fic: thievery
Jun. 7th, 2015 01:58 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clockwork_hart1title: thievery
summary: elena, a diary, and borrowed words
rating: teen?
for my darling![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fluffyfrolicker at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
multi_genfic for the elena round who wanted elena-centric, writing, freedom and self-care and didn't want a hopeless ending or 100% angst. And this is kind of that? And I tried to not angst too hard but I'm still me so
1
Dear diary, my teen angst bullshit now has a bodycount.
Tomorrow, when they're supposed to be sleeping, Caroline will reach over the bedside table and pull out the diary and tell Elena that this isn't funny. Tomorrow, Elena will throw the diary onto the carpet and tickle her until she concedes.
Because. Well. It is funny.
In a sick way, maybe - but Heathers wasn't made for kids with squeaky clean psyches, and the two of them and Bonnie have been sneaking into the living room to watch it since they were fourteen and before the world went to hell. It was funny then and it's funnier now - comedy is just tragedy plus time.
(So maybe it's not a lot of time, but she's dealing, it just happens in fits and starts. Sometimes she wakes up feeling decades older, sometimes she could be six years old and hurtling downstairs seeking comfort in her mother's arms - Jenna's arms aren't the worst substitute, if they aren't quite the same.)
Tomorrow, Caroline and Bonnie will crowd onto her bed, a suffocation of blankets and cotton and teenage girl. No one will cry, and if they steal the Smirnoff hidden under the sink, Jenna won't tell.
Tomorrow Elena will be a real girl for a few hours. Now, here, she is the scrape of the pen against diary pages, the sound of the bath running just down the hall, the feel of submersion and resurfacing, clean and gasping and living. The book closes softly.
5.
Dear diary,
it's my house, and I think it's time to get out
The music is viciously loud over the wind, over the sound of the car. It's hard to tell what's on the edge of the horizon; could be a sunset, it could be a fire. It's fine, either way.
She'll turn back eventually. This is just a deviation, just - every runaway spring break she's never had. Her phone buzzes endlessly on the seat beside her. It's the boys running after her, and she doesn't care - they're out of her system, the drive isn't.
She agrees to drive until the cell battery dies, until they are dead weights in the back of her mind.
She turns the radio up louder.
2.
Dear diary,
I can tell already you think I’m the dragon, that would be so like me, but I’m not. I’m not the dragon. I’m not the princess either. Who am I? I’m just a writer. I write things down.
Somewhere, there is a boy in a bed waiting for her. He thinks if he kisses her hard enough they both can wake up and live a normal, blessedly normal, (after)life.
Elena doesn’t have those delusions.
Somewhere, there are bodies in a grave that should still be breathing. Another boy will tell her it isn’t her fault.
Elena doesn’t have those delusions either.
She is not in distress. She’s in her pyjamas, hair still damp from the shower that tried so hard to wash her sins away, smelling like the jasmine body cream that makes her skin sparkle just so in the moonlight.
(Caroline would like that - would laugh brightly, teeth shining and sharp.)
She is not in distress, but still, there is a sleeping girl in her bed - not somewhere, here, now - with fire under her fingers that will burn down the world until Elena’s smile brightens, that will camp out in Elena’s bedroom for as long as okay takes.
She doesn’t let Bonnie’s snores bother her, will climb in beside her when her thoughts run quiet and trail off on one single thread about how growing up is becoming obsolete.
Elena doesn’t look to see what’s lurking in the dark. She just stands and pulls the curtains shut.
4.
Dear diary,
Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the grey scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know…
This should be the moment the house goes up in flames - but it’s not.
This is the off switch blinking in the back of her head, never quite snapping one way or the other. This is the heady smell of bleach, dizzying and deep in her lungs.
This is the dye on her fingers, dark as it pours out of the bottle and drips redredred into the bathtub. This is a smile, knowing this isn’t really a lack of control. This is therapy. This is the death of autonomy.
This is the one red streak through brown, a reminder of chaos in her reflection - she is not what anyone expects anymore.
This is not grief-stricken impulse - it’s not. This is a reminder that she has this whole life - a hundred lives - and no one can control a single goddamn thing about her.
3.
Dear diary,
I stole my words from other people. I pinned them together like a collage of broken thoughts by people whole-er, more real than I was ever meant to be. I just took the words to make sense of myself.
Outside of the body that's never been mine, the life determined by everyone but me.
I'm a thief.
So here I am.
- an artist borrows, a genius steals.
Elena closes the journal and presses it under her pillow.
She doesn't sleep smiling, but she doesn't dream either - and that's maybe more than she could ask for. It's enough.
(diary quotes: 1 - Heathers (movie), 5 - My House, PVRIS, 2 - Litany In Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out, Richard Silken, 4 - The Bell Jar, Silvia Plath)
summary: elena, a diary, and borrowed words
rating: teen?
for my darling
fluffyfrolicker at multi_genfic for the elena round who wanted elena-centric, writing, freedom and self-care and didn't want a hopeless ending or 100% angst. And this is kind of that? And I tried to not angst too hard but I'm still me so1
Dear diary, my teen angst bullshit now has a bodycount.
Tomorrow, when they're supposed to be sleeping, Caroline will reach over the bedside table and pull out the diary and tell Elena that this isn't funny. Tomorrow, Elena will throw the diary onto the carpet and tickle her until she concedes.
Because. Well. It is funny.
In a sick way, maybe - but Heathers wasn't made for kids with squeaky clean psyches, and the two of them and Bonnie have been sneaking into the living room to watch it since they were fourteen and before the world went to hell. It was funny then and it's funnier now - comedy is just tragedy plus time.
(So maybe it's not a lot of time, but she's dealing, it just happens in fits and starts. Sometimes she wakes up feeling decades older, sometimes she could be six years old and hurtling downstairs seeking comfort in her mother's arms - Jenna's arms aren't the worst substitute, if they aren't quite the same.)
Tomorrow, Caroline and Bonnie will crowd onto her bed, a suffocation of blankets and cotton and teenage girl. No one will cry, and if they steal the Smirnoff hidden under the sink, Jenna won't tell.
Tomorrow Elena will be a real girl for a few hours. Now, here, she is the scrape of the pen against diary pages, the sound of the bath running just down the hall, the feel of submersion and resurfacing, clean and gasping and living. The book closes softly.
5.
Dear diary,
it's my house, and I think it's time to get out
The music is viciously loud over the wind, over the sound of the car. It's hard to tell what's on the edge of the horizon; could be a sunset, it could be a fire. It's fine, either way.
She'll turn back eventually. This is just a deviation, just - every runaway spring break she's never had. Her phone buzzes endlessly on the seat beside her. It's the boys running after her, and she doesn't care - they're out of her system, the drive isn't.
She agrees to drive until the cell battery dies, until they are dead weights in the back of her mind.
She turns the radio up louder.
2.
Dear diary,
I can tell already you think I’m the dragon, that would be so like me, but I’m not. I’m not the dragon. I’m not the princess either. Who am I? I’m just a writer. I write things down.
Somewhere, there is a boy in a bed waiting for her. He thinks if he kisses her hard enough they both can wake up and live a normal, blessedly normal, (after)life.
Elena doesn’t have those delusions.
Somewhere, there are bodies in a grave that should still be breathing. Another boy will tell her it isn’t her fault.
Elena doesn’t have those delusions either.
She is not in distress. She’s in her pyjamas, hair still damp from the shower that tried so hard to wash her sins away, smelling like the jasmine body cream that makes her skin sparkle just so in the moonlight.
(Caroline would like that - would laugh brightly, teeth shining and sharp.)
She is not in distress, but still, there is a sleeping girl in her bed - not somewhere, here, now - with fire under her fingers that will burn down the world until Elena’s smile brightens, that will camp out in Elena’s bedroom for as long as okay takes.
She doesn’t let Bonnie’s snores bother her, will climb in beside her when her thoughts run quiet and trail off on one single thread about how growing up is becoming obsolete.
Elena doesn’t look to see what’s lurking in the dark. She just stands and pulls the curtains shut.
4.
Dear diary,
Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the grey scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know…
This should be the moment the house goes up in flames - but it’s not.
This is the off switch blinking in the back of her head, never quite snapping one way or the other. This is the heady smell of bleach, dizzying and deep in her lungs.
This is the dye on her fingers, dark as it pours out of the bottle and drips redredred into the bathtub. This is a smile, knowing this isn’t really a lack of control. This is therapy. This is the death of autonomy.
This is the one red streak through brown, a reminder of chaos in her reflection - she is not what anyone expects anymore.
This is not grief-stricken impulse - it’s not. This is a reminder that she has this whole life - a hundred lives - and no one can control a single goddamn thing about her.
3.
Dear diary,
I stole my words from other people. I pinned them together like a collage of broken thoughts by people whole-er, more real than I was ever meant to be. I just took the words to make sense of myself.
Outside of the body that's never been mine, the life determined by everyone but me.
I'm a thief.
So here I am.
- an artist borrows, a genius steals.
Elena closes the journal and presses it under her pillow.
She doesn't sleep smiling, but she doesn't dream either - and that's maybe more than she could ask for. It's enough.
(diary quotes: 1 - Heathers (movie), 5 - My House, PVRIS, 2 - Litany In Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out, Richard Silken, 4 - The Bell Jar, Silvia Plath)
