Chaos and Calamity (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rootsofthestories) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic2015-08-14 11:43 am
rootsofthestories) wrote in rainbowfic2015-08-14 11:43 am
Spilt ink, Ghost white
Name: Sebastian
Title: slam your broken fist into the wall.
Story: No Child Is Spared
Colors: Spilt Ink: 16. As soon as things start being the way they should be instead of the way they are, I’ll start telling them to you that way.
Ghost White: 22. manticore
Supplies: graffiti (Lilith Faire Second Stage)
Word Count: 356
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Anger and depression and all kinds of brainwolves.
Notes: I'm not actually intending for all of these to be depressing, it just kind of...happens.
Sometimes she wants to scream. She wants to slam her fists into the walls and tear shit down. Break enough stuff that it makes a difference, that someone steps in. She wants to disrupt, to break down, to show the guts of something.
Because she can't show herself. She can't be honest, can't let the emotions that wan to run across her face fly free. She doesn't get that luxury.
She's gotten better, she'll admit that in a heartbeat. She's fucked up but less so than she used to be. But she still wants to hurt something, to rip its throat out and leave it bleeding, hit's innards between her teeth and in her nails.
But then there are other days.
There are the days where she's too tired to be angry, too worn down with holding up the rage that she can't do it anymore. Those are the days where she sits in a closet, usually Dave's, and just hides.
She doesn't have it in her to put up a front and while she knows she technically doesn't have to, she does it on instinct. She could tell them that things are all right but the lie wouldn't ring clear and she'll just wind up telling the the truth.
It's just how things are, how she is. Maybe it's not how she should be, maybe there are ways for her to function better, but she doesn't have it in her to start seeking out that help
Because on days like this, the quiet, tired days, she finds the manticore in the middle of the labyrinth of seething rage. It's not out to eat her though. It is just there, siting quiet and patient until she notices it. Then she does and it's over, the scorpion take strikes and she's hit.
The poison of her own weariness, her aching and hating and everything else that festers in her head overwhelms her and she's falling deep, deep into the darkness.
She wants to slam her fists into something all over again but on days like this, she can't be sure she won't crack instead of the wall.
Title: slam your broken fist into the wall.
Story: No Child Is Spared
Colors: Spilt Ink: 16. As soon as things start being the way they should be instead of the way they are, I’ll start telling them to you that way.
Ghost White: 22. manticore
Supplies: graffiti (Lilith Faire Second Stage)
Word Count: 356
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Anger and depression and all kinds of brainwolves.
Notes: I'm not actually intending for all of these to be depressing, it just kind of...happens.
Sometimes she wants to scream. She wants to slam her fists into the walls and tear shit down. Break enough stuff that it makes a difference, that someone steps in. She wants to disrupt, to break down, to show the guts of something.
Because she can't show herself. She can't be honest, can't let the emotions that wan to run across her face fly free. She doesn't get that luxury.
She's gotten better, she'll admit that in a heartbeat. She's fucked up but less so than she used to be. But she still wants to hurt something, to rip its throat out and leave it bleeding, hit's innards between her teeth and in her nails.
But then there are other days.
There are the days where she's too tired to be angry, too worn down with holding up the rage that she can't do it anymore. Those are the days where she sits in a closet, usually Dave's, and just hides.
She doesn't have it in her to put up a front and while she knows she technically doesn't have to, she does it on instinct. She could tell them that things are all right but the lie wouldn't ring clear and she'll just wind up telling the the truth.
It's just how things are, how she is. Maybe it's not how she should be, maybe there are ways for her to function better, but she doesn't have it in her to start seeking out that help
Because on days like this, the quiet, tired days, she finds the manticore in the middle of the labyrinth of seething rage. It's not out to eat her though. It is just there, siting quiet and patient until she notices it. Then she does and it's over, the scorpion take strikes and she's hit.
The poison of her own weariness, her aching and hating and everything else that festers in her head overwhelms her and she's falling deep, deep into the darkness.
She wants to slam her fists into something all over again but on days like this, she can't be sure she won't crack instead of the wall.