Hearts Without Chains} [Tom]
Feb 8, 2014 21:50:36 GMT -5
Post by brad bradford ★ d5b [arx] on Feb 8, 2014 21:50:36 GMT -5
\\ Jequirity Orellia Eckhart //
District 6 - Eighteen - Tempus Opera House
" Tell my love to wreck it all ... "
Yesterday I became one huge burden again, collapsing into yet another panic attack, the fifth in a month. I had been doing so well, my mind on everything but ... that. But every time I go home at night I find myself racked with terror. My hands shake, my eyes fill with tears, my throat constricts shut, and the world crumbles around me as a knife traces lines over my body - again.
I had tried to volunteer this year, but as usual, I couldn't make the words come out. When I tasted them on the tip of my tongue, threatening to burst free, vile had risen in my throat, and I had had to sprint from the square before my breakfast made a sudden reappearance. I had wretched in a back alley with tears in my eyes for what seemed like hours before Shale found me crumpled into a tight ball on the concrete. I couldn't remember any of it until Shale forced my rigid fingers to the ivory piano keys at home. It seemed I was doomed to being a silent, helpless heap of tears and scars for the rest of my life. Forever broken.
As a result, I have taken to staying late at Tempus. I practice until my fingers begin to cramp or bleed, and most nights I fall asleep on top of the piano, reading over music that I just can't seem to get right. Sometimes I don't wake up until Rio nudges me awake. I can't even pretend that I had just gotten there in those instances. That's when I take to brewing coffee instead in an attempt to not look like such a crazy person. Coffee is normal. Coffee says I'm normal. Sadly, the silent nods and smiles I give in response to anything and everything are not. I'm more than just abnormal, I am insane. My dreams are never dreams - only nightmares. And those nightmares are not just fantasy, they are reality. Memories.
Sometimes I think he can see it. Riordan, I mean. Then again I think everyone can. I've trained myself to hide the physical scars, but the emotional ones are harder to conceal. Luckily I haven't completely lost it yet around my new friends. It's embarrassing enough to make my sisters and moms deal with it ... none of the people here need another burden to worry about. Everyone came here to escape - including me - but despite all of the good that playing music for hours and hours on end does me, I still can't shake the past as I thought I might be able to. In fact, I think the past is only starting to catch up with me more often.
("Jequirity? Please, darling, you have to say something.")
The beat, beat, beat of my heart flutters uncontrollably and I feel like screaming. I feel like screaming is the only way to prove that I can't speak. Ever. The urge to leave through the back doors for a smoke grows strong in that moment, and I force myself to battle through the voices in my head, the memories that won't shut up, and a year old addiction that only occasionally manages to itch at the back of my mind. I slam my fingers into the ivory keys, a discordant screech echoing through the place. I shove away from the bench, and clamber to the edge of the stage, reaching for my violin.
And as I draw the bow across the strings, my mind empties and the whole world just melts away. I close my eyes and a whole new world forms within my mind - one where I am 10 years younger and my sisters are dancing around the basement to the tune I play. We used to boast that we were fairy princesses. Every so often there would be a giggle from the twins who sat watching at the edge of the room as Opiliones or Shale twirled and jumped like they were the most graceful dancers in the world. ("Why did you quit dancing anyway?") I used to always ask Shale, remembering how rigorously she had practiced when we were younger. The memory of the basement makes me smile.
I walk to the center of the stage, still playing, the smile seemingly engraved on my face, and set myself down with my feet dangling over the edge. There is something about music - something about this place - that makes all of my problems completely disappear.
I had tried to volunteer this year, but as usual, I couldn't make the words come out. When I tasted them on the tip of my tongue, threatening to burst free, vile had risen in my throat, and I had had to sprint from the square before my breakfast made a sudden reappearance. I had wretched in a back alley with tears in my eyes for what seemed like hours before Shale found me crumpled into a tight ball on the concrete. I couldn't remember any of it until Shale forced my rigid fingers to the ivory piano keys at home. It seemed I was doomed to being a silent, helpless heap of tears and scars for the rest of my life. Forever broken.
As a result, I have taken to staying late at Tempus. I practice until my fingers begin to cramp or bleed, and most nights I fall asleep on top of the piano, reading over music that I just can't seem to get right. Sometimes I don't wake up until Rio nudges me awake. I can't even pretend that I had just gotten there in those instances. That's when I take to brewing coffee instead in an attempt to not look like such a crazy person. Coffee is normal. Coffee says I'm normal. Sadly, the silent nods and smiles I give in response to anything and everything are not. I'm more than just abnormal, I am insane. My dreams are never dreams - only nightmares. And those nightmares are not just fantasy, they are reality. Memories.
Sometimes I think he can see it. Riordan, I mean. Then again I think everyone can. I've trained myself to hide the physical scars, but the emotional ones are harder to conceal. Luckily I haven't completely lost it yet around my new friends. It's embarrassing enough to make my sisters and moms deal with it ... none of the people here need another burden to worry about. Everyone came here to escape - including me - but despite all of the good that playing music for hours and hours on end does me, I still can't shake the past as I thought I might be able to. In fact, I think the past is only starting to catch up with me more often.
("Jequirity? Please, darling, you have to say something.")
The beat, beat, beat of my heart flutters uncontrollably and I feel like screaming. I feel like screaming is the only way to prove that I can't speak. Ever. The urge to leave through the back doors for a smoke grows strong in that moment, and I force myself to battle through the voices in my head, the memories that won't shut up, and a year old addiction that only occasionally manages to itch at the back of my mind. I slam my fingers into the ivory keys, a discordant screech echoing through the place. I shove away from the bench, and clamber to the edge of the stage, reaching for my violin.
And as I draw the bow across the strings, my mind empties and the whole world just melts away. I close my eyes and a whole new world forms within my mind - one where I am 10 years younger and my sisters are dancing around the basement to the tune I play. We used to boast that we were fairy princesses. Every so often there would be a giggle from the twins who sat watching at the edge of the room as Opiliones or Shale twirled and jumped like they were the most graceful dancers in the world. ("Why did you quit dancing anyway?") I used to always ask Shale, remembering how rigorously she had practiced when we were younger. The memory of the basement makes me smile.
I walk to the center of the stage, still playing, the smile seemingly engraved on my face, and set myself down with my feet dangling over the edge. There is something about music - something about this place - that makes all of my problems completely disappear.
" Cut out all the ropes and let me fall ... "