|Let Me Bleed
Author: Nozomi ga Kanau PM
Hermit-like, gothic Jackie has no friends and no direction. Hope has her own world. Each have skeletons in their own little Closets, noticed when one comes for Jackie. Slash, girl/girl, cutting, cursing, mental problems and molestation of a minor by an aRated: Fiction M - English - Angst - Chapters: 3 - Words: 6,935 - Reviews: 22 - Favs: 7 - Follows: 1 - Updated: 09-12-02 - Published: 05-24-02 - id: 795443
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Authors Notes: A new story, so sue me. Hah. Anyway, this story is dedicated to my friends, the Leftovers. We've survived the first year! Class o' 2005, yeah!
Summary: Jackie, a withdrawn gothic girl, befriends Hope, another girl who lives in her own world most of the time. Both show extraordinary talent in drawing, and soon Jackie pulls Hope from her fantasy world, and Hope drives away most of the shadows in Jackie's life. However, one skeleton returns and refuses to leave without it's one victim: Jackie.
Warnings: YURI!! SLASH! GIRL/GIRL!! Both are minors, and both consented, but still…minors! Drugs, cutting of oneself, foul language and sexual abuse of the heterosexual nature involving verbal assault and a legal adult (eighteen) molesting a minor (15). Obviously without consent. NOT a squishy story. You've been warned.
DISCLAIMER: It is ALL mine! Characters, plot line, situations, everything but the regular stuff like CD's they listen to, songs sung and groups. (Jackie is a HUGE fan of ICP, for instance) Anyway, no stealing. I get angry easily.
"A new girl?" Jackie said this aloud, unknowing that the words have passed her lips, the lips are coated in a thick layer of ebony. Her emerald eyes would be slightly widened, but the light from the schools dim lights set a reflection on the lenses of her glasses.
The object of Jackies, rare, attention was indeed a new girl. But she didn't look like the other girls in this Southwest Florida High School. No, those girls wore tight, stereotypical 'prep' shirts and hug-your-ass pants. Or else they wore stereotypical 'freak' clothes, decked out in chains and spikes and bracelets with huge ICP logo's on their over-sized black shirts.
Like previously stated, this girl was different. Her hair wasn't dyed any color, it was pulled into two 'farmer girl' pigtails, tied into two separate things right under her ears. The locks themselves were dark brown, slightly messy, and framed bright eyes the color of a polished staff, deep and warm, like chocolate.
Instead of those tight shirts or tents of black, she was in a simple button down, light blue, three-quarter shirt. And, in place of the baggy jeans or tight spandex, was loose, only slightly, black jeans, cut off in mid-shin by a pair of leather boots, laced up by dark red laces. A simple watch adorned the slender wrist that held two pencils and a folder, a single silver chain hung by the girls pale neck.
The girl stood in front of the art teachers desk, shifting from one foot to the other, a sure sign of nervousness. Her back was to the class, her arms clutching her supplies. The teacher seemed to be talking to her, giving directions of the current project, and then, out of no where, nodded to Jackie.
Dark blue eyes snapped wider, the whites of her eyes fully showing, as the girl turned from the teacher and walked closer to her. Jackies eyes narrowed, out of the wide-open-shock stage, the eyeliner accenting her eyes seeming to grow darker when covered by thick ebony lashes.
The girl slid across from Jackie, next to a boy who read through the entire class. He didn't notice her, but Jackie did, though she still didn't say anything. Hostility flew through the blondes veins, slamming into her mind, causing her slender hands to quiver lightly.
"He said I could sit here." It wasn't a question, but a statement, said by a cheerful, dreamy voice, flowing from the near colorless lips of the girls. Unlike most, she wore no makeup. Not even the slightest hint of mascara.
Jackie said nothing for a good thirty seconds; the girl remained smiling peacefully, her brown orbs happily meeting Jackies own, which were as dark and blue as anyone's imagination. "…do what you like."
And that was it. No more was spoken; they had a project to do. The model was in place, it was their job to sketch.
Jackie didn't start, not really. She was more focused on drawing the mans hands then his face or body or whatever it was the others were doing. Hands, in bold, dark lines, highlighted by charcoal. The background was painted pure black near the end of class, giving the model previously beautiful hands a foreboding look to them.
Class was over, simple as that. As soon as she finished the picture, the class was no longer real to her until the next day. So, she used her extra time to watch this new girl, the one who had captured her attention but twenty minutes ago.
I can feel her eyes on me. Burning into my forehead, singing my hair as I draw this boys face.
She's pretty, if she would take that ugly glare from her eyes. I look up at her, making her expression shift from wonder to shock, then anger. She's glaring again. What did I do?
"What's your name?" I ask finally, after a long moments pause. She looks like she wants to flee from the seat or spit in my face. Or maybe just not answer at all. But she doesn't take any of those routes.
Instead, she speaks to me, in a voice that is like one I've never heard before, soft and gentle, but with a somewhat masculine grating to her voice box, and she says: "Jackie."
Jackie. What a pretty name. Though I won't, of course, ever say this. So I smile and hold out my hand, being nice like I was taught to do in a new school. "Mine's Hope."
Her face melts into an expression of wary caution and surprise, but either way, she extends her own hand, clasping my palm and fingers in her cool, calm hold. Her hand feels like it could easily break mine off if she wanted, but she doesn't. but it's sturdy, self assured. I like this girl, she's an enigma. I like those.
"You like to draw?" I say once our hands are separate and, to my surprise, she looks away. Those pretty blue eyes shift away, towards the model, and she shrugs. I wonder what I said wrong, since I said hardly nothing, and so I ask, "I'm sorry, did I do something wrong?"
"Where'd you move from?" She counters, and I blink. She doesn't answer my question, but I don't push farther. She doesn't know me yet, no wonder she's being quiet.
"Up north. New York; state not city." Is my response, and I seem to get no reaction out of her. So I mentally shrug, letting my gaze go over to her seemingly finished artwork.
It's odd, her picture. Very dark, very pessimistic. I glance up at her, but her face is like stone. I look back down at my own picture; now the face of the boy seems drab next to her dramatic outlook.
I sigh, and crumple up the picture with the tips of my fingers. The paper is grainy and soft under the pads of my fingers, easily bending. I watch the shadows dance over the pulverized tree completion, wondering what I might say.
But I say nothing. I am silent, and then the bell rings. The screaming, shrieking noise shakes me out of my trance, and my chin shoots up. Jackie is already gone, out the door, her long black skirt is trailing behind her.
I like her already.
In the darkness
There is no light
Always I fear
A death bringing plight.
I fear myself,
For I am alone,
No one to hold me,
No place to call home.
Listen to my sorry song,
Listen to the weep,
Listen to the terrified yelp,
Of a widow woman asleep.
Jackie peered down at her latest poem before crinkling it up into a tight ball and chucking it at the trash bin. The paper hit the rim, teetering dangerously on the edge before bouncing off the to side, littering more of the white carpet.
The blonde sighed, burying her face in her bejeweled hands. Nothing was coming out right, not even simple damn poems! Another sigh flew from her lips, and the head was raised from the hands, blank blue eyes staring at the stark white of her bedroom walls.
No posters, no calendars, no nothing to signify that a teenage girl resided in this area of living. The only decorative thing in the entire space was a small, square table, covered by a sheer white linen, with a few statues placed on top of it. A deck of Tarot cards, a wooden box with a small faerie carved on the lid, and a simple necklace was all that adorned the table space. Oh, sure, there were a few candle in a few places, half-melted with put out matches laying next to the puddles of dried wax. There was a large, solid black book near her bedside with a deep violet pen near it, and her wardrobe was all different shades of ebony. But that was it.
Everything else was white. Walls, sheets, carpet.
Shaking her blonde head, Jackie picked herself up from her bed, frustrated out of any description. The thick carpet was practically a mattress itself, but she paid it no mind. Instead, her gaze traveled out the window, where the rain streaked down, pouring down in sheets, thunder crackling in the background like a corny horror movie.
But the author paid no mind. Moving from her lifeless, cold bedroom, her small feet made no sound on the hard tile of her mothers floor as the girl left the house, into the icy wetness, and utter completeness, of the rain.
Some claimed rain could wash sins away; Jackie prayed this was true.
She's outside right now; I can see her from my living room. The rain is slamming down on the roof, howling like a vengeful ghost and she's out there making friends with it!
I huff softly, to myself, and turn my gaze once again to the sketch book in my palms. I find myself studying the lines of my hands; the contours are truly remarkable, forever etched into my skin. I think this amazing.
Colors are dancing around me; a hurricane of reds and blacks and blues and green swirl about my face as I watch the television my father turns on that very second. Those colors dance around me, laughing, laughing, teasing, taunting. Daring me to tell of them.
I say nothing. With them and with my Friends is the only place I want to live. And to live with them, they have to like me. Which means I can't tell. Telling isn't allowed.
My father says something to me, about school today, and I answer back, like a good daughter, a daughter who can't see colors and goblins and Faeries and who doesn't like her Friends world better.
Sometimes I get afraid of my Friends, but they would never hurt me. My friends love me; they've said so. And they don't talk much.
"Make friends?" Father says then, and I look up. I am surprised, I admit this. I don't expect him to keep talking when I say nothing back. But I am a good daughter. I answer anyway.
"A girl in Art, maybe."
"Good." And that's the end. Father is proud he made me talk more, I only wish to sleep. I am tired, and Jackie is out dancing with the ghosts.
So, whatcha think? Lol. Kinda weird first chapter,
but Hope is a very weird girl. ::shrugs:: More explanations later, I guess.
Depends if I feel like writing more in this. Lol.