[Fic] Inside of Me Turning Out Wrong
Scout stares at the white walls, spotless, pristine. She's shaking, and a grin crosses her face.
"Three. Two. One." She charges at the wall, full speed, throwing herself at it only to bounce off and fall backwards with a yelp that turns into a cackle.
She hates the walls. She's always hated the walls, forever and ever, since they tried to tie her up, since they tried to shock her. Hating the walls. Hating was supposed to be bad. Hating people--couldn't hate people, nope, no, not a bitty bit bit. Hate walls--destroy walls, ruin walls. That she can do. So with a laugh, she springs to her feet and charges again.
It's not like she can actually feel the blood vessels bursting under her skin, spreading dark blood that will form black bruises on her knees, forearms and forehead. She just knows they're there, and she likes them. Surely, if she's bruising, the wall's bruising too, yeah? That must be how it goes.
On the third rebound, her head strikes the chair and the skin splits open, sending black blood dribbling down her cheek. She lies still for a moment, waiting for the world to stop spinning quite so violently, and then she rises, touching the wound on her head gingerly, then grinning as her fingers come away black.
She'll make that wall bleed.
Out comes the knife, and it doesn't even hurt as she slices her palms open then closes her hands into fists, gathering her artillery. She strikes like a bullet, pounding the wall with open palms, spreading the blood as far as she can reach, creating her masterpiece. The giggle rises into a hysterical cackle that turns to shrieks as hands grab her from behind.
No. The wall was bleeding, she was extracting her revenge, she was nowhere near done. She still had the wrists to go for, she still had the jugular. She turned on the hand, a vicious rage rising as she felt where they held far too tightly. She screamed as she hit, dying to be let go.
It took a drop to the floor to knock some sense back into her--not much, but as much as she would have on any given day. She lay there, stunned, the bones in her ankles jarred as the pain in her hands lit like someone had just plugged her nerves back in. She whimpered and rolled over, her body aching. And then she cried out, all pain of her own totally forgotten.
It was Mattie, her Mattie, the bruises already forming under the black blood from her fists, the swelling around his eyes indicative of where she had hit the hardest. Scout crawled over and held his head in her hands.
"Mattie," she whispered. She shook him--just a little, shake him awake, shake him alive. "Mattie."
He groaned under her touch, and she practically dropped him before beaming as his eyes flickered open.
He looked prettier with his swollen eyes open anyway.
Muse: Scout
Word count: 476 words
Prompt: I hate slick and pretty things. I prefer mistakes and accidents. Which is why I like things like cuts and bruises - they’re like little flowers--From sighofthings
"Three. Two. One." She charges at the wall, full speed, throwing herself at it only to bounce off and fall backwards with a yelp that turns into a cackle.
She hates the walls. She's always hated the walls, forever and ever, since they tried to tie her up, since they tried to shock her. Hating the walls. Hating was supposed to be bad. Hating people--couldn't hate people, nope, no, not a bitty bit bit. Hate walls--destroy walls, ruin walls. That she can do. So with a laugh, she springs to her feet and charges again.
It's not like she can actually feel the blood vessels bursting under her skin, spreading dark blood that will form black bruises on her knees, forearms and forehead. She just knows they're there, and she likes them. Surely, if she's bruising, the wall's bruising too, yeah? That must be how it goes.
On the third rebound, her head strikes the chair and the skin splits open, sending black blood dribbling down her cheek. She lies still for a moment, waiting for the world to stop spinning quite so violently, and then she rises, touching the wound on her head gingerly, then grinning as her fingers come away black.
She'll make that wall bleed.
Out comes the knife, and it doesn't even hurt as she slices her palms open then closes her hands into fists, gathering her artillery. She strikes like a bullet, pounding the wall with open palms, spreading the blood as far as she can reach, creating her masterpiece. The giggle rises into a hysterical cackle that turns to shrieks as hands grab her from behind.
No. The wall was bleeding, she was extracting her revenge, she was nowhere near done. She still had the wrists to go for, she still had the jugular. She turned on the hand, a vicious rage rising as she felt where they held far too tightly. She screamed as she hit, dying to be let go.
It took a drop to the floor to knock some sense back into her--not much, but as much as she would have on any given day. She lay there, stunned, the bones in her ankles jarred as the pain in her hands lit like someone had just plugged her nerves back in. She whimpered and rolled over, her body aching. And then she cried out, all pain of her own totally forgotten.
It was Mattie, her Mattie, the bruises already forming under the black blood from her fists, the swelling around his eyes indicative of where she had hit the hardest. Scout crawled over and held his head in her hands.
"Mattie," she whispered. She shook him--just a little, shake him awake, shake him alive. "Mattie."
He groaned under her touch, and she practically dropped him before beaming as his eyes flickered open.
He looked prettier with his swollen eyes open anyway.
Muse: Scout
Word count: 476 words
Prompt: I hate slick and pretty things. I prefer mistakes and accidents. Which is why I like things like cuts and bruises - they’re like little flowers--From sighofthings