. (spacecowboys) wrote in rooms, @ 2014-05-31 10:09:00 |
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Entry tags: | *narrative, selina kyle |
Selina: Narrative
Who: Selina
What: Today's narrative (Letters)
Where: Pirates
When: Recently
Warnings/Rating: Nope
She considered writing letters.
Yellowed parchment, wax and ink-stained fingers while the ship was still, and she still had trouble believing they were on the water. She'd thought there would be tumult, waves, the desire to retch over the side, and what kind of of cat was she, anyway? But out here, where there wasn't even the promise of land, it was still. She'd thought it would be blue, bright and Metropolis blue, but the water was nearly black, and only the occasional movement of a creature close to the surface - blacker yet - gave it the illusion of blue at all.
She liked the forespeak, the beak, and the dangerous perch on a figurehead. She'd spent the better part of an hour there, after they'd set sail, a night-long card game, and didn't they know better than to con a con? But there was a strange honor among thieves, and may the best cheat win, and she had a ship - Fancy.
The crew was hers, from Port Royale, from the mansion where more men and women arrived with every new morning. Some there, some here, and she knew there was the chance that they'd encounter a fight on the water, but she had a hard time believing it just then, with the moon slinking its way through the skylight of the captain's quarters, brown leather covering her curves and a brown cowl pushed back.
Letters, and the quill was in her hand, and she'd never been good with words. She spoke in slink and purr, a whip as her voice and so much paint covering her undercoat that it would take a gallon of turpentine to find out what she really wanted to say.
But there was catharsis in words, and she'd learned that recently. It was easy to forget, though. It was easy to remember people who knew her well enough to understand, people who she didn't need to explain to. For years, it was the Bat who told her the truth about herself, but she didn't have that now, and she wasn't sure anyone in Gotham still spoke cat. Marvel was better, but she still felt like she was starting over, the new kitten at school, a chip on her shoulder and ready to throw a punch.
And she was tired of all that anger. Letters.
...I'm angry that we let other people decide who we were, and I'm angry that we let other people decide our paths, our thoughts, our outcomes...
...You're an ache behind my ribs, and I don't know that I can live in the shadow of what you've created at the expense of everything I love. But I can't hate you...
...I miss certainty amid the chaos. I miss a world where we were us, where they were them, where things made sense...
...It hurts to be fourth-best to a thing that is hated...
...I'm tired of anger. I'm tired of waking up drenched in my own hate. I'm tired of the hurt that comes with misunderstanding. I'm tired of forgetting myself...
...I can't change things. Trying only makes me angrier. I hold on tighter, I try too much, I suffocate, and I am suffocated, and I become my claws...
The ink pooled, and the parchment was turned over.
I acknowledge that I have lost.
She traced those words over, and she traced them over, and she traced them over. Until her fingers hurt. Until her wrist cramped. Until sunlight filtered through that skylight. Until she couldn't see through the tears. Until the cabin boy came with some slop they called breakfast. She ruffled his dirty black hair, and she stood and let him have her share. Sit, eat, and she took her words and walked to the front of the ship.
She relieved the boys in the crow's nest, and she climbed and climbed, and she could see for miles. Gotham, she thought, might fit in these waters. The entirety of the city, all its filth and all its beauty, and she took the paper and tore it. Square, by square, by square, by square, and she let the pieces fall when the wind was right. Piece by piece, and she watched until they were carried into the water, suspended there for mere moments, pieces of her unhappiness that couldn't fight against the weight of themselves.
She realized, there, that she could only go back to Gotham if she could stop fruitlessly railing against the tide. She wasn't sure she could, and she wasn't sure she wanted to slough off the perceived wrongs as if she deserved no recompense for them, as if to be hurt was a thing innate in her, and maybe it was time to change that.
She missed her city, and the sun beat down on her, sweat making her dark hair damp, making tendrils cling to her cheeks in protest of the heat. She missed her city, but she missed her pride more. She could learn to live without one, but she couldn't live without the other.
She didn't want to.
The papers all sank, and the ship cut through their grave, indifferent to the drowning sorrows being cleaved apart by her stern.
One of the boys brought her a hat, another brought her a tankard of ale, and the cook's youngest sister climbed up and sat beside her, face tipped back and nose scrunched and a tissue held aloft. Why are boys stupid? she asked, and Selina laughed, and the pieces of paper didn't matter as much for a second.
Why, indeed?