Post by Bee on Jun 30, 2011 22:16:19 GMT -5
Got bit with the writing bug, ended up writing some melancholy Liadan introspection, trying to get a handle on her voice/thoughts.
___
The gash across her wrist oozed blood, leaking an unsteady stream onto the pages of the book in her lap. The little droplets sank into the margins, obscured the ends of sentences. She ignored it as best she could, though it stung. It was just shame bleeding out of her, her own body enacting instant karma for the lie she had told her sister, how she had snapped at her. Eulalie could never settle down and stop blabbering at people. Ordinarily Liadan felt she dealt with this quite well, like she dealt with all of her happy sisters. This time she had just wanted the hyperactive girl to go away and let her read in peace.
Sometimes she thought about how unfair it was. Fifi lied all the time and hardly anyone was ever the wiser. Their trusting mother and their naïve sisters. Sometimes Liadan thought she lived on a cloud from all the fluff she saw floating around. All her pretty pink sister needed to do was play dumb and smile, and the incident passed. If Liadan uttered one half-truth the guilt bubbled up out of her broken veins, giving her away. Doubly shamed for being revealed a liar, she’d drip blood in her wake like a leaky faucet. Her father had explained things to her about honor and integrity. She was the only pure Mid-Range child out of seven girls, the only one to require a cut; maybe her father felt a special sense of responsibility to making sure she understood why this had to happen.
It made her feel, sometimes, like she had a leg up on her sisters, all Yarrow except for Kielo, who was still half. When she was feeling low, she pretended this meant she was her papa’s favorite. None of her vibrant sisters shared this connection. None of them bled.
She still resented it.
She resented it because she knew she was deluding herself, that her father didn’t love her any more or any less than he loved her sisters; she was only different, not better or worse. She resented it especially because it was working. She thought twice about doing things she knew were wrong, thought twice and mostly decided against them. She told lies less and less, even when she thought they might be good lies, lies to make people happy. She looked at Fifi and hated her less for getting away with lies than for the fact that she lied at all.
No scruples at all, she thought, and then, where do I get off? I would be lying too if I could get away with it.
And yet eventually she wouldn’t, would she? It would be too trained a response by then. She rubbed the fingers of her unblemished hand over the cut, probing a bit into its recesses. It was not very deep. It couldn’t be, where it was, straight across the soft human flesh of her right wrist. Still, if she ever fell into a life of ill repute, if she ever shamed herself beyond redemption, she would bleed to death. She knew this like a basic fact of her existence. This little cut would drain her, or perhaps she would feel compelled to drain herself, as she had heard of other Mid-Rangers discreetly ending their lives if their dishonor was too monstrous. She was not being committed to a childhood of obedience but a lifetime of good behavior. She was not a sociopath; she could never stop feeling bad about things. She would give into the magic and learn to appreciate the cut. She would be upright and honest. Her choice in the matter dripped out right along with her blood.
“Liadan,” said a muffled voice right outside the door, contrite and small. Eulalie, come back around. Liadan was a little relieved. She had half-anticipated Myffie coming to her, ready to settle a dispute in the Court of Sisterly Law. And no one was going to find Eulalie guilty over her. “I’m sorry I bothered you.”
Liadan sighed and closed her book. “Come in, Eulalie.”
The other girl poked her head through the door, the golden spiral of her horn so different from the dark curve of Liadan’s. Her eyes were wet. Liadan opened her arms, the cut dribbling faster now, staining her bedsheets.
“You’re bleeding again,” she said, in quiet, sad surprise.
“It doesn’t matter,” Liadan said. “Come here. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
Eulalie crawled onto the bed and into her arms. Liadan patted her little tuft of hair, leaning against the headboard, holding her right arm a little away to prevent getting blood on her sister.
“Liadan,” Eulalie said, a minute later. Surprise, again, but happy this time. Her bubbly nature was already beginning to reassert itself. “You’ve stopped!”
She looked down. “Yeah,” she said, blankly.
___
The gash across her wrist oozed blood, leaking an unsteady stream onto the pages of the book in her lap. The little droplets sank into the margins, obscured the ends of sentences. She ignored it as best she could, though it stung. It was just shame bleeding out of her, her own body enacting instant karma for the lie she had told her sister, how she had snapped at her. Eulalie could never settle down and stop blabbering at people. Ordinarily Liadan felt she dealt with this quite well, like she dealt with all of her happy sisters. This time she had just wanted the hyperactive girl to go away and let her read in peace.
Sometimes she thought about how unfair it was. Fifi lied all the time and hardly anyone was ever the wiser. Their trusting mother and their naïve sisters. Sometimes Liadan thought she lived on a cloud from all the fluff she saw floating around. All her pretty pink sister needed to do was play dumb and smile, and the incident passed. If Liadan uttered one half-truth the guilt bubbled up out of her broken veins, giving her away. Doubly shamed for being revealed a liar, she’d drip blood in her wake like a leaky faucet. Her father had explained things to her about honor and integrity. She was the only pure Mid-Range child out of seven girls, the only one to require a cut; maybe her father felt a special sense of responsibility to making sure she understood why this had to happen.
It made her feel, sometimes, like she had a leg up on her sisters, all Yarrow except for Kielo, who was still half. When she was feeling low, she pretended this meant she was her papa’s favorite. None of her vibrant sisters shared this connection. None of them bled.
She still resented it.
She resented it because she knew she was deluding herself, that her father didn’t love her any more or any less than he loved her sisters; she was only different, not better or worse. She resented it especially because it was working. She thought twice about doing things she knew were wrong, thought twice and mostly decided against them. She told lies less and less, even when she thought they might be good lies, lies to make people happy. She looked at Fifi and hated her less for getting away with lies than for the fact that she lied at all.
No scruples at all, she thought, and then, where do I get off? I would be lying too if I could get away with it.
And yet eventually she wouldn’t, would she? It would be too trained a response by then. She rubbed the fingers of her unblemished hand over the cut, probing a bit into its recesses. It was not very deep. It couldn’t be, where it was, straight across the soft human flesh of her right wrist. Still, if she ever fell into a life of ill repute, if she ever shamed herself beyond redemption, she would bleed to death. She knew this like a basic fact of her existence. This little cut would drain her, or perhaps she would feel compelled to drain herself, as she had heard of other Mid-Rangers discreetly ending their lives if their dishonor was too monstrous. She was not being committed to a childhood of obedience but a lifetime of good behavior. She was not a sociopath; she could never stop feeling bad about things. She would give into the magic and learn to appreciate the cut. She would be upright and honest. Her choice in the matter dripped out right along with her blood.
“Liadan,” said a muffled voice right outside the door, contrite and small. Eulalie, come back around. Liadan was a little relieved. She had half-anticipated Myffie coming to her, ready to settle a dispute in the Court of Sisterly Law. And no one was going to find Eulalie guilty over her. “I’m sorry I bothered you.”
Liadan sighed and closed her book. “Come in, Eulalie.”
The other girl poked her head through the door, the golden spiral of her horn so different from the dark curve of Liadan’s. Her eyes were wet. Liadan opened her arms, the cut dribbling faster now, staining her bedsheets.
“You’re bleeding again,” she said, in quiet, sad surprise.
“It doesn’t matter,” Liadan said. “Come here. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
Eulalie crawled onto the bed and into her arms. Liadan patted her little tuft of hair, leaning against the headboard, holding her right arm a little away to prevent getting blood on her sister.
“Liadan,” Eulalie said, a minute later. Surprise, again, but happy this time. Her bubbly nature was already beginning to reassert itself. “You’ve stopped!”
She looked down. “Yeah,” she said, blankly.
