Drown

Reading Derdekea’s stuff just sort of inspires me to write, so I just sat down and... wrote. Whatever popped into my head. Therefore, this sucks :) (Not that her stuff’s a thing like mine – it’s the total opposite. XP)

Warnings: Lesbians, incest, suicide, and sexual situations. Oh, and I didn’t proofread, but honestly, that’s the least of your worries considering the rest of the stuff here. :)

Summary: You ought to know, Narcissa’s nothing like the others. (femslash/yuri)

X

There’s just a few things you should know.

Everyone says that Narcissa isn’t like the other princesses.

Everyone’s right.

Narcissa’s nothing like anyone.

Her parents are so proud. “She’s nothing like the others,” they’ll tell anyone who’ll listen. “She’s exactly the same.”

Her parents are right.

I’m good at poetry, and could beat anyone in the village, or anyone in the country, in a contest. Her second oldest sister is very sporty, and could beat anyone in the village, or anyone in the country, at any game. The sister younger than her is beautiful, and can design beautiful things. She models for fun and spends the money she makes on clothes. You draw. You draw all night, and draw all day, and draw at the crack of dawn when inspiration gets you up.

We’re all still princesses, though. We’re all graceful, and polite, and pretty, and perfect. We smile all day long, and we laugh at everyone’s jokes, and we mean every word we say with such sincerity.

Narcissa’s a princess. She’s graceful, polite, pretty, and perfect. She smiles and laughs. Exactly like us. All of us.

She doesn’t mean a word she says. But her parents don’t know that.

The servants don’t like her. “She’s nothing like the others,” they’ll tell anyone who’ll listen. “She’s exactly the opposite.”

The servants are right.

Everyone in the palace is quiet in their room, like they are outside.

Narcissa isn’t quiet.

Narcissa plays her depressing music at full blast, and if the walls weren’t solid marble, they’d shake. Narcissa puts on black sweatshirts, and black pants, and black boots, and sits down at her vanity that’s covered in spray painted words. She puts on black eyeliner, and black lipstick, and black nail polish. She writes rows and rows of everything she feels on the walls, rows and rows of angry words, and song lyrics, and suicidal musings. There’s so many layers of red spray paint and black felt pen that the servants don’t know what colour the walls were originally, and they’re all too afraid to tell her parents. They don’t come in her room, instead. No one does.

Well, you do.

You come in her room whenever you want. “She’s nothing like the others,” you’ll tell anyone who’ll listen. “She’s just Narcissa.”

Narcissa likes you coming in. You help her paint her walls.

She stares at you, you know. No, you probably don’t. Well, she does. When she thinks you’re not looking. When your back is turned, and you’re painting demons over her hellish words, she sits on the edge of the bed, and stares at your tiny, fragile body, dancing across her floors. She turns up her soul-consuming music, and stares at the way your fingers flow. She does. She does it all the time.

Really, I’ve seen it. Once, when I came to borrow some toothpaste. I don’t come in her room anymore. No one does.

That’s when I learned that Narcissa isn’t like the others. “She’s nothing like the others,” I won’t tell a soul. “She’s nothing like anything.”

She stares at you the most when you’ll draw her favourite for her. Her favourite has been the same since she discovered the word. “Draw someone drowning,” she’ll ask you, from the edge of her bed. Her ripped, leather bed. “Draw me drowning.” And you’ll do it. I know you will. You’ll do it just for her.

No one can tell what Narcissa’s like, outside her drowning walls. How could they? She smiles, just like all of us. When we sit down, for a picnic on the grounds, all in our gorgeous gowns, all with our delicate umbrellas, all with our special little baskets. Pretty golden jewelry, pretty golden curls, pretty little gloves. We sit down around the lake, and one would never know that Narcissa wears safety pins in private, and buckles, and chains. There’s no way to tell.

Only, when we all finish eating, we’ll all go off to play. I’ll go off to write, and her older sister will leave for a game, and her younger sister will try to find inspiration for spring fashion, and she’ll sit there with you by the edge of the lake.

She’ll wait till it’s dark, till no light comes through the trees surround you and her. Till the castle walls reflect the moon. Then she’ll slip inside. Slip down through the water, still in her dress, she doesn’t care.

She’ll swim down as far as she can go, and dig her hands into the sand at the bottom, and the hair swerves in her face as she looks up at you. She won’t be able to see you. It’s late, after all. She’ll just sit there, anyway. Playing with the cool sand, as the water turns cold all around you.

She’ll come up, at the very end, and climb onto the bank, and collapse. Her dress will weigh her down, and her hair will cling to her face, and she’ll be pale, oh so pale. She’ll say that she forgot something, had something left to do. You’ll nod.

Then you’ll draw her. So next time she asks you to draw her drowning, you’ll have a good idea of just what it looks like.

When she goes back inside, she’ll take a nice shower. A warm one, and she’ll tie up her blonde hair, and sing suicidal songs to nothing in particular. She’ll run her smooth hands over her smooth skin, and run her pale fingers down her chest and in-between her thighs. She’ll cut herself with her nails, because she thinks she might just be masochistic, and that’s just who Narcissa is.

She pictures you in her mind. She does. Every time she does that. She sinks down across the tiles, and sings even louder, and grins.

I know.

I sit with my back to her private bathroom’s door, and hear every word.

When she comes out, there’ll be a lovely poem on her wall. And even though the idea of her drowning scares me more than anything, that’s what I’ll write it about, because that’s what Narcissa likes to read.

Narcissa just isn’t like the rest of us.

No one knows, of course. At the banquets we go to, it’s all the same. We sit down, all around, her mother and father at one end and the king and queen of somewhere far away at the other. Her parents will introduce us all, and we’ll all smile, even her. Politely.

We’ll all sip at our drinks with a pinky in the air, and pick delicately at our ornate food, and engage in pleasant conversation with our guests and all their princes. They’ll introduce all their handsome young boys, one by one, so proudly.

Narcissa’s parents will do the same for each of us, and pause on her, so proudly. Because she’s exactly the same. No one knows.

No one knows what she’s doing. Her hands will be under the table, between her legs, and she’ll be watching you, out of the corner of her eyes. She won’t eat a thing, because she tells us she’s on a diet, and no one knows that her hands are busy in a sick fantasy. No one knows that she picked that dress because it’s thick, because no one can see her excitement, her pleasure. It’s a game to her. It’s always a game.

You won’t notice her gaze when she watches you. You’re talking to a prince. Narcissa’s so angry. She’ll smile.

That’s the beauty of it all. Of nothing. She’ll go back to her room, and look at her picture, and read her poem, and she’ll sing. She’ll sit amongst dark ‘x’s on her floor, and she’ll wrap her leather arms around her black satin legs, and she’ll sing as loud as she can. The walls will conceal it all.

She’s singing about drowning you.

Did you know that?

Narcissa doesn’t even dance along. She’s like that. Always.

She does attend the ball with us, she doesn’t want to, but she will. No one knows that she doesn’t want to, because she smiles so much, and she’s just so graceful. We’ll dance amongst kings, and queens, and we’ll fight with other princesses for princes. Narcissa will dance with you.

She’ll draw you away from your sketchbook, and she’ll loop an arm around your waist, and you’ll put one on her shoulder. The music is nothing like hers, and her clothes are nothing liker her own, and that smile doesn’t mean a thing. It’s all an excuse to her. She knows it.

She’ll take advantage of it all. She’ll drop her hand too low, and touch you, and she’ll look down your dress, and watch you. You won’t mind, you won’t know, no one watches. What’s the point in watching? It’s just Narcissa. She’s exactly the same.

And she’ll whisper in your ear, so faintly, “Tomorrow, darling.”

And you won’t know what that means, but you’ll keep dancing, anyway.

She’s consuming you, you know. Drowning you. I bet you don’t.

Narcissa’s nothing like anything else.

She’ll do it, you know.

She will.

Once she gets tired of touching herself and pretending it’s you, she’ll do something about it. She’ll take you into her room, and she’ll lock the door. She’ll push you onto her bed, and she’ll turn her music on, and you won’t say a word as it pounds in your ears. She’ll press down on you, press so far down, so far in. She’ll ask you to draw her last breath. You will. You’ll draw the water that will fill her lungs, with your tongue, down her chest. She’ll touch you, she’ll take you, she’ll break you.

She’ll tug tight leather up your legs, look at you in the mirror, all bare without them, and smile. She’ll run her fingers down your body from behind, and her golden hair will fall over her shoulder, and get in your eyes. You’ll brush it away. She’ll pat your thighs. You’ll look delicious.

She’ll sit you down in front of her mirror, and she’ll do you up, just like her. She’ll put black around your eyes, and black on your nails, and black across your lips. She’ll do your black hair up in a messy bun – it’s perfect. You’ll still smile, you’ll still laugh. You’re a princess.

Is she?

She’ll search through her drawers for hours, trying to find you the perfect top, but everything hides too much. She’ll find leather straps, and buckles, and safety pins she’ll stick in your pants. You’ll let her tug everything she wants over your head, you’ll just ask her not to drown.

She’s Narcissa. So she won’t listen.

She won’t find anything. So she’ll sit down on the floor, in front of the mirror, and you’ll sit in front of her. There’ll be discarded black all around, clothes that don’t work. Her breasts will press into your back, and she’ll still be wearing her black sweatshirt. She’ll look at you in the mirror, and she’ll kiss your neck. She’ll run her hands down your body, she’ll squeeze your breasts, and you’ll gasp, and she’ll smile. She’ll run her hands lower. In your pants. They’re so low that they’re almost falling off, and Narcissa likes them that way – she’ll tell you. She’ll play with her fingers between your legs, and the rain outside will be suffocating.

Narcissa’s just not like us. She doesn’t care, she’ll do it. She will.

She’ll give you her sweatshirt, and she’ll press against your back in her black bra, and her harsh music will pound in her ears and drive her mad.

She won’t stop.

Not until you’re both out on the grounds, both wet.

I know. I’m here, too.

Narcissa doesn’t care. Narcissa doesn’t listen, because all she can hear is the anguish in her ears, and she likes it that way, I swear she does.

She’s always wanted to know what it’s like to stop breathing, so you and I just stand here, as she goes in. Just in her pants and bra. You stand in her pants, tugged half-way down your hips, and her sweatshirt. Black. Black. Black.

She swims to the bottom, and can’t see up, because it’s black.

Anyone else would swim back up, automatically. On instinct.

But Narcissa’s not like anyone else. Narcissa’s nothing like the others.

“I’ll draw it for you,” You promise. “It’ll be gorgeous. I’ll paint it on your walls.”

Narcissa’s nothing like anything else.

She’ll do it, you know.

She will.

She does.

When we attend the funeral, everyone will cry. You’ll show up in what you’ve got, because it’s black, and I won’t go, because I’d rather sit in her room, and let her anger bounce off the walls. I won’t ask myself why she did it, because I know, and my only regret is that she chose you over me. She did it because she’s Narcissa. And that’s it.

I won’t cry, I’ll just write on her floors. On her bed. On her mirror. On the desks, on the chairs, on the doorknob. Write everything I feel, because that’s what she feels, and when you get back, you’ll draw with me.

You won’t know what happened, you’ll be so shocked. We’ll do it in silence.

You won’t be able to work it out, or understand. You’re too young, too corrupted. You won’t know why she did it, why you let her, why anything is anything and why everything is nothing.

So I’ll sit you down, and give you this note, before I swim down to the bottom of the lake, and find out what it was that Narcissa always wanted. Why it’s got to drown.

You’ll read over all my words, and you know that I’ll never win any poetry contest again, because I’ve nothing to write about when my world’s gone and drowned.

You won’t understand. You’re not Narcissa.

She loved you. She just loved drowning more.

...Narcissa's nothing like the others.

I just thought you should know.

X

That was... weird. Please review, anyway. :)