Doors Secrets (doorssecrets) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-07-08 12:29:00 |
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Entry tags: | plot: secrets |
Who: Creation
What: Reveal
When: Secrets plot
Warnings/Rating: Gore?
When morning came, her gamblin flake white replacement with the barest hint of hansa yellow light hair was merely a formality. It was a hint of pigment on black canvas. In the morning light, it looked like flecks, grey hairs amid thick black, and it gave the illusion of age to one very young. Her epoxied asphaltum eyes were bright and envy green in death, open and staring at the sky above the messy pool, with only slivers of harmless brown around the irises. She was without a guise, throat ripped out and no breath in her lungs. The seafoam green straps of her dress clung to thin, defined shoulders that bore no sweetly deceptive freckles. She was mottled skin in uncared for light brown, and she was splashes of gore red and flecks of trachea. She was thin skin, the veins visible lines of green beneath the surface. She was flakes of stubbornly colorfast nude, even in death. She was true, and she was nothing a collector would ever think to put on a shelf. She was no longer fit for a gallery.
She was young. Younger than she should be. She was short hair, spiky and disregarded beneath what remained of the paint. She was muscled thighs and shapely calves. She wasn't old enough to drink, but that had never stopped her. She was thin cheeks and full lips. She was unprotected hopes and dreams that had been shielded from the light by thick layers of paint for years. She was the thing she never let anyone see. She was vulnerability.
And she was dead, until that first ray of morning light returned her to that place of sooty skies and rooftops.
There, she was herself again. She was her painting. There was no textured pigment or whorls of linseed oil. She was no masterpiece of Degas or Picasso. She was her own creation. She'd brought herself into being when she was younger than the rotted and mottled canvas at the party had been. She'd started to layer the paint on herself at the age of five, when she'd begun to steal for the owners of the Russian orphanage she'd called home, all while tucking spoils into the ratty teddy bear that was her only possession. She'd decided on pale yellows and light nude at eleven, when she'd been sold into sexual service. She'd added stronger pigments and obscuring techniques at sixteen, when she'd been thrown off a roof to keep from finding out the secret of her heritage. She'd coated herself with varnish at seventeen, when she'd met a Bat and decided she needed the extra layer of protection. And now, at nearly twenty-eight, she'd do it all over again.
The party had taught her something about herself, and Selina didn't like it. Eddie would tell her that it was who she was. But Eddie was always trying to marry her off. Settle down, kitty cat, even though he insisted he didn't want her to do anything of the sort. Well, she'd gotten over her disappointment, and Eddie would need to do the same thing.
Gotham looked the same as always, and she felt the same as always. Eddie was the only person close enough to her here to notice the cracks and thinning in her topcoat, and he'd known they were there since she was just a kitten. She'd just layer on a new level of varnish, and she'd be good as new.
And if she was sorry that the reprieve from living hadn't been a little more permanent? Well, no one ever needed to know.