FANFIC; my skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel. (allison argent.)
title: my skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel.
rating & warnings: pg-13, tw for blood, mentions of violence & family death.
characters: allison argent.
summary: the hardest thing her mother ever did and it's running through allison's bloodline, in her family history and at her fingertips now.
notes: written for a tw ficathon.
The air in the spare bedroom clutches at Allison's lungs, holding them tightly and restricting her breathing. It is lacking. Lacking in noise, lacking in light, lacking in warmth. And then the more specific things - the smell of Lydia's too expensive perfume mixed with Allison's own fruit spice scent. Bedside table pictures and picked away parts of wallpaper and downstairs' murmured voices, lulling her to a troubled sleep.
(And the trouble in her sleep always mirrored the trouble in her life - uncontrollable, inescapable.)
Still and sober and silent, she lies. Lydia's punch can still be tasted on the tip on her tongue, mixed with salty tears and heavy grief. Seconds drag into minutes and minutes pool into hours and her eyes flick towards the clock, counting. Waiting. Time heals; time strengthens. How many hours and how many days and how many years until her limbs cease to ache and her eyes cease to cry. How many, she wants to yell, to demand from the universe.
Answers like that, she will never receive.
It's her family that hold answers. Answers that stay clutched in their palms, hidden in their books, closed behind locked doors and locked lips. In their place, lies slip from their grasp and shatter over the tiles of the kitchen floor, lies are framed and placed on the mantelpiece, loaded onto a crossbow and let fly. Argent is in her blood, running through her head; she inhales lies and exhales answers. Her body can be wielded as a weapon - her heart as sharp as an arrow and her eyes as cold as the knife that pierced through her mother's chest.
Silently, she crosses the corridor until she's standing before her door, fingertips pressed against the hard wood, waiting for pressure to be applied. It's a reckless kind of bravery - the need to prove herself - that the girl with the tear tracks and half hangover from three hours ago hadn't managed. Perhaps it had been the time to heal and to strengthen or perhaps it had been the quiet and the lack of normality that had rendered her in a state of aching numbness. Whatever perhaps had led her to the door, it pushed her further, to enter the room. Allison's gaze fixates on the red. So red.
Spilt blood and strong decisions.
History says she's next - a bite to her ivory flesh, a slash of claws down her stomach, her own blood in her mouth being the last thing she can taste.
(And Allison wonders if they'll find silver in her veins when she dies. Argent. )
rating & warnings: pg-13, tw for blood, mentions of violence & family death.
characters: allison argent.
summary: the hardest thing her mother ever did and it's running through allison's bloodline, in her family history and at her fingertips now.
notes: written for a tw ficathon.
The air in the spare bedroom clutches at Allison's lungs, holding them tightly and restricting her breathing. It is lacking. Lacking in noise, lacking in light, lacking in warmth. And then the more specific things - the smell of Lydia's too expensive perfume mixed with Allison's own fruit spice scent. Bedside table pictures and picked away parts of wallpaper and downstairs' murmured voices, lulling her to a troubled sleep.
(And the trouble in her sleep always mirrored the trouble in her life - uncontrollable, inescapable.)
Still and sober and silent, she lies. Lydia's punch can still be tasted on the tip on her tongue, mixed with salty tears and heavy grief. Seconds drag into minutes and minutes pool into hours and her eyes flick towards the clock, counting. Waiting. Time heals; time strengthens. How many hours and how many days and how many years until her limbs cease to ache and her eyes cease to cry. How many, she wants to yell, to demand from the universe.
Answers like that, she will never receive.
It's her family that hold answers. Answers that stay clutched in their palms, hidden in their books, closed behind locked doors and locked lips. In their place, lies slip from their grasp and shatter over the tiles of the kitchen floor, lies are framed and placed on the mantelpiece, loaded onto a crossbow and let fly. Argent is in her blood, running through her head; she inhales lies and exhales answers. Her body can be wielded as a weapon - her heart as sharp as an arrow and her eyes as cold as the knife that pierced through her mother's chest.
Silently, she crosses the corridor until she's standing before her door, fingertips pressed against the hard wood, waiting for pressure to be applied. It's a reckless kind of bravery - the need to prove herself - that the girl with the tear tracks and half hangover from three hours ago hadn't managed. Perhaps it had been the time to heal and to strengthen or perhaps it had been the quiet and the lack of normality that had rendered her in a state of aching numbness. Whatever perhaps had led her to the door, it pushed her further, to enter the room. Allison's gaze fixates on the red. So red.
Spilt blood and strong decisions.
History says she's next - a bite to her ivory flesh, a slash of claws down her stomach, her own blood in her mouth being the last thing she can taste.
(And Allison wonders if they'll find silver in her veins when she dies. Argent. )