(no subject)
Yup, more spamming.
The icon, though appropiate, I suppose, sounds far too enthusiastic for the bit of rubbish I'm about to post, but meh.
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Cold.
It seeped into her limbs, rendering them stiff and brittle. It soaked into her skin and wrapped around her veins with such an unyielding grip she was sure she would never be free of it.
Frozen.
That was how her words sounded as they were pushed past her pursed lips, crystallized with acerbic gelidness. That was how her thoughts felt, sharp and frigid, when she tried to warm them into slightly less frosty phrases.
Long ago, Millicent had given up on trying to stay warm. Distantly, she recalled the days when she had been enveloped by carefree warmth, before the cold of the dungeons had appropriated itself of her life.
Before she had been told the truth.
The obliviousness of childhood had ended quite soon for Millicent. As soon as she climbed into the Hogwart’s Express, in fact. “You’re ugly,” Pansy Parkinson had announced at once, waving Millicent away from the compartment she’d been about to enter, deeming her ugliness contemptible, shameful, and somehow disgraceful with the cruelty only eleven year olds are capable of dishing out so casually.
Millicent had had no choice but to retreat, allowing both the compartment and the upper hand to fall into Pansy’s vicious grip. Faced with the revelation (which nobody tried to deny) about her lack of grace, she readily accepted that which seemed to accompany all those who do not possess beauty: solitude. Misery was to become her only companion-a constant one, piercing in its unrelenting permanency.
That’s when the iciness started stealing along her veins, leaving a frigid network of tingling numbness in its wake. That’s when she began to feel the cold.
It was unrelenting.
Enveloping, permanent, it tinged all of Millicent’s days with a dull sameness. Weeks spent lurking around the dungeons, trying to find comfort in the cranky cat who also seemed to resent her lack of beauty, ran together in a murky slate haze. She wandered aimlessly around dim corridors, eyes stinging as if she were about to cry-but no tear ever managed to squeeze past her strict control.
The other Slytherins knew her as The Quiet One. Subservient, never daring to speak lest she disturb anyone with her less than perfect features, Millicent tried, despite her ever increasing bulk, to slip into rooms unnoticed. She was so successful at pretending to be invisible that one day, she simply was.
It was a pet fancy of hers, pretending to be invisible. It assuaged the biting cold somewhat and made her feel more secure.
But security is a flighty thing.
Nonexistent, one would say, for dirty blooded girls inhabiting a nest of serpents.
The icon, though appropiate, I suppose, sounds far too enthusiastic for the bit of rubbish I'm about to post, but meh.
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Cold.
It seeped into her limbs, rendering them stiff and brittle. It soaked into her skin and wrapped around her veins with such an unyielding grip she was sure she would never be free of it.
Frozen.
That was how her words sounded as they were pushed past her pursed lips, crystallized with acerbic gelidness. That was how her thoughts felt, sharp and frigid, when she tried to warm them into slightly less frosty phrases.
Long ago, Millicent had given up on trying to stay warm. Distantly, she recalled the days when she had been enveloped by carefree warmth, before the cold of the dungeons had appropriated itself of her life.
Before she had been told the truth.
The obliviousness of childhood had ended quite soon for Millicent. As soon as she climbed into the Hogwart’s Express, in fact. “You’re ugly,” Pansy Parkinson had announced at once, waving Millicent away from the compartment she’d been about to enter, deeming her ugliness contemptible, shameful, and somehow disgraceful with the cruelty only eleven year olds are capable of dishing out so casually.
Millicent had had no choice but to retreat, allowing both the compartment and the upper hand to fall into Pansy’s vicious grip. Faced with the revelation (which nobody tried to deny) about her lack of grace, she readily accepted that which seemed to accompany all those who do not possess beauty: solitude. Misery was to become her only companion-a constant one, piercing in its unrelenting permanency.
That’s when the iciness started stealing along her veins, leaving a frigid network of tingling numbness in its wake. That’s when she began to feel the cold.
It was unrelenting.
Enveloping, permanent, it tinged all of Millicent’s days with a dull sameness. Weeks spent lurking around the dungeons, trying to find comfort in the cranky cat who also seemed to resent her lack of beauty, ran together in a murky slate haze. She wandered aimlessly around dim corridors, eyes stinging as if she were about to cry-but no tear ever managed to squeeze past her strict control.
The other Slytherins knew her as The Quiet One. Subservient, never daring to speak lest she disturb anyone with her less than perfect features, Millicent tried, despite her ever increasing bulk, to slip into rooms unnoticed. She was so successful at pretending to be invisible that one day, she simply was.
It was a pet fancy of hers, pretending to be invisible. It assuaged the biting cold somewhat and made her feel more secure.
But security is a flighty thing.
Nonexistent, one would say, for dirty blooded girls inhabiting a nest of serpents.