writers_muses Prompt 80

[a_pretty_fire]

I asked them to stop, once. I was just a little girl. I had a heart beating in my chest and mud on my petticoats and I thought I could shape the world if I just wished hard enough. If wishes were fishes we’d live in the sea. I’d like to swim in a sea like that. I didn’t know that the pixies wouldn’t listen. The pictures aren’t just in my head, they’re part of my head. Filling me up. There’d be nothing left if you took them away, just skin and bones and horrible science.



You had to say lots of prayers to keep the devil away, back in the old days, and that’s what Mama told me I was. A devil. I had his mark on me. His stories sat on my tongue. I thought they were lies, but it didn’t turn to coal and crumble away. That would have spoiled all my dresses.

Nobody prays anymore. Oh, they say the words and they close their eyes and sometimes they even kneel, but they don’t believe. How can they? They fill their heads up with cars and music and lights and glitter and noise. All that wonderful noise. There’s no room for God.

I used to pray to the Lord and ask him to take the pictures away. The pixies were walking beside me all the time, snapping at my heels and snatching at my shadow. I thought He’d save me from them. I thought He wanted me to be good.

I could never be good. The pictures would always come, filling me up with wicked sins and pouring out of my mouth before I remembered that I wasn’t supposed to tell.

The Lord had a plan for me, you see. The Lord has always had a plan for me. I didn’t know that he wanted me to be a wicked thing, not then. I waited until Mama lost herself to the night, and Anne was torn up by the wolves on the doorstep. Then I saw. Oh, I saw.

Do you like lemons? Bitter, they are. They make your tongue tingle, and your fingers are sharp for days afterwards. I used to dream about writing with their juice. Invisible secrets on the wall, until the bricks started to crumble away. You can’t keep secrets for long. The pixies don’t like secrets. They like to share.

Why can’t they share sweetmeats instead? I could bake pies and share them with the neighbours.

Sometimes I think they’ll share me as well. Dividing me up among the stars until every pixie has someone to talk to. I’ll lose all my words and all my bones and all the bits inside me. Even my hair. I don’t think I’d like to be bald.

I can’t ask them to stop, though. Wicked things must always be wicked. If they don’t tell their stories to me, who else will listen? Nobody has room for prayers anymore. Nobody has room for the pixies either.

Prompt: “Would you please get out of my head?”
Word Count: 507

Comments

[rebcake.livejournal.com]

Oh dear. Princess sees a lot, but I don't think she sees herself very clearly. She was a Saint, though nobody knew it. Not Mama, not the Priest, not even Drusilla herself. She may be wicked now, but that isn't her whole self. I wonder if she might still be a Saint. I can't imagine God would let one get away, though he does make them suffer. Unless God has been so swallowed up by the cars and music and lights and glitter, that he has misplaced his precious Daughter. I can see that happening. But maybe her time to bloom has not yet come...

[a-pretty-fire.livejournal.com]

A saint? Oh, I think you've been looking in the wrong crystal balls. I've always been wicked. The priest told. He took my confession and turned it into an answer. I don't look at myself anymore. The mirrors lie.

ooc

[loveme-fearme.livejournal.com]

I'm loving how you balance Dru's flowery yet morbid speech patterns. It gives it this fluidity and makes her so fun to read.

OOC

[a-pretty-fire.livejournal.com]

Thank you!