’t mind the thought that she was a papered over bloodied girl. She wasn’t like other women, and she knew that. She was very self aware, was Maren.
She changed out of her dress and into an equally whimsical and ridiculous nightgown, long and flowing and impractical in the Las Vegas heat, and then she crawled into the bunk that comprised her bed. She pulled a book from the makeshift shelves that surrounded it - Wuthering Heights - and she settled back to read, but she was distracted with thoughts of twirling, of candles and glowing lights, and Heathcliff’s entirely unhealthy obsession with Cathy didn’t transport her as it normally did.
Steve felt this was the perfect opportunity to have a “chat” - he never called them lectures - about the dangers of “bad guys.” Maren put the book aside, and she turned off the light. Despite it being early in the morning, she was exhausted, and there was nothing that could lull her to sleep like Steve’s incessantly droning voice in her mind.