the androgynous keeper of plushfrogs (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
crossfortune) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic2015-06-18 11:57 pm
crossfortune) wrote in rainbowfic2015-06-18 11:57 pm
better off believing
Name: Mischa
Story: as if words could be undone
Colors: octarine (Real children don't go hoppity-skip unless they are on drugs), spark (She never let on how insane it was in that tiny kinda scary house), verdigris (abandoned)
Supplies and Styles: seed beads, canvas
Word Count: 196
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: child abuse, depression
Summary: Stela remembers, once, laughter and joy. But those memories are years gone, before the crushing weight of perfection.
Stela remembers, once, laughter and joy. Years ago, when she was small: sunshine and warmth, her hand clutched tightly in Emilian’s, running barefoot through the babbling brook. Daisy chains and flower crowns and warm grass beneath her feet. But that was long ago, memories years gone: before they were held to the high standards of their house, before perfection was ground into her bones, before Emilian forgot how to laugh, before he turned harsh and cold. Diamond perfect.
Her younger siblings had never run through the brook, had never made flower crowns, she’s certain now. Never laughed without the looming specter of ‘not good enough’ hanging over them. Pressure, always, always pressure, to be flawless and perfect. Anything less than perfect was nothing, and she had lived craving her father’s smile, her mother’s praise, so rarely given.
(her youngest brother had never laughed at all)
Every year, she lights a candle in his memory and sits with it, watches it burn itself out, and wonders what kind of man Vasilica would have grown up to be, if he hadn’t died in the tower, in the darkness and silence.
May the Seven judge him fairly.
Story: as if words could be undone
Colors: octarine (Real children don't go hoppity-skip unless they are on drugs), spark (She never let on how insane it was in that tiny kinda scary house), verdigris (abandoned)
Supplies and Styles: seed beads, canvas
Word Count: 196
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: child abuse, depression
Summary: Stela remembers, once, laughter and joy. But those memories are years gone, before the crushing weight of perfection.
Stela remembers, once, laughter and joy. Years ago, when she was small: sunshine and warmth, her hand clutched tightly in Emilian’s, running barefoot through the babbling brook. Daisy chains and flower crowns and warm grass beneath her feet. But that was long ago, memories years gone: before they were held to the high standards of their house, before perfection was ground into her bones, before Emilian forgot how to laugh, before he turned harsh and cold. Diamond perfect.
Her younger siblings had never run through the brook, had never made flower crowns, she’s certain now. Never laughed without the looming specter of ‘not good enough’ hanging over them. Pressure, always, always pressure, to be flawless and perfect. Anything less than perfect was nothing, and she had lived craving her father’s smile, her mother’s praise, so rarely given.
(her youngest brother had never laughed at all)
Every year, she lights a candle in his memory and sits with it, watches it burn itself out, and wonders what kind of man Vasilica would have grown up to be, if he hadn’t died in the tower, in the darkness and silence.
May the Seven judge him fairly.
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I'm not sure who it's worse for, either.
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And a very ironic one, too.
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