Writing: Character story
Word Count: 520
She doesn’t know how long it’s been. She’s awake with not a thought or memory lingering in her mind, a gravestone washed clean of all engravings and blemishes. The still-warm blood coagulating on her fingertips and the weight in her lap hint that perhaps her last few minutes haven’t been spent in the land of dreams. She looks down. It’s a corpse. A young girl who, by the looks of it, might have been very pretty when she was alive- pretty, before someone decided to disfigure her until she was hardly recognizable. Maybe, she thinks, maybe I did it?
She’s not sure how to react to the notion. Something pure, righteous, and nagging declares that she should be atoning for her sins right now. Murder, done in the cruelest fashion. Appalling. She finds that being painted from head to toe in sticky red isn’t too disgusting. Strange. But what does it matter, when she doesn’t know this girl, and there is really nothing to feel guilty about? Really, all she is doing is having some fun.
With the leftover blood on her hands she paints the tiled bathroom wall: a toppled, butterfly-wing-shaped splotch for a heart symbol, since it seems like the kind of thing that would suit a girl the age of the dead one there. R. I. P., rest in peace. What was her name? She adds “beloved daughter,” because it seems to fit. She doesn’t know the date, so that too is omitted. And. What else was this girl?
When the body and the blood go cold, she reluctantly washes herself off in a nearby sink. The blood looks so pretty on white porcelain that she decides not to clean the stains off the sink, marks of her passing. She’s finished here, so after surveying the empty bathroom (where there’s no one else but herself, that blood, and those lifeless bodies), she makes her way for the door. There is a growing feeling of delirium: even as all of this is happening, she is being born. She is given a past, an experience, a mark on the world as proof that she was here. She exists.
It’s not until her reflection in the mirror catches her eye that she notices that she has no face.
Jule emerges from her dream like a drowning sailor breaks the surface of the water. Her breath is shallow, but it settles after a few seconds. It was a dream, wasn’t it? Just to be sure, she picks up the hand mirror laid readily on the bedside table and checks her reflection. Clear blue eyes blink sleepily back at her, fringed thickly with long lashes. They are almost covered by her long blond bangs, swept across her face in her sleep. The skin of her face is pale, and as she tilts her chin upward, she can almost see the veins in her throat, pulsing with blood. Normal. Normal. All normal. As long as she has a face, she has an identity. But without her memories, what meaning does it have? When the time comes, what will be written on her tombstone?
It's kind of really messily done >.<
This is another writing-- um... a character's side-story, maybe? in prep. for Nanowrimo.
Jule has the ability to shapshift into anything as long as it's human, but she also gets amnesia every once in a while. So it's very confusing, and she can't remember who she was or what she used to look like.
I just wanted to try to get some insight into her ...more human, more vulnerable side before I begin portraying her as the "torturer of humankind" kind of person that she usually is. I actually really like her because she's like this. I mean, not that I would be friends with her in real life; she'd probably make me cry and then kill me.
Also, I will probably be submitting another character story on one of the other NaNo characters, Zetes (formerly Tophis Hayes), who is (a jerk) unpopular with the ladies.
I met the word quota this week :D
Silver : 100000000000, Lewis: 1