Warnings: femslash!! That means chick on chick! And non-graphic lesbian sex... be warned...

Um, I feel like my account is entirely useless if I have nothing posted. So I’m posting something. Huzzah for me...

If anyone’s read any of my Harry Potter fics on , which I highly doubt, you’ll notice this is the EXACT SAME fic as Psychobabble, which I just modified because... I ought to post something... yah...

X

You were always smiling.

Always such a good little girl.

You were always beautiful, and gorgeous, and pretty. You were well behaved, polite, and respectful. You listened to your parents, you made them proud, and you never bragged about doing so. You smiled, and the world did too. Because you were a good little girl. Always.

Your parents always loved you. They protected you. They gave you everything you wanted, every reason to smile, and you smiled in return. You never fought with them, because fighting was impolite, and they never gave you anything to fight over. They never took anything away. You were spoilt. And polite. And you were still a good little girl.

You were always made of glass. You were beautiful, because you were glass, and your parents loved you, because you were glass. They showed you to the world, proud to say you were theirs, proud to boast that they had raised such a gorgeous and good little porcelain doll, and you politely smiled, pretty in your patience. People always told you that you were a good little girl. So you believed them.

You always smiled. Primarily, you smiled. You smiled when the world was wonderful, when the world was fine, when the world was drowning, and when there was no world at all. You smiled because it was polite, beautiful, and hid your glass-covered soul. You smiled. Always.

You were a good little girl.

Completely made of glass.

The first time you entered the carriage, you were scared. Terrified. You had never left the castle before, except to follow mommy to the market place, but even then, you were never alone. They told you you’d be alone, in the carriage.

But you wouldn’t be when you got there. You were still scared.

You clutched daddy’s hand, because daddy was strong, and you were weak. You hid behind him, because the crowd of servants was large, and you were small. But mommy said you were embarrassing her. And you stopped.

You always made your parents proud, always. So you climbed into the carriage. You smiled. They smiled back. You were crying inside.

But it was just a stupid carriage, pulled by stupid little horse, you remembered riding at a stupid age. And you just had stupid feelings. They got in the way of your smile, your beauty. You hid them. You forgot them. You demolished them.

You cried.

A lot.

The first time you got out of the carriage, you were scared. The man from the front helped you down, and you were horrified. You cowered next to him, away from the riches all around, away from the other people, and he smiled, and ruffled your hair. You smiled back. You had a feeling that he only liked you because of it. But you didn’t have feelings. Not of your own.

The first time you stood outside of the school, you were scared. It was huge. Larger than the carriages crowding all around, larger than your future classmates crowding all around, larger than your beautiful glass castle with your beautiful glass family and your beautiful glass life, it towered far above your head. The man by your side stepped back. You stepped behind him. Terrified.

The first time you entered your dormitory, you were scared. You didn’t know what you were doing, where you were going, and you didn’t know what you wanted to do or where you wanted to go. You were all alone on your pretty bed, until other pretty girls came an sat on your pretty bed, and you didn’t know any of them. The polished carpet was gorgeous, and the mural-draped walls were beautiful, and the elaborate furnishings were out of picture books you had owned in every shape and form. But you were alone, and your pale skin went paler.

You were scared when you slipped out of your slippers, and there weren’t any nice maids to slip the away. No smiling friends in familiar uniforms, curtseying and bowing. Horrified.

A girl on the bed beside you said that life was rather exciting.

You couldn’t calculate what she meant.

Ever.

The first time you saw him it was at a game. You weren’t interested in the sports of the school very much – some looked fun, but you were simply more of an academic sort of person, and so you stuck to it. But your friends loved a few, of course. You were a very good friend. You followed your newest one, loyally, and you cheered when she did, and you watched what she did. You changed your mind. Some sports were interesting.

Very, very interesting.

So you stayed after the match, like your newest friend, and you talked with Kazum, like just like her. You fell in love with him. Like the school’s entire female population.

You were different, though. How could he not choose you, when you were pretty, polite, and popular. Everyone was, but few else had tiaras under their bed, and had lands under their names. You smiled at him for every joke, and you practiced with him, for every match, and you went with him to the balls. He was charming, and so were you. He was a good little boy, and you were a good little girl. It was perfect. You loved him.

Always.

It took you a few years to make it onto the team, but as soon as you did, you were ecstatic. It was an excuse. An excuse to be with him, to talk to him, to laugh with him. You smiled everywhere he took you, smiled at everything he showed you, smiled at every joke, every laugh, and every word. You smiled because it made him smile, because it kept him to you, because it was involuntary. You smiled because you breathed. So you simply smiled. Always.

You smiled when he made it into the nationals. You smiled when he scored points, when he won a match, when he asked you to the largest ball. You spent all night getting ready, your jealous friends helped, and you were dazzling. He smiled as he took your hand, you smiled back. You smiled for him, and resolved to never stop.

You did.

Overnight.

Just like that.

The smile left your face, and you felt it would never go back on. You stopped, because he was gone, because your life was gone, because it was over. You stopped because you were no longer breathing, and the world was drowning all around you. You stopped. And it hurt.

You cried for it. Cried, and sobbed, and wept. Your glass tears cut your porcelain face like shards of shattered jewels, but you couldn’t stop now, and you carried the scars. You cried in the halls, in the bathrooms, and in the back of class. Crying became your smile.

But you were still polite, and you were still beautiful, and you were still a good little girl.

Even when you missed practice, lessons, and life, because you were so busy crying that you couldn’t see the world beyond your walls of water. You became used to drowning. Used to glass. Used to the feeling of your shattered heart lying next to your shattered dreams. And when you became used to it, you became passive again. You lost your emotions, hid them, and locked them deep inside. You destroyed them, because the outside could see straight through your glass eyes to your sobbing soul.

Things went back to normal.

You smiled.

The world was still drowning, you were still crying, and you had long since ceased the oxygen habit. Once again, you were a good little girl.

You never stopped smiling.

You tried to, anyway. That day, as you were walking through the halls, from the bathrooms, to the back of class, you tried your very best. Smile plastered on, you leaned over the edge, glass now so thin that you knew you were shattered beyond repair. The trails eroded down your cheeks were your cracks, glued back together from all the times you’d fallen with your handy little smiles.

You were smiling, then. You tried your very, very best.

Even though the ink stained your clothes, your pretty, pretty clothes. Even though your books were ruined, your essays a mess. Your expensive bag was in pieces. You smiled.

After all, you knew someone would pick up the pieces. Lying scattered about the floor, shattered about the world, you knew that someone would come, with glue stronger than smiles. That was what happened to good little girls, what always happened to you. Knights saved damsels in distress, princes saved princesses. You cried your tears, and wore your smile, and waited for your knight, your prince.

It was quite a shock, therefore, when a princess in no distress handed you the last quill from your bag, instead.

And quite a shock when Narcissa didn’t smile back.

You quickly learned something new that day.

Not all little girls were good.

And not all the good stayed good forever.

The first time she noticed you, you blushed, and looked away. You didn’t know why. Or, more accurately, you knew, but didn’t understand. You knew why she looked, but didn’t understand. You knew an awful lot of things. And you understood very little.

You didn’t answer when she snidely poked fun at your uniform in the halls, when she picked at your dress during a break, when she laughed at your playing after a game. You knew you couldn’t. You didn’t understand. But you knew anyways, and breaking that knowledge would break tradition, and thus be impolite. You were a good little girl.

So, when politeness and tradition told you that associating yourself with bad little girls was not an option, you obeyed. You blocked. You hid your desire away, destroyed it, let your glass eyes look upon her with a drowning sense of nothingness.

Besides, it didn’t really matter whether tradition allowed a princess or not.

In your head, it was all very simple.

Nothing really mattered.

Narcissa wasn’t Kazum.

You smiled at Aki, in the student council meeting. You brought your friends, and sat them down, and smiled. You attended the first gathering, you listened well, and you stayed behind. You liked him. You kissed him. And that should have been all right.

After all, it was tradition, and polite. Good little girls kiss good little boys. And you did. Under the mistletoe. With tears on your cheeks. You smiled as you pressed your lips to him, smiled as he pressed back, but crimson crystal came pouring down and the shattered glass still cut your porcelain face. You felt bad for it. You felt bad always.

You felt bad, because you were making him feel bad. You felt bad because it wasn’t his fault, it was yours, and you were making it seem his. You felt bad because you couldn’t forget what other lips were like, couldn’t forget your image of your princess, and stop liking him, anyway.

You cried, because Aki wasn’t Kazum.

And you smiled, because Aki wasn’t Narcissa.

And you cried, because it was your smile.

You still don’t understand why you followed her.

Why she wanted you to follow her.

Why she left that cold morning, to talk to you in the halls, her ever-present band of bad-ass girls deteriorating without her. She insulted you, and shot you down, and whispered poison in your ear. You nodded, you listened.

She copied your homework, you were surprised she had bothered. She did your hair, you were surprised she made it look so nice. She instructed you on where to go, and when, and what to do when you got there. You obeyed. She touched you. You let her.

You didn’t cry when you were with her. You smiled, and politely drowned. She liked your smiles.

Everyone did, but you.

You ran away that day.

Ran, because walking wasn’t fast enough, and you didn’t stop. You didn’t stop, because no matter how far you ran, you couldn’t escape yourself, and everything you kept leaving behind was everything you saw before you. The tears cut your face, the icy chill freezing them to the core, and your ebony hair had icicles at the end. The dissonance in your head was nothing to the dissidence of the world. You ran, anyway. Though you never really got anywhere.

Again, you felt bad. Because Aki reminded you of Kazum, but Aki wasn’t Kazum, and Kazum had never been Aki. Because Narcissa wasn’t either of them, neither of them were Narcissa, and you didn’t even know why you bothered with her. You felt bad because again, you had made Aki feel bad, and though he had deserved it, you were the one that deserved to die. You were angry with him, angry with yourself, but good little girls don’t feel anger, so you simply ran. You smiled, anyway.

Smiled at your reflection, as you saw it in the moat. Smiled at the doll’s face looking back at you, the beautiful face that had attracted two knights and a princess. That wanted a princess. Had lost a knight. And strung the other one along on a thread around your neck. You had lost too many emotions to tell whether or not you liked the face.

You stared at it, for hours. It beat crying in the halls, the bathrooms, and classes. It beat missing lessons, matches, and life. You stared, without crying, without smiling, because it beat living, and you chose it over all. You were silent, it was silent, and polite.

You told it about your dance at the ball. You told it about crying, running, and the look on his face.

You asked it what it was like to drown.

Your answer was your reflection.

You didn’t know why you let her do it.

Let her pin you against the wall, let her taste you, take you. You didn’t know why you tried to hold back the tears, why you tried not to smile. It was impolite, and you didn’t want to be a bad little girl, and she told you that you were beautiful, so you obeyed her like the good little girl you wanted to be. It was wrong, and you knew it. But your emotions were too far off to understand.

When she lifted up your skirt you whimpered. When she played with your buttons you gasped. When she crashed her lips to yours you screamed. It was moving so fast, you didn’t understand. It wasn’t like with Aki, with Kazum. No sugar coated dates, no sweet words, and no whispers of love in the halls. She simply pushed you down, and crawled on top, and that was that. You stayed down, and listened. She told you that you were a good little girl.

And you listened.

Lying awake next to her was odd. It didn’t usually happen, you noted, eyes traveling down her curvy form. You usually fell asleep first, from exhaustion, from mental anguish. She would stay up late, you could tell, and you knew that she didn’t stop when you went to sleep. Knew, but didn’t understand. You liked being awake, you decided.

She was pretty. Easily as pretty as you. Her blonde hair was gorgeous, her rosy lips soft, and her silky figure flawless. You liked looking at her. Liked watching her.

You couldn’t remember liking something for a long, long time.

When she stirred, you kissed her eyelids. When they fluttered open, you saw through her like glass, and the good little girl you wanted to be shattered inside. You knew that you were no longer making your parents proud. But you couldn’t stop smiling.

Even though the world had drowned.

You didn’t know what to do anymore.

He was getting angry.

All the time.

You were angry with him, because he was him, because of everything. Because of who he was, and wasn’t. Because he wasn’t Kazum, he wasn’t Narcissa. He was angry with you, because the world was angry with everything, because he was who he was. Anger pulsed through the air, and you felt it.

You didn’t know what to do about it, about anything. You felt awkward, confused, emotions you had long since lost. You bumped Narcissa in the halls, and it was different. He blushed, for you, she smirked, for you. He stuttered, and stumbled, and she commanded, and forced. He asked for your hand, she told you that you were hers. You didn’t know what to do. You were confused.

You liked her best, and you knew it, but she hurt you. You couldn’t bring yourself to forget him, because then your parents would be disappointed, and if you weren’t a good little girl, who were you? You pretended she wasn’t your everything, your soul. Even though without your smiles, you were nothing, without your polite beauty, you were nothing. You smiled for her anyway. Dressed up for her, anyway. Obliged to her, anyway. You didn’t understand.

It was... odd. Everything around you was dark, in shades of gray, and through your tears the world was painted the colour of nothing. But you loved her, and with her, every colour went where you did. It was wrong. It felt right. You didn’t understand, your head hurt, your eyes saw clouds that were never really there.

It was... odder.

It grew on your mind, and day after day, smiling for him and shattering for her tore your glass sheets down the middle and opened for the nothingness inside. You cried some days, and ran others, and asked the moat on Sundays why the world was drowning, and what it was like not to breathe.

But you woke up every morning. And went on with it.

You became less and less of a good little girl.

You didn’t make your bed, because his pretty scarlet eyes were in your head, and though you weren’t as fond of them as most, your head told you that should’ve been. You didn’t do your term paper, because the bites she left on your neck and the licks she sent over them had your mind completely blank. When you were supposed to be at practice, you found yourself in her bed, arching, your normally neat hair sticking to your neck and your mouth open wide. But she told you not to cry. And you didn’t.

You simply kept on smiling.

You rode away that day.

And cried then, anyway.

You couldn’t stop it. You cried when you heard, how he was hurt, a hero of a warrior, cried because it was the final straw, and everything was shattering all around you. You cried because the war was out, the kings and queens of the lands were in a state of utter delirium, and hope was dwindling, dangerously. You cried because she left you, and went to the side you hated, the side you fought, the side you went on too because you loved the colours she made you see. You were no longer a good little girl, and you cried for that, cried while she took you and told you that everything you loved would fall to darkness, fall to delirium, to dream, to death, to demons. You cried because the poison she whispered in your ear was true, because you loved the way it felt, because you couldn’t remember ever having loved before, because your soul of glass was broken and your heart of glass was broken and your world of glass lay in devastation.

You cried because Aki wasn’t Kazum, wasn’t Narcissa, and because Narcissa wasn’t Kazum either. Because you couldn’t have Kazum, you couldn’t have Aki, you couldn’t have Narcissa. Because Aki wasn’t Narcissa, Kazum wasn’t Narcissa, and Narcissa was everything you wanted and everything that corrupted your light and your world.

You cried, because there no longer was a world.

And you cried because it hurt to smile.

You smiled anyway.

You were surprised, that day, when your mother called you home. Surprised when the carriage showed up, and the nice man stepped out, and the horses you remembered riding whinnied and trotted along the pavement. Surprised when you met father at the gates, and he asked you to follow him.

You did, politely, like the good little girl you had never been.

He sat you down, before him and mother, on polished thrones that glimmered in the sun that streamed through glass windows that shattered in your ears. You smiled at them, with Narcissa’s marks along your neck, and your eyes hollow, and drowned.

They told you things.

Lots of things.

They told you that it was nice to make them proud, but nice to make yourself proud, too.

They told you that it was nice to be polite, but shutting out who you were wasn’t so, and it wasn’t the only virtue.

They told you that it was nice to be pretty, but not all princesses need a prince, and love could not be labeled.

They told you that it was nice to smile, but only when you meant it.

They told you that you were a good little girl, so long as you followed your heart.

They told you things.

You listened.

When you went back that night, you told her. Told her everything they said, every word you heard. She listened, and smirked, and called you over. She pushed you down, and flipped you over, and told you what she thought.

She inched her delicate fingers up your gray-pleated skirt, and told you that you made her proud, even if you weren’t on the side of the darkness, like she always told you.

She undid each of the buttons on your blouse, and told you that she enjoyed your politeness, it made her life easy, but she thought you needed to truly wake up to the world.

She slid her lips along your skin, and told you that you were beautiful, and her princess, and that was that.

She found a pace, and watched you squirm, and listened to you, whispering that your smile never meant anything, though it was always painted every colour she knew, every colour she loved.

She held you close, and brushed your hair with her fingers, and ran her hands along your body, and told you that you had always been her good little girl, always and forever.

She took you, and told you, and you listened to every word.

You were confused, as she fell asleep beside you. Confused, because blonde hair was sticking to your face, you were smiling, and not to make anyone proud. Confused, because you had bites on your neck, you were smiling, and not to be polite. Confused, because her hand was clasped in yours, sweaty as yours, small as yours, and you couldn’t stop smiling, though not because a prince had called you pretty.

Confused, because your world was wrong, and gone, and drowned, but you were a good little girl, and you knew it. But you were smiling.

You stared at the ceiling, confused, and told it so. The ceiling stared back, and you told it you didn’t mind breathing, didn’t mind falling, didn’t mind drowning. She stirred, and you told her you loved her.

She stuck out her tongue, and didn’t respond. You didn’t complain.

You were always a good little girl.

And you were always, always smiling.

X

Um... review? Pretty please?