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Want to try to make one or see what other people came up with?! Every story will participate in The Doll Palace ratings. Good stories will be awarded with Dollpoints.
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All created stories have to follow . We do not allow any sexually related material. The Doll Palace will be enforcing this rule and completely blocking access to the accounts that disregard our policy and create sexually oriented stories.
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Hi, my name is Pegasus
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 | The Harsh Facts of Life [02] |
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 5 with 5 vote(s)
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| Created: 2009-08-08 11:59:41 |
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Now I am cutting,
I feel the ripping in my flesh.
Now I'm bleeding,
I'm satisfied, I'm now content.
- Self Harm, Anti-Nowhere League.
The soft throb of techno music pulsating through the small set of iPOD speakers echoed around the empty room, carrying with it the lingering after-effects of a night of drinking. Luciana Young shifted uncomfortably in the hard plastic chair on which she set, her hand continuiously moving toward the steady beat of the music, words rolling effortlessly from the tip of the gel pen as she glanced back and forth between the page and the books surrounding her. She shifted her weight once again, cursing the sturdy plastic beneath her, and considered giving up for the moment. Lunchtimes, she mused, were to be spent outside. And yet, here she sat, burried beneath her work, in a deserted classroom with only the aid of her iPOD for comfort. It was barbaric, she decided blankly, but made no attempt to move.
Exhaustion pressed heavily against her shoulders, weariness played tricks behind her eyes as despair welled deeper through her veins, focusing only on the fact that deadlines were approaching, and nothing was completed to perfection just yet. Luciana groaned lightly, passing a hand across her forehead, recoiling slightly at the blatant warmth echoing from the buttermilk flesh. Rising slowly from the seat, she spun in a tight circle, surveying the room as her fingers dragged the restraining band from her long, silken locks. The room was inadequately lit, in all truths, but it did is purposes considerably well. It was a warm room, with a homely feel about it. But then, perhaps, she had grown use to this room alone. With it's table of computers, a handful of desks and chairs, windows hidden behind blinds, and the teacher's desk, what was to dislike about it? Except the paper-thin walls.
Luciana slumped once more into the chair, picking up the pen she'd previously been held and touching the tip to the paper as her eyes danced along the neat script lining the page. There was a mistake in the first paragraph. With a sigh, she ran a single line through the collection of misused words, rewriting what she'd been aiming for above the mistake, fixing it as neatly as she could in order to make rewriting the entire thing that much easier. She chewed at the end of the pen as she dragged one of the books toward her, skimming her gaze along the words, trying to take in as much as she could before easing another of the books toward her, repeating the process several times.
xxxx
The bus had been late once again, causing Luciana to arrive home half an hour later than she'd expected. There had been no chance to try and finish what she'd been doing during the trip. It had been far too noisy, her iPOD had run flat, and her best friend had needed her to read over an assignment, editing mistakes and helping her reword sentences. It had taken until the other girl's stop for them to come even close to half finishing it. Even after her friend had left, there had been no time for work. She'd been stuck in the middle of a questioning by another friend, being quizzed on the upcoming school disco she had helped prepare. Was it a fancy dress, what kind of food was going to be there, who was going, was it just their grade? The questions had seemed never-ending, and Luciana assumed it had only been because the bus had stopped, and she'd gotten off, that it had ended.
No one was home. The fact that her mother's car was missing from the driveway turned this piece of assumption into fact, as well as her brother's bike being missing from the garage. She let herself in through the front door, kicking off her sneakers as she pulled it shut behind her. Her keys went to the table by the door, her eyes skim-reading the note her mother had written there. Adam was out with a friend, probably staying the night. Her mother had to work late. There was a TV dinner defrosting in the fridge. It needed to be microwaved on high for four minutes, left to stand for another two. Luciana supressed the despair threatening to engulf her as she tore the piece of purple paper from the pad, revealing a neon-yellow sheet, and tossed it into the bin. Working late, in her mother's mind, meant staying at the office until seven, seven-thirty and then hitting the bar. She'd be back, if Luciana was lucky, by three a.m.
Her room was almost painfully cold. It was also dark. She'd forgotten to open the blinds, although she'd managed to make her bed and toss her dirty clothes into the wash-basket. With her lips pressed lightly together, Luciana dumped her bag on her desk and crossed almost routinely toward the CD player beside it. As the familiar sound of Disturbed laced her ears, she began the tedious task of removing heavy books and piles of paper from her bag. Sheet after sheet littered the dark oak item of furniture, covering it's sleek surface with a million different things. Diagrams, sketches, pieces written on all sorts of things, this weeks piece for the school newsletter, a letter to a real newspaper editor, her portfolio. She sunk all too gratefully into the soft, leather swivel chair as she picked up a pen, glancing over the piles and stacks of work.
It all seemed painfully hopeless. She tugged her hair back, holding it in place with a band, and rose to her feet once more. The nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach was demanding, almost over-powering. She crossed to her bed, lifting the edge of the mattress and feeling beneath. The paper envelope met her searching fingertips, feeling like heaven as she withdrew it, staring at the small lump between the paper. She stroked her thumb across the bump as she crossed to her door, easing it closed and flipping the lock. The relief coursing through her veins eased the feeling in her stomach, replacing it with a warm bubbling that made her feel giddy. She sunk back into her seat, a slow smile crossing her lips as she searched through the drawers for the bandages she kept at hand. She tipped the envelope open on the desk, plucking the small sharpener blades from the desk. She eyed each for a moment before selecting one, the edges stained from being dragged across her flesh time and time again.
Her sleeves were rolled back instantly, her arms exposed. The blade felt icy against her wrists as she pressed it firmly down, watching a pin-prxck of blood well upwards, curling around the blade in a beautiful pattern. Luciana's eyes flickered shut, happiness passing across her face. She returned to staring at the blood before lifting the blade, moving it in slow, steady streaks across her arm. Each slice brought a fresh wave of pain, followed closely by the sheer relief she gained from each slip of the blade. By the seventh cut, her eyes were closed as she basked in the golden glow of happiness, allowing control to seep back toward her.
Luciana Young was completely certain that now, for as long as she had a blade, life would work out. |
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