d.gray-man: Again
Title: Again
Prompt: #2: Over [[ main table]]
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Miranda Lott
Genre: Angst-ish, I suppose, topped with a little psychological mojo
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: I do not own d.gray-man.
Summary: “Everything was pale and worn, like a well-read book.”
Notes: This is for #2 in my 10_prompts table. While this is not my favorite, and certainly not my best, I think it's alright. On a scale of 1 to 10, I'd give it a 5.9, I think. I feel that the focus meanders a bit too much, and I that didn't do a good job setting the mood...
The owner was yelling at her again.
He was a large man, nearly six-foot-three with a bulging belly and thinning tawny hair. He sported a thick mustache that danced like a caterpillar as he shouted, and the rolls of fat beneath his chin jigged animatedly as he gestured wildly with his pudgy hands. His face was flushed bright red as he continued his thunderous roar, spittle spraying the air.
Oh, how she would love to stand up and shout right back at him. Oh, what she would give to tear at his face with her stubby, bitten nails. Oh, the way she longed to sweep all the nice clean dishes off the counter into a shattered mess on the floor…
It was a doldrums life.
Everything was pale and worn, like a well-read book. The sky was a permanent grey shade, with ominous clouds hanging over head and the musty smell was still lingering in the air. The dips and curves in the cobblestone road were always filled with muddy, blackish water from the rainstorm twenty-two “yesterdays” ago. The haunting melody of failure followed her through the day, down past the market and up the street, into the recesses of her apartment. Everything was going the same way it always was. The dank buildings creaking beneath the weight of people, their mindless chatter going on and on. And on.
She wondered how long she had left before she’d gone completely mad.
What if she were to dance through the town completely naked? What if she were to run up to a stranger and kiss him hard on the lips? What if she were to take her finest butcher knife and threaten the banker with it? What if she were to spend all her money buying peanuts, and then spend the entire day flicking them at people walking by? What if she were to go completely mad?
But, what if tomorrow were to come?
That question, that single hope, is her last claim to sanity. That is why she goes home every night without doing any of these things. That is why she sits alone in the darkness of her room, drenched in muddy water, and cries quietly. That is why she carefully polishes her clock in the evening and turns the key with the utmost delicacy and care. That is why she lays in bed at night, heart thumping, as she waits for her clock to chime midnight.
It had been October 9th for the twenty-third time now. It was the same day over again. It was the same. Over and over again. She lay silently in her bed, listening.
The clock was ticking.
Over and over again.
Prompt: #2: Over [[ main table]]
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Miranda Lott
Genre: Angst-ish, I suppose, topped with a little psychological mojo
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: I do not own d.gray-man.
Summary: “Everything was pale and worn, like a well-read book.”
Notes: This is for #2 in my 10_prompts table. While this is not my favorite, and certainly not my best, I think it's alright. On a scale of 1 to 10, I'd give it a 5.9, I think. I feel that the focus meanders a bit too much, and I that didn't do a good job setting the mood...
The owner was yelling at her again.
He was a large man, nearly six-foot-three with a bulging belly and thinning tawny hair. He sported a thick mustache that danced like a caterpillar as he shouted, and the rolls of fat beneath his chin jigged animatedly as he gestured wildly with his pudgy hands. His face was flushed bright red as he continued his thunderous roar, spittle spraying the air.
Oh, how she would love to stand up and shout right back at him. Oh, what she would give to tear at his face with her stubby, bitten nails. Oh, the way she longed to sweep all the nice clean dishes off the counter into a shattered mess on the floor…
It was a doldrums life.
Everything was pale and worn, like a well-read book. The sky was a permanent grey shade, with ominous clouds hanging over head and the musty smell was still lingering in the air. The dips and curves in the cobblestone road were always filled with muddy, blackish water from the rainstorm twenty-two “yesterdays” ago. The haunting melody of failure followed her through the day, down past the market and up the street, into the recesses of her apartment. Everything was going the same way it always was. The dank buildings creaking beneath the weight of people, their mindless chatter going on and on. And on.
She wondered how long she had left before she’d gone completely mad.
What if she were to dance through the town completely naked? What if she were to run up to a stranger and kiss him hard on the lips? What if she were to take her finest butcher knife and threaten the banker with it? What if she were to spend all her money buying peanuts, and then spend the entire day flicking them at people walking by? What if she were to go completely mad?
But, what if tomorrow were to come?
That question, that single hope, is her last claim to sanity. That is why she goes home every night without doing any of these things. That is why she sits alone in the darkness of her room, drenched in muddy water, and cries quietly. That is why she carefully polishes her clock in the evening and turns the key with the utmost delicacy and care. That is why she lays in bed at night, heart thumping, as she waits for her clock to chime midnight.
It had been October 9th for the twenty-third time now. It was the same day over again. It was the same. Over and over again. She lay silently in her bed, listening.
The clock was ticking.
Over and over again.