annabella laputa ۶ so hostile past (ex_potent596) wrote in halcyon_houses, @ 2008-02-29 22:03:00 |
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| who. | Annabella Laputa | what. | Anya has a major breakdown. | when. | After her classes | where. | Her dorm room
Subconsciously, she was fading. The remnants of an innocent, untouched child deteriorating into broke pieces. Pieces she swept clean from the surface, leaving no evidence of the casualty. Her insides were soft and withered, malformed to tiny creases of perpetual decomposition. She could curl into a ball tightly, arms writhed around her abdomen to prevent herself from breaking, but it wouldn't ease her anguish enough. As a picture, framed in silver, was cradled in her delicate hands, she regretted ever thieving the photograph from home. Surely, this was unhealthy. She just didn't want to forget her. She didn't want to forget her impeccable complexion, barely marred from indications of old age. She didn't want to forget her glorious blonde mane and the emerald pigment of her irises, that she had gratefully inherited. Her father said she looked just like her, but Anya never agreed. Her mother was much more beautiful, matured and wreaking of perfection. Anya was flawed from appearance to personality. She never thought herself as unattractive, but she never thought herself as beautiful either. The picture had captured her mother's beautiful perfectly, just how she would of looked if she was still present. Tears streamed down her cheeks which irritated her. All those years ago, when she was escorted to the morgue, forced to identify the body she could wield herself a single tear. And here, years later, she was whimpering like a baby. Why couldn't she show grief then? Why now, when she obviously had plenty of time to console herself? She thought back to her vehement conversation with her father—before she fled to Halcyon. She's never coming back. She called him pathetic for his unveiled anguish, but perhaps she was far more wreckless then he was. She was one wave from a ship wreck, before she was reeled out to sea, lost to the depths of the ocean. Woe solved nothing. She knew this. But yet here she was on the bottom of her bed, whimpering uncontrollably. Though an audience wasn't at her dismay, she loathed the emotion that spelt from her unexpectedly. She bit her bottom lip, threatening to break the fragile layer of skin, but it worsened her episode. She felt so much like her father, crying in the bedroom over the deceased of a loved one. Her reasons had been different though. True, the death of her mother provoked the tears, but it was never allow them to ignite the moment she died. Not at the morgue. Not at the funeral. Instead, alternatives were taken into action, and she suddenly understood why her father issued a therapist for her. There was something wrong with her—besides the obvious.
Her heartache wouldn't replenish, demanding for another treatment. She slammed the picture to the ground, the frame shattering into a handful of pieces. Idly, she studied the asymmetrical shards that shaped. Leisurely slipping off the edge of the bed, she collapsed to her knees and hands. Her palms pressed roughly against the shards, while painful, she had become completely numb to it. She anchored herself up, so her hands were no long pinned to the floor, and her back sloped against the edge of her bed. Finicky, she selected one of the glass shards that promised the greatest damage, due to it's large and sharp edges. Gliding the glass across her left bicep, she applied adequate pressure to break the skin and draw blood. The pain was highly tolerable, that she had to stare at her handiwork to confirm wether she actually cut herself. She cut deeper, feeling a slight sting, but still not enough to satisfy herself. It seemed all pointless now. She was physically and mentally too numb to inflict any real damage. She threw the shard back in the pile, not caring about the stain it would embed in the carpet. She despised how incredibly useless she had become. If pain was out of control, what else was there? Even now, with a bit of comfort that she isn't as big of a freak that she thought she had been, it still wasn't enough. Acceptance was nice, but it didn't hold a candle to her other problems. Too numb to move, and too anxious to remain still, she settled for rocking. Her lips parted, as if she had something audible to announce to herself, but the words never spilled from her chaffed lips. She balled her hands into tight fists, veins across her skin becoming more prominent, as she groaned.
She needed to recover from this. Whatever this was, it needed to stop. She use to be so well at handling her self-ardors. Where had that girl gone? Perhaps she was still here, and this was just punishment from a higher power. God? She wasn't religious, but after being introduced to this new reality that she had been completely dumb to up until a few weeks ago, she would even believe in the Lord. She laughed dryly, her throat parched from dehydration, as she thought of Charlie—a vampire devoted to Catholicism. Surely, the irony was coincidence—but she didn't believe in that either. If this was punishment, then she had no way of escaping the nightmare. She would have to see it through, and hope she wasn't too far fragile that she'd be able to handle it. The timing was imperfect. Her first week at Halcyon Halls, and now she was completely dysfunctional in more ways then one. How would she function? She was only human. She no longer felt special in a sea of those endowed with immortality, power, and other enhancements.
Though incapacitated, she was found the strength to climb back on her bed, laboring over the strenuous task. Again she whimpered, more from the pain of moving then her mother. Couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. All she could do was rot this pain out, until she was well enough to function again. Grateful her classes were over, and she had all night to recover in the process, she closed her eyes to wield herself to sleep.