untitled drabbles
Rating: K
AN: A morbid Christmas thing I wrote. Because I'm not going to write something cheery on Christmas, come on.
She knows essentially how her house is supposed to be decorated, in traditional Christmas spirit. The couch is supposed to face at an angle, so they can cuddle in front of the fireplace, but so that they can also watch television like true Americans. A tree in the corner, decorated with paper hand turkeys made by children and ornaments with a wedding anniversary printed on it, topped with either a star or an angel. Christmas music of some form (he prefers Elvis to her Manheim Steamroller, but they would compromise) playing constantly, or a holiday-appropriate movie playing on the television. Blankets thrown across the couch in case someone gets cold and doesn't want to make the trek back to their bedroom to get a sweater. The blinds stay open so that they can appreciate the white snow on their lawn without actually going outside. She's dreamed of this traditional American Christmas home since she was a little girl, but the reality is far different than the traditional American Christmas dream.
The fireplace is never lit. She doesn't know how to start it, and beside the point, fire scares her. Instead, the couch is fixed in front of the television, which is always tuned to the news. There's no Christmas music ringing throughout the house, only the television. She can't turn it off, grasping desperately for some kind of hope. The tree is set up in the corner, but it's not decorated, aside from the angel on the top. She plainly refused to do it without him. It could wait until he got back. The only blanket in the room is wrapped around her shoulders, and there are a few damp spots. The blinds are closed, and the lights are off. She doesn't want anyone to see her this way. The only light in the room comes from the angel atop the tree, but she doesn't even notice.
She's not laughing with him in the kitchen when they prepare Christmas lunch together. She's not tossing packing peanuts at his head as they put up the ornaments. She's not snuggled up next to him on the couch, while the fire burns in the fireplace. She wouldn't even be scared, knowing that he'd never let it get out of control. He always made her feel safe.
Instead, she's curled up in the corner between the wall and the tree, as tight as she can, her face buried in her knees, with her blanket wrapped around her shoulders, long forgotten. A ball chain dangled between the cracks of her fingers, the debossed letters imprinting his name into the skin of her palm, but never loosens her grip. He smiles at her from a picture on the fireplace mantle, in a way that he'll never smile at her again, dressed in his camouflage uniform. The one that she's wishing he had never put on in the first place.
There won't be any ornaments on the tree this year, because she still won't do it without him. There aren't going to be any arguments of Manheim versus Elvis, or fires burning in the fireplace, or snuggling under the blankets, and it's setting in that there never will be. Another sob escapes her mouth, and she wishes she could curl up so tightly that she disappeared, just as the most magical day of the year begins.
Rating: T
Warnings: Body issues
AN: I don't always write about the things I feel, but sometimes I do.
Her eyes rake up and down the girl in front of her, picking out every tiny little flaw out of habit. Her face is too round, her eyes are too dull, her hair is the color of dirty dishwater, and on top of that, she can't manage it, and her neck is too fat, so when she looks down, she has a double chin. She has no collarbone, her shoulders are too broad, her arms are too flabby, her fingers too long, her nails too bitten. Her breasts too big to manage, but too small to be sexy, her stomach is too fat, and makes her look as though she's pregnant, and her skin hangs over the top of her jeans. Her hips are too wide, her ass big, her thighs too stumpy, but not shapely, and her feet are too big.
She always does this standing in front of the mirror.
She folds her arms over her stomach, picking out more and more flaws, while simultaneously repeating what she'd been told. Her skin is too pale. I'm the only one who can make this stop. There are too many blackheads on her nose. I have to believe in myself. Her eyebrows are too thick. I'm perfect the way I am. There are too many calluses on her feet. There are a lot of people who care about me. Her fingers are too pudgy. There are too many stretch marks. Her lips are too thin. She'll never get anywhere looking like this. No one would ever love her.
"NO!" She unfolds her arms and clenches her fists. "I am a good person. I am more than my looks. Anyone who cares more about what I look like than who I am are not people I want to be around. I am perfect the way I am, and I'm done letting you push me around." She looks herself in the eye for a long moment, before a smile spreads across her face. "I'm done letting you push me around," she tells herself.
Her reflection smiles a sick smirk. "We'll see about that."
Rating: K
AN: this came out of a desperate need to write some sort of angst, and slightly inspired by a High School Musical fanfic I started once upon a time in a land far far away.
Charlotte doesn't smile anymore. Ever since Jake could remember, she'd had the prettiest smile in the entire town. But Charlotte doesn't smile anymore. Not since her heart had been broken. The boy she'd been in love with had left her, and it killed Jake a little bit every day to watch her, alone and heartbroken, knowing that there was nothing he could do to change it. There was nothing he could say to her to help her heal, and there was nothing he could do to make the great love of her life come back.
So Jake watched. Jake watched every day as Charlotte didn't smile, didn't laugh, didn't act alive. Being left by this boy had crushed her. And the worst part was that Jake had seen it coming, and there was nothing he could have done to stop it. There was nothing he could have done to spare the heart of the girl he'd loved since the second grade.
She had been with that boy every day that they were together, aside from family vacations. The boy who had left. Charlotte had smiled a lot when she was with him. And he'd loved making her smile. Everyone loved Charlotte's smile. She spent so much time thinking about this boy, and how much she loved him, and their future together. They'd had so much planned out, and then he'd just up and left her one day. And Jake hated him for that.
But there was nothing anyone could have done to keep it from happening. There was nothing Jake could have done to change the test results. He'd told her that he wouldn't blame her if she wanted to bail as soon as they'd found out, but Charlotte had smiled and shook her head and promised him that she would never leave. So Jake got sicker, and sicker, but she stayed, and Charlotte smiled, but he knew it was only to keep him going. But then he'd left. It wasn't his choice. After he was gone, it broke her heart. He wanted so badly to say something to help her move on.
But there was nothing he could do, except watch. Watch as Charlotte didn't smile.
AN: A morbid Christmas thing I wrote. Because I'm not going to write something cheery on Christmas, come on.
She knows essentially how her house is supposed to be decorated, in traditional Christmas spirit. The couch is supposed to face at an angle, so they can cuddle in front of the fireplace, but so that they can also watch television like true Americans. A tree in the corner, decorated with paper hand turkeys made by children and ornaments with a wedding anniversary printed on it, topped with either a star or an angel. Christmas music of some form (he prefers Elvis to her Manheim Steamroller, but they would compromise) playing constantly, or a holiday-appropriate movie playing on the television. Blankets thrown across the couch in case someone gets cold and doesn't want to make the trek back to their bedroom to get a sweater. The blinds stay open so that they can appreciate the white snow on their lawn without actually going outside. She's dreamed of this traditional American Christmas home since she was a little girl, but the reality is far different than the traditional American Christmas dream.
The fireplace is never lit. She doesn't know how to start it, and beside the point, fire scares her. Instead, the couch is fixed in front of the television, which is always tuned to the news. There's no Christmas music ringing throughout the house, only the television. She can't turn it off, grasping desperately for some kind of hope. The tree is set up in the corner, but it's not decorated, aside from the angel on the top. She plainly refused to do it without him. It could wait until he got back. The only blanket in the room is wrapped around her shoulders, and there are a few damp spots. The blinds are closed, and the lights are off. She doesn't want anyone to see her this way. The only light in the room comes from the angel atop the tree, but she doesn't even notice.
She's not laughing with him in the kitchen when they prepare Christmas lunch together. She's not tossing packing peanuts at his head as they put up the ornaments. She's not snuggled up next to him on the couch, while the fire burns in the fireplace. She wouldn't even be scared, knowing that he'd never let it get out of control. He always made her feel safe.
Instead, she's curled up in the corner between the wall and the tree, as tight as she can, her face buried in her knees, with her blanket wrapped around her shoulders, long forgotten. A ball chain dangled between the cracks of her fingers, the debossed letters imprinting his name into the skin of her palm, but never loosens her grip. He smiles at her from a picture on the fireplace mantle, in a way that he'll never smile at her again, dressed in his camouflage uniform. The one that she's wishing he had never put on in the first place.
There won't be any ornaments on the tree this year, because she still won't do it without him. There aren't going to be any arguments of Manheim versus Elvis, or fires burning in the fireplace, or snuggling under the blankets, and it's setting in that there never will be. Another sob escapes her mouth, and she wishes she could curl up so tightly that she disappeared, just as the most magical day of the year begins.
Rating: T
Warnings: Body issues
AN: I don't always write about the things I feel, but sometimes I do.
Her eyes rake up and down the girl in front of her, picking out every tiny little flaw out of habit. Her face is too round, her eyes are too dull, her hair is the color of dirty dishwater, and on top of that, she can't manage it, and her neck is too fat, so when she looks down, she has a double chin. She has no collarbone, her shoulders are too broad, her arms are too flabby, her fingers too long, her nails too bitten. Her breasts too big to manage, but too small to be sexy, her stomach is too fat, and makes her look as though she's pregnant, and her skin hangs over the top of her jeans. Her hips are too wide, her ass big, her thighs too stumpy, but not shapely, and her feet are too big.
She always does this standing in front of the mirror.
She folds her arms over her stomach, picking out more and more flaws, while simultaneously repeating what she'd been told. Her skin is too pale. I'm the only one who can make this stop. There are too many blackheads on her nose. I have to believe in myself. Her eyebrows are too thick. I'm perfect the way I am. There are too many calluses on her feet. There are a lot of people who care about me. Her fingers are too pudgy. There are too many stretch marks. Her lips are too thin. She'll never get anywhere looking like this. No one would ever love her.
"NO!" She unfolds her arms and clenches her fists. "I am a good person. I am more than my looks. Anyone who cares more about what I look like than who I am are not people I want to be around. I am perfect the way I am, and I'm done letting you push me around." She looks herself in the eye for a long moment, before a smile spreads across her face. "I'm done letting you push me around," she tells herself.
Her reflection smiles a sick smirk. "We'll see about that."
Rating: K
AN: this came out of a desperate need to write some sort of angst, and slightly inspired by a High School Musical fanfic I started once upon a time in a land far far away.
Charlotte doesn't smile anymore. Ever since Jake could remember, she'd had the prettiest smile in the entire town. But Charlotte doesn't smile anymore. Not since her heart had been broken. The boy she'd been in love with had left her, and it killed Jake a little bit every day to watch her, alone and heartbroken, knowing that there was nothing he could do to change it. There was nothing he could say to her to help her heal, and there was nothing he could do to make the great love of her life come back.
So Jake watched. Jake watched every day as Charlotte didn't smile, didn't laugh, didn't act alive. Being left by this boy had crushed her. And the worst part was that Jake had seen it coming, and there was nothing he could have done to stop it. There was nothing he could have done to spare the heart of the girl he'd loved since the second grade.
She had been with that boy every day that they were together, aside from family vacations. The boy who had left. Charlotte had smiled a lot when she was with him. And he'd loved making her smile. Everyone loved Charlotte's smile. She spent so much time thinking about this boy, and how much she loved him, and their future together. They'd had so much planned out, and then he'd just up and left her one day. And Jake hated him for that.
But there was nothing anyone could have done to keep it from happening. There was nothing Jake could have done to change the test results. He'd told her that he wouldn't blame her if she wanted to bail as soon as they'd found out, but Charlotte had smiled and shook her head and promised him that she would never leave. So Jake got sicker, and sicker, but she stayed, and Charlotte smiled, but he knew it was only to keep him going. But then he'd left. It wasn't his choice. After he was gone, it broke her heart. He wanted so badly to say something to help her move on.
But there was nothing he could do, except watch. Watch as Charlotte didn't smile.