Skip to main content

Cut Her Strings

 Each heel, snap. 

The models walk in circles in Azure’s daydream. Each of them wears a different color dress, covered in sparkles that are sewn by hand but don’t look like that from far away. Their heels, too high to be considered comfortable, are labeled in black marker along the sides with words like *freedom* and *trust.*

One by one, the heels snap off. The models tumble to the ground, their ankles twisting at unnatural angles as they fall. 

*peaceful.* Snap.

*Support.* Snap.

One of the models in the pile, all limbs and a sky-blue dress, is bleeding from places that she should not be. The trail of blood flows down her throat in a scarlet line, as the people around her scream and yell at the models to leave. 

To get up, as if they are responsible for the cracking of their heels and the breaking of their trust in people who were supposed to assist in instances of injury. 

Bring ice packs, not indifference. 

The model in the blue dress is lifted into the air, her body dangling like a limp puppet. Placed in the back of a buggy, she covered in a thick tarp before being wheeled away. Murmurs follow her body, connected by some invisible string. 

Azure’s parents, who were her greatest supporters in her endeavors since she was born. Their words follow the model’s limp body as it’s carried off the stage. 

Nobody will want her if they find out. All of the money, it’ll be gone.

Azure’s eyes open from the daydream, induced by the morphine she was given to stop her body from convulsing. The hospital room is empty of people. 

The doctors say that she will most likely never walk again, because she did not receive help until the damage was beyond repair. 

Her parents aren’t there. They abandoned her despite their claims.

She cries.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Too Much Crying

 Everything used to be big when I was small, or maybe it was just that it was the same size and I was shorter. Sometimes I have vague memories of a hallway that I no longer know, each step tall enough that I had to lift my leg high up to my waist to climb up them. There was someone waiting at the top for me, a nondescript figure in brown heels. The ones that look like they have a T going across them. With each step that I take up the stairs, her mouth moves. I can’t comprehend that she is talking to me. Colorful paint has been put on all of my fingers by a tall lady, who probably isn’t that old but she’s so much taller than me that I can’t see the top of her. Taller than the highest tower that I can build out of blocks, taller than me until they go falling down. It was hard work to build that tower of blocks, and I cried when they fell down. I didn’t like seeing my tower fall down.  Just like when the tall lady puts the paint on my hand, I start to cry because it is cold. I do...
Post a Comment
Read more

[lore] Backstory of a Fae.

Within every world, there are always those who silently declare themselves apaart. Full of a more ancient magic and a history stretching father back than the longest rope, they set themselves apart for the sake of watching over the world in a place untouched. Fae are different from the elves, with their abilities that range in power and capability. Each fae possesses a rare, more powerful magic within that category of an element. If nothing else, this is an excuse for those Elders within the fae to keep their people apart from the remainder of the species that dot the land. While the lore itself and composition of the fae villages depends on the world, it remains true that in their hands lies knowledge. Not quite dangerous, but close, if irresponsible persons were to get ahold of it when they did not understand such a thing. Shiro was one of those fae, born under the name Sena Akamatsu as the eldest son in a family. From birth, the child was shown to have a magic leaning towar...
Post a Comment
Read more

Dreams Born Amidst Adversity: Abroad in Japan Review

  “In smooth, methodical prose, Broad tells the story of self-discovery across the ocean and finding your voice. Unique and alluring.” A small store in Barcelona, smaller than an apartment yet crowded in among countless other buildings. With the intention of showcasing authentic Japanese culture in a space 10 thousand kilometers from Tokyo, Satori is a store which makes the most of its limited space. Books about Japanese culture lined one wall, most in Spanish but with a few Catalan books in between. As appealing as those bound works appeared to be, for an American tourist who didn’t speak much Spanish, they were far out of my reach.  On the opposite wall, stacked upon each other with all the organization of mismatched brick, was a small pile of English books. From the stack, I picked out Abroad in Japan, intrigued by the words written across the top. That classic phrase, which had accomplished its intended purpose by luring me in by promising the text within its pages was wor...
Post a Comment
Read more