- Invitation Status
- Not accepting invites at this time
- Posting Speed
- Slow As Molasses
- Writing Levels
- Advanced
- Prestige
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Female
- Genres
- Historical, Romance, Horror
she never thought she'd tire of the taste of dandelions, or of seeing their happy color dye her fingers yellow. it was her favorite color, but red sought her out too often; a selfish lover.
she grew used to blood, seeing it as often as daisies and smelling of warm copper under the virginia sun. she didn't mind how it dried and tightened her skin, or turned her into a grisly dalmatian.
killing, however, never got old. the idea of it was always like a sneeze; unannounced, but a wonderful surprise. she could have power over anything - animal or human in this world, and it gave her something better than a cheap thrill. satisfaction would bloom in her, a perfect flower that gave her the perfect feeling; like waking up from the best night's sleep, or getting a shot of morphine for the worst pain. she wanted to keep this flower watered.
over the weeks spent alone, her confidence rose like blood from a wound. she was once afraid of ending up by herself, but now she felt as powerful as a woman with a crown and a sword. she began to understand what her trauma therapist talked about so long ago.
"you never have felt strong, have you? not as a child. not now. a child's fascination with mayhem has less to do with the fighting and more to do with how the action makes her feel. children like to feel strong. those committing violence are strong. as you are now, your mental health depends on its shadow. that part of our psyche that harbors our darkest energies, such as melancholia and murderousness. the more we repress the morbid, the more it foments neuroses or psychoses. to achieve wholeness, we must acknowledge our most demonic inclinations. eric g. wilson said, 'during these gloomy pauses, we often discover parts of ourselves we never knew we possessed, talents that, properly activated, enrich our lives.' so, yes, take pleasure in your enemy's tumble from grace."
he always spoke about it in a way as if it were scripture, or destiny. harley's therapist knew she would survive in this world. he said so before putting a bullet in his head, staining her memory with his death like sunspots in her vision. she'd blink and she could still see it.
she didn't understand what he meant at the time, but she did now. all she had to do was harness everything she suppressed, what he tried to beckon out from her in their sessions like it was an abused dog hiding under a porch.
as much as she reveled in her addiction, harley wanted some form of happiness that didn't come from a kill. she missed people. she missed her friends, even rick. she always wanted him to trust her, but she was afraid of being sent away like he did with carol.
back at the prison, she spent as much time outside as she could to keep herself from getting depressed. she didn't like the gray walls of her cell. she missed the yellow walls of her room in the mental institution. she picked up the habit of working at the fences, killing walkers into the nights and mornings as her new form of "therapy." as long as she killed something dangerous she was satiated enough.
rick had noticed how she obsessively kept at it, and tried to talk to her. he saw how blistered her hands were, how they were rubbed raw and bleeding, and how dark the half-moon circles were beneath her eyes. he was concerned for her, and after some time of persuasion sat her down. she openly told him about her past and why she stayed at the fences so much. having a better understanding, rick told her to go to hershel about her hands and to rest up for a few days.
his understanding turned to wariness, and he began to look at her as though she were something dangerous, but appearing innocent; gray clouds in the sky teasing light rains, but hinting malicious intent with the growls of thunder. he didn't trust her, and she knew that once she was seen by him, the wolf in granny's clothing discovered, she couldn't run from his gun.
harley sat down in the middle of the road, her stuffed tigger peeking out from her bag. sunlight held her like a warm hand, and exhaustion weighed her down like a concrete cast. numb, she could only feel the gun in her hand.
she pulled her found vintage motorcycle goggles down before her eyes, and scratched away the dried blood. when situations got gushy, the goggles helped to keep the walker blood at bay. she placed the goggles back on her head and crossed her arms.
harley did not entirely know what she had spent the day doing before she got here. her mind blacked out most of it. It left her feeling untied, like a helium balloon floating around aimlessly, bumping against the ceiling; unable to push further and unable to come back down.
harley spaced out multiple times on the sound of a truck approaching. she didn't know how close it got until it stopped, growling next to her.
she turned, having to lift her chin to look into the windshield. people! were they real? i been off my meds too long to know, she thought. she was drawn to who sat in the passenger side. rugged and comely, his eyes were as inviting as a soft, summer dawn.
slack jawed, harley rose to her feet, entranced like a child marveling at a light show of fireflies. or the giant teddy bear she always wanted. oh, man, or the big knife in the kitchen back in the institution! "are you real?"