daughter of the blood (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
blackjewels) wrote2009-09-22 11:14 am
blackjewels) wrote2009-09-22 11:14 am
Entry tags:
I own every bell that tolls me
More and more, she retreats to the misty place.
A special place, deep in the abyss--untainted by the knowledge of games and lies, peaceful, where she's alone to be herself, whatever that is. She can go where she pleases in the abyss, a landscape of her own making--although that, too, could be hers, if she wanted it, in what they consider the "real" world. She could move continents if she wanted, exile them all to other dimensions, now that she's found the way to them. But it doesn't matter what happens to them out there, because in here, it's real.
You're a sick little girl, Jaenelle, you can't tell the difference between make-believe and what's real...
But she knows, she knows, she knows--she, Witch--that what's here is more real than all the rest of them. She would know: they made her. Even Alexandria, who dreamed of a saviour for her people, although she never knew the dream when it came.
(But there is a now twelve-year-old girl the body belongs to who doubts, and who thinks--what if they're right--what if she's sick... they're her family, they're supposed to protect her--)
Witch hears that thought and shudders, fleeing deeper into the abyss. They can't get her here; she is sure of who and what she is. She is Witch. At five, Jaenelle didn't understand what they were trying to do with her body, but she knew. The body wasn't hers, so why should she care what they did to it? It was beautiful here, all things good and beautiful: a vast darkness, the familiar laughing delight racing as psychic lightning. She can sing here, songs in the Old Tongue, with no one to tell her bad girl, bad girl to make up lies, bad girl to pretend. Witch is safe, will always be safe.
Except for the pain--the pain, as they tried to separate the Self from the body, with their hands and their fists if that didn't work. They could break her, the uncles of Briarwood, like they could break any other little girl, but they could never get to the Self, to Witch. She was safe here, in the abyss, down deep, deep, deep, where nothing could reach her--their hands, their fists, their cries, their love, Saetan's love, love, love, love.
I love you, witch-child. Be safe.
---
Jaenelle's body sits and stares at nothing.
A special place, deep in the abyss--untainted by the knowledge of games and lies, peaceful, where she's alone to be herself, whatever that is. She can go where she pleases in the abyss, a landscape of her own making--although that, too, could be hers, if she wanted it, in what they consider the "real" world. She could move continents if she wanted, exile them all to other dimensions, now that she's found the way to them. But it doesn't matter what happens to them out there, because in here, it's real.
You're a sick little girl, Jaenelle, you can't tell the difference between make-believe and what's real...
But she knows, she knows, she knows--she, Witch--that what's here is more real than all the rest of them. She would know: they made her. Even Alexandria, who dreamed of a saviour for her people, although she never knew the dream when it came.
(But there is a now twelve-year-old girl the body belongs to who doubts, and who thinks--what if they're right--what if she's sick... they're her family, they're supposed to protect her--)
Witch hears that thought and shudders, fleeing deeper into the abyss. They can't get her here; she is sure of who and what she is. She is Witch. At five, Jaenelle didn't understand what they were trying to do with her body, but she knew. The body wasn't hers, so why should she care what they did to it? It was beautiful here, all things good and beautiful: a vast darkness, the familiar laughing delight racing as psychic lightning. She can sing here, songs in the Old Tongue, with no one to tell her bad girl, bad girl to make up lies, bad girl to pretend. Witch is safe, will always be safe.
Except for the pain--the pain, as they tried to separate the Self from the body, with their hands and their fists if that didn't work. They could break her, the uncles of Briarwood, like they could break any other little girl, but they could never get to the Self, to Witch. She was safe here, in the abyss, down deep, deep, deep, where nothing could reach her--their hands, their fists, their cries, their love, Saetan's love, love, love, love.
I love you, witch-child. Be safe.
---
Jaenelle's body sits and stares at nothing.