(Response to a prompt given to me by the lovely Erin. :D <3 )
When it gets to be too much, she just surrenders.
There is no white flag, no olive branch; it?s nothing like white doves fluttering over peacetime skies. It?s far more primitive, more complex than anything she knows. Indulgence in the third degree. She can tell when it?s about to happen, knows each and every little warning sign with the crystal clear clarity that one can sense an oncoming rain.
It starts with a shiver. Just an uncontrollable little tremor inching it?s way up her spine, causing her back to arch and eyes to close in anticipation. It?s the seduction that that shiver brings that tempts her, calls to her, begs and howls for her to just let go.
And then there?s that smile; that little Cheshire curl of her lips. She?s already thinking of what to do, of every way to get that ball rolling. Thirty seconds from shiver to smile and she has almost everything she needs; her mind already as good as made up. As quick as an eye blink and each and every way that she can get out unnoticed and unscathed is mapped out; stored away. The two don?t always end up hand in hand, the unnoticed and the unscathed, but the gears in that pretty little head weighs the outcome with the gain and sometimes, just sometimes, the curiosity of the big ?what if? overpowers the possibility of oblivion.
More often than not, she?s already rolled those bones. She knows that whatever she?s doing is either good or bad and the odds are that she doesn?t care. She only wants a taste, a tiny little nip, of chaos.
It?s only when everything goes into motion, when the ball drops and doesn?t land where it should, that she begins to worry. That?s when a wrist moves up and strikes hard against whatever surface is closest. ?A wrist cutter?s thumbsuck? is what she calls it, though she?s never been known to do anything so obviously self-destructive. No. She prefers her breakdowns to go on behind the scenes.
It?s the uncertainty, regardless of outcome, that she craves. More than the chaos, more than the needle sharp clarity of pain or the comfort of bliss, it?s that blurry little line between here and tomorrow that she clings to. Those little surrenders provide that. They shoot her up with another hit of a drug that she doesn?t remember getting addicted to, but wants more and more of.
Those delicious little ?what ifs? and ?whys? will one day kill her and she knows this. Deep down she knows what curiosity did to that cat, exactly how it did it and what tools it used to get the job done. Until the day she finds out exactly just how many ways there are to skin said feline, she?ll keep on searching. Looking, pawing, biting and digging until she finds just what it is she?s looking for.
And all she has to do is surrender.
When it gets to be too much, she just surrenders.
There is no white flag, no olive branch; it?s nothing like white doves fluttering over peacetime skies. It?s far more primitive, more complex than anything she knows. Indulgence in the third degree. She can tell when it?s about to happen, knows each and every little warning sign with the crystal clear clarity that one can sense an oncoming rain.
It starts with a shiver. Just an uncontrollable little tremor inching it?s way up her spine, causing her back to arch and eyes to close in anticipation. It?s the seduction that that shiver brings that tempts her, calls to her, begs and howls for her to just let go.
And then there?s that smile; that little Cheshire curl of her lips. She?s already thinking of what to do, of every way to get that ball rolling. Thirty seconds from shiver to smile and she has almost everything she needs; her mind already as good as made up. As quick as an eye blink and each and every way that she can get out unnoticed and unscathed is mapped out; stored away. The two don?t always end up hand in hand, the unnoticed and the unscathed, but the gears in that pretty little head weighs the outcome with the gain and sometimes, just sometimes, the curiosity of the big ?what if? overpowers the possibility of oblivion.
More often than not, she?s already rolled those bones. She knows that whatever she?s doing is either good or bad and the odds are that she doesn?t care. She only wants a taste, a tiny little nip, of chaos.
It?s only when everything goes into motion, when the ball drops and doesn?t land where it should, that she begins to worry. That?s when a wrist moves up and strikes hard against whatever surface is closest. ?A wrist cutter?s thumbsuck? is what she calls it, though she?s never been known to do anything so obviously self-destructive. No. She prefers her breakdowns to go on behind the scenes.
It?s the uncertainty, regardless of outcome, that she craves. More than the chaos, more than the needle sharp clarity of pain or the comfort of bliss, it?s that blurry little line between here and tomorrow that she clings to. Those little surrenders provide that. They shoot her up with another hit of a drug that she doesn?t remember getting addicted to, but wants more and more of.
Those delicious little ?what ifs? and ?whys? will one day kill her and she knows this. Deep down she knows what curiosity did to that cat, exactly how it did it and what tools it used to get the job done. Until the day she finds out exactly just how many ways there are to skin said feline, she?ll keep on searching. Looking, pawing, biting and digging until she finds just what it is she?s looking for.
And all she has to do is surrender.