Post by shiina on Aug 26, 2011 15:06:19 GMT -5
She had every flaw needed for perfection.
The first seven years of her life were scattered with bruises, cuts, and scars—marks of the risks she had taken, the times she had fallen, and her constant determination to stand back up again. Impossible tangles were ever-present in her wild hair, resisting every brush that threatened to ruin what nature had already deemed beautiful. Every deficiency was equally important, but Risa's favorite was the constant layer of dirt on the bottoms of her feet.
For heaven's sake, be more careful when you play! And honestly, Risa, is it so difficult to wear a pair of shoes? The reprimands were received with wide eyes, fake tears, and false repentance. No amount of scrubbing or scolding could banish the earth from her skin.
Hesitations and second-guesses were never very fun, and life was too short for shoes. Risa preferred to twirl, and she only ever danced barefoot.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"So, you decided to run away?" The question wasn't meant to be condescending—he was genuinely curious. After all, every refugee had a reason.
"Yeah," she responded, still gazing out the window, "what does that make me? Weak?" He laughed and shook his head.
"It depends on what you're running from."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Up became down, and the twirling girl collapsed into a bright pile of giggles.
Arms and legs spread wide, she would lie on the ground, watching the sky spin above her. For a few seconds, she could feel the earth move, continuing her dizzy dance. Everything seemed to slow down; spinning sky slowed to a stop, adrenaline died down, and the twirling girl was twelve.
The moment was broken by reality, brought in by the sound of a screen door and what in the world are you doing, Risa?
She closed her eyes, desperately trying to hold onto something that had already gone.
For heaven's sake, stand up! When will you start acting your age?
Open eyes, empty hands, and she had forgotten what she was reaching for.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Silence.
He looked to his left; the woman was still staring out the window, wearing an expression that he had seen on many faces before hers. She didn't know how to answer the question, so he wasn't going to press it.
"Where am I taking you, then?" he asked. The woman shrugged.
"Anywhere."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She was completely flawless, begging to break.
At fifteen, she bore almost no resemblance to the twirling girl. Her skin was free from any defect—nothing to mark the risks she hadn't taken. The persistent knots in her hair were conquered by heat and oil. Above all, her feet were spot-free; Risa always wore shoes, and she had more practical things to think about than…
Well. You know.
Acceptance, success, and perfection were her top three priorities. Her friends said she did too much—books should be booze, and don't you ever have any fun? Mother said she did too little—B's should be A's, and don't you want to get into a good school?
Nothing was ever good enough.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Drops of rain hit the glass, filling the silence with rhythm.
"It's impossible to please everybody, you know." He said, glancing over again. She was tracing the wet trails with her finger. For a moment, he wondered if she had even heard him.
"You're wrong." She replied, waking from her trance. In response, he simply raised his eyebrows—the woman wanted to talk, not argue. She needed a pair of ears, not a mouth; it was his job to listen.
"Tell me about it."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Somehow, she managed to live up to conflicting expectations.
At seventeen, Risa had figured out a compromise: working hard at school, she earned straight A's in her sophomore and junior years. Mother smiled more often and relented a bit. In between rigorous studying, she found time to party a little, letting loose just enough to make people like her.
I'm happy. Finally happy.
She had satisfied everybody, accepted and successful and perfect. By making everybody else happy, she made herself happy.
I'm happy. Finally happy. I'm happy. Finally happy. I'm happy. Finally happy.
Maybe if she kept repeating that phrase, Risa could make herself believe it.
Maybe she could fool herself, just like she had fooled everybody else.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Only a stranger can uncover a buried past, because the rest of the world doesn't care enough to try.
Something in the tone of her voice told him that she hadn't been willing to talk to anybody about it.
Nobody would have understood, because how can someone so damn perfect be so broken?
Only a stranger can understand, because the world doesn't care enough to shut the hell up and listen.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Lost in her world of strained smiles and plastic contentedness, regret didn't hit until the day after graduation.
When it did hit, she almost collapsed under impact.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She paused for a moment, turning again to look out the window.
"Are you okay?" he asked. She nodded, still not saying anything, and placed her right palm against the glass.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the middle of the chaotic congratulations and tearful goodbyes stood a lost little girl in blue robes.
For a moment, all flaws were visible.
The air became heavy, images started to swirl, and she sank to her knees. The world rushed by, unaware that something beautiful had been thoroughly destroyed. This was supposed to be one of the happiest days of her life. This was supposed to be the day she achieved that unattainable perfection she so craved.
It wasn't like that at all.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of stories told involve some sort of dissatisfaction with what is versus what could have been. Well, ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the stories told to him met that qualification, but seeing as he had heard quite a few stories, the statistic was pretty justified.
That didn't make hers any less unique.
One-hundred-point-seven percent of stories told involve something that sets the stage differently from the other. A person's life was never a cliché, no matter how plain or perfect they may appear on the outside.
"What exactly did you want to be?" She shrugged at the question, hesitating before her reply.
"I don't know." She sighed and closed her eyes. "I didn't want to be someone shaped by what someone else wanted. I didn't want to be… what I am now."
"What are you now?"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Looking at her from the outside, the revelation didn't change anything.
There was no great rebellion against the good-girl standards, no downward plunge into despair, and she didn't stop striving to satisfy. The only difference between then and now was a full, conscious awareness that she was unhappy, broken, and empty.
Imperfect forever, through and through.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Based on his experience, blank expressions mean the conversation is over. Normally, he would nod and remain silent, allowing for the person to collect their thoughts and give a simple, "oh look, here we are," leaving behind unfinished introspections with the cab fare.
Evidently, this wasn't a normal occasion.
"Is that all?" Hardly a question, since both of them knew the answer.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In a perfect world, she would have been able to start over.
Logically, it would have made sense to. Realizing that she's unhappy with her life, a life dictated by what others want her to be rather than what she wants—what she should become… well, why would anybody continue to live like that?
The world is even more imperfect than she is, and there's no starting over.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It didn't make much sense in words, and he couldn't say that he had ever experienced the feeling, but somehow he understood.
A single tear ran down the woman's cheek, mimicking the drops on the glass her cheek rested on. Despite this, her voice remained steady and strong, a surprisingly solid sound from such a shattered spirit.
"Was it more painful?" He asked.
She shook her head. No, it wasn't. Full acknowledgement of your own lack of self results in numbness—it wasn't more painful, just numb. No, that wasn't the reason why she had run.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
College flew by too fast—she didn't get to enjoy a single minute of it.
Risa went through the years as an empty shell with no personality. No, it's impossible not to have a personality—she had one, but she had no idea what was her and what was the world.
Not that it mattered or anything.
At first, it was difficult to accept that she had lost herself long ago. Now, she honestly didn't care about who she was or who she wasn't or who the world wanted or didn't want her to be.
Certainty would have been nice—so would happiness. She told herself that there was no going back to the days of spinning skies and skinned knees and dirty feet and tangled hair.
Acceptance is even more binding than society.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
There was no point in telling the woman that she could have done something differently, that she hadn't needed to give up. She had probably told herself the same thing, but there was nothing to show for it.
To know you should do something is easy. To believe that you have the power to carry it out and succeed…
"That's a completely different story."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Something that she didn't have faith in.
Of course love existed, and she had never questioned that—still, it seemed to be mostly reserved for people with the ability to look at the world through another pair of eyes. Most of the time, she couldn't stand to look at the world.
It was easy to give herself away—she didn't expect anything better to happen, so why not?
He dreamed of green bills and gold coins; she dreamed of finding something to dream about. He wanted a girl who would obey him without dissent; she had no idea what she wanted.
Despite having virtually nothing in common, they were the perfect match.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Her cheek was dry, her expression blank. Gradually, she had become far less emotional—far more distant. It was almost as if she was telling a story about someone else, someone other than herself.
Unfortunately, it was her story.
She just didn't want it to be.
The details were becoming more vague, time jumps becoming wider, and he was tempted to ask for some more detail regarding the years she had briefly and flatly summarized. But no, it wasn't his job to speak, and it wasn't his job to direct her memories. He was there to listen.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was a quiet and plain wedding—not really worth mentioning.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Besides, she probably didn't want to remember.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Twenty-eight years old, and she felt as if nothing had changed.
In reality, nothing was the same. Standing there, it was more or less impossible to find any connection between the laughing seven-year-old and the lost woman. Her hair was cropped short, her false smile stretched tight, and her feet were always clean.
The only similarity between the twirling girl and the empty shell was a lack of concern over the future—in a way, that was also the biggest difference. At seven, she hadn't given a second thought about what tomorrow might bring, living in and for the moment with every breath she took. Of course that had changed in high school, but now she was back to her indifferent mindset.
Ironically, the distance between the two was greater than it had ever been.
At twenty-eight years old, Risa didn't give a second thought about what tomorrow might bring, but she didn't live in the moment. She never took risks, never dreamed of impossibilities, and never twirled.
There were too many ways to fall, and she had forgotten how to get back up.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The tone of her voice, the tear on her cheek—evidently, something had woken this blank shadow up. Regardless of how numb she had been all those years, it was apparent that she felt something now. Empty people don't shiver with unwanted recollection.
Empty people don't run away.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She had known about his drinking problem long before they were married, and she knew he wasn't very good at holding his liquor. Anyway, he had apologized the first time. She had forgiven him.
People can be violent when they're drunk. Risa had been in the way, so it wasn't really his fault.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The last word was choked out, a painful effort to finish the sentence.
He didn't ask her to continue. Glancing over, the woman was staring straight ahead, unblinking. Shaky breath rattled her frame. Silently, in an act of attempted consolation and support, he lightly touched her shoulder—a nonverbal way of telling her to continue or drop the memories at her own will.
Even so, he couldn't help noticing the involuntary flinch that met his hand.
"Sorry," she muttered, making an effort to relax her tense skin. He waved his hand—she didn't have anything to apologize for.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You know what you are? Fearful anticipation filled her heart almost as quickly as violent rage filled her ears. Arms held in front of her face, a feeble shield against the physical and emotional shame. Before she had a fair chance to react, Risa found herself thrown onto the floor.
Shock and terror delayed the pain.
Pathetic. He let out an ugly laugh as she tried unsuccessfully to lift herself up. Did you hear me? Another laugh, followed by a kick. She was back on the floor. Pathetic. That's what you are.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Stories of domestic abuse were not uncommon at all. Even though he had heard many before, something in the way she told her story set it apart. Maybe it was her voice, maybe it was her determination to hide the pain.
"Maybe," she whispered, "he was right all along."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Praise loses its significance quickly—positives easily become personal clichés. Slander rarely falls on deaf ears—it digs itself in deeper with each repetition. The more you hear it, the truer it becomes.
Up until her junior year in high school, she had been told by others that she wasn't good enough. Not fun enough, not serious enough, not confident enough. As more sticks and stones were thrown, Risa started to believe them.
Once she had achieved perfection in the blind eyes of outsiders, the piercing words turned into soft compliments—the emotional bruises from the past and her own self-hatred drowned out the praise.
The things he said to her were far more painful than the material scars. Those would fade eventually, and she could bear the beatings.
Worthless, that's what you are.
Failure cannot be healed.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She wasn't running from anything.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rain fell hard against the window pane, thunder rumbled over head. He had left her lying on the floor, too shaken to stand.
Strings of faded expletives flew at her from the living room, mingled with the sound of flying furniture. Reaching for the counter, she somehow managed to pull herself up.
More swearing, more crashing. Risa closed her eyes and rested her cheek on the cool glass. She had forgotten how comforting the sound of rain was.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"There's nothing to run from, after all." From someone else's lips, it could be seen as defeatist.
It wasn't.
Her voice was filled with courage, words heavy with hopeful implications.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
One foot out, two feet out.
Risa!
Run.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Forward.
It's impossible to escape the past. She wasn't trying to achieve that.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Through the city, down the street, under the rain.
How far could she go?
Not far enough on foot, refreshing as the drops felt on her skin. For a moment, she tilted her face up and closed her eyes, catching as much water as possible on her cheeks. It was disappearing too quickly.
She didn't want to lose it again.
"Taxi!"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Trying to grab something that had always been there, just out of her reach. No, she wasn't running.
She was chasing.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hesitations and second-guesses were never very fun, and life was too short for shoes.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"How much do I owe you?"
"Nothing—I'll make it a free ride." The woman laughed. Her smile was beautifully sincere, trying to make up for the years of absence.
"I'm not talking about the cab fare."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Risa preferred to twirl, and she only ever danced barefoot.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He had offered her an umbrella, just to be polite. Unsurprisingly, the woman had turned the offer down—she didn't want to shield herself from something so beautiful.
As he drove away, he couldn't help looking back once more. The woman had her arms stretched high above her head, and for a moment she wasn't a woman dying at the age of twenty-nine.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Consequences were of no importance—in that sense, she hadn't changed much from the indifferent shadow. Truthfully, she was completely different.
At twenty-nine years old, Risa didn't give a second thought about what tomorrow might bring; she wanted to live every moment in the moment. She wanted to take risks, dream of impossibilities, and…
Shoes came off, hair came down. Hands stretched high, she twirled in the most beautifully undignified pattern possible.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He briefly considered going back, wondering if she would be okay on her own. This woman—this girl—had nowhere to go. How could she manage on her own?
No, he knew she would be fine.
With nowhere to go, she could go anywhere. Rewrite her regrets, live life where she had left off.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Drivers passing by stared at her, muddy dress and tangled hair and bare feet. A few of them honked. Risa just smiled and waved.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She had every flaw needed for perfection.
The first seven years of her life were scattered with bruises, cuts, and scars—marks of the risks she had taken, the times she had fallen, and her constant determination to stand back up again. Impossible tangles were ever-present in her wild hair, resisting every brush that threatened to ruin what nature had already deemed beautiful. Every deficiency was equally important, but Risa's favorite was the constant layer of dirt on the bottoms of her feet.
For heaven's sake, be more careful when you play! And honestly, Risa, is it so difficult to wear a pair of shoes? The reprimands were received with wide eyes, fake tears, and false repentance. No amount of scrubbing or scolding could banish the earth from her skin.
Hesitations and second-guesses were never very fun, and life was too short for shoes. Risa preferred to twirl, and she only ever danced barefoot.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"So, you decided to run away?" The question wasn't meant to be condescending—he was genuinely curious. After all, every refugee had a reason.
"Yeah," she responded, still gazing out the window, "what does that make me? Weak?" He laughed and shook his head.
"It depends on what you're running from."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Up became down, and the twirling girl collapsed into a bright pile of giggles.
Arms and legs spread wide, she would lie on the ground, watching the sky spin above her. For a few seconds, she could feel the earth move, continuing her dizzy dance. Everything seemed to slow down; spinning sky slowed to a stop, adrenaline died down, and the twirling girl was twelve.
The moment was broken by reality, brought in by the sound of a screen door and what in the world are you doing, Risa?
She closed her eyes, desperately trying to hold onto something that had already gone.
For heaven's sake, stand up! When will you start acting your age?
Open eyes, empty hands, and she had forgotten what she was reaching for.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Silence.
He looked to his left; the woman was still staring out the window, wearing an expression that he had seen on many faces before hers. She didn't know how to answer the question, so he wasn't going to press it.
"Where am I taking you, then?" he asked. The woman shrugged.
"Anywhere."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She was completely flawless, begging to break.
At fifteen, she bore almost no resemblance to the twirling girl. Her skin was free from any defect—nothing to mark the risks she hadn't taken. The persistent knots in her hair were conquered by heat and oil. Above all, her feet were spot-free; Risa always wore shoes, and she had more practical things to think about than…
Well. You know.
Acceptance, success, and perfection were her top three priorities. Her friends said she did too much—books should be booze, and don't you ever have any fun? Mother said she did too little—B's should be A's, and don't you want to get into a good school?
Nothing was ever good enough.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Drops of rain hit the glass, filling the silence with rhythm.
"It's impossible to please everybody, you know." He said, glancing over again. She was tracing the wet trails with her finger. For a moment, he wondered if she had even heard him.
"You're wrong." She replied, waking from her trance. In response, he simply raised his eyebrows—the woman wanted to talk, not argue. She needed a pair of ears, not a mouth; it was his job to listen.
"Tell me about it."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Somehow, she managed to live up to conflicting expectations.
At seventeen, Risa had figured out a compromise: working hard at school, she earned straight A's in her sophomore and junior years. Mother smiled more often and relented a bit. In between rigorous studying, she found time to party a little, letting loose just enough to make people like her.
I'm happy. Finally happy.
She had satisfied everybody, accepted and successful and perfect. By making everybody else happy, she made herself happy.
I'm happy. Finally happy. I'm happy. Finally happy. I'm happy. Finally happy.
Maybe if she kept repeating that phrase, Risa could make herself believe it.
Maybe she could fool herself, just like she had fooled everybody else.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Only a stranger can uncover a buried past, because the rest of the world doesn't care enough to try.
Something in the tone of her voice told him that she hadn't been willing to talk to anybody about it.
Nobody would have understood, because how can someone so damn perfect be so broken?
Only a stranger can understand, because the world doesn't care enough to shut the hell up and listen.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Lost in her world of strained smiles and plastic contentedness, regret didn't hit until the day after graduation.
When it did hit, she almost collapsed under impact.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She paused for a moment, turning again to look out the window.
"Are you okay?" he asked. She nodded, still not saying anything, and placed her right palm against the glass.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the middle of the chaotic congratulations and tearful goodbyes stood a lost little girl in blue robes.
For a moment, all flaws were visible.
The air became heavy, images started to swirl, and she sank to her knees. The world rushed by, unaware that something beautiful had been thoroughly destroyed. This was supposed to be one of the happiest days of her life. This was supposed to be the day she achieved that unattainable perfection she so craved.
It wasn't like that at all.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of stories told involve some sort of dissatisfaction with what is versus what could have been. Well, ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the stories told to him met that qualification, but seeing as he had heard quite a few stories, the statistic was pretty justified.
That didn't make hers any less unique.
One-hundred-point-seven percent of stories told involve something that sets the stage differently from the other. A person's life was never a cliché, no matter how plain or perfect they may appear on the outside.
"What exactly did you want to be?" She shrugged at the question, hesitating before her reply.
"I don't know." She sighed and closed her eyes. "I didn't want to be someone shaped by what someone else wanted. I didn't want to be… what I am now."
"What are you now?"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Looking at her from the outside, the revelation didn't change anything.
There was no great rebellion against the good-girl standards, no downward plunge into despair, and she didn't stop striving to satisfy. The only difference between then and now was a full, conscious awareness that she was unhappy, broken, and empty.
Imperfect forever, through and through.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Based on his experience, blank expressions mean the conversation is over. Normally, he would nod and remain silent, allowing for the person to collect their thoughts and give a simple, "oh look, here we are," leaving behind unfinished introspections with the cab fare.
Evidently, this wasn't a normal occasion.
"Is that all?" Hardly a question, since both of them knew the answer.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In a perfect world, she would have been able to start over.
Logically, it would have made sense to. Realizing that she's unhappy with her life, a life dictated by what others want her to be rather than what she wants—what she should become… well, why would anybody continue to live like that?
The world is even more imperfect than she is, and there's no starting over.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It didn't make much sense in words, and he couldn't say that he had ever experienced the feeling, but somehow he understood.
A single tear ran down the woman's cheek, mimicking the drops on the glass her cheek rested on. Despite this, her voice remained steady and strong, a surprisingly solid sound from such a shattered spirit.
"Was it more painful?" He asked.
She shook her head. No, it wasn't. Full acknowledgement of your own lack of self results in numbness—it wasn't more painful, just numb. No, that wasn't the reason why she had run.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
College flew by too fast—she didn't get to enjoy a single minute of it.
Risa went through the years as an empty shell with no personality. No, it's impossible not to have a personality—she had one, but she had no idea what was her and what was the world.
Not that it mattered or anything.
At first, it was difficult to accept that she had lost herself long ago. Now, she honestly didn't care about who she was or who she wasn't or who the world wanted or didn't want her to be.
Certainty would have been nice—so would happiness. She told herself that there was no going back to the days of spinning skies and skinned knees and dirty feet and tangled hair.
Acceptance is even more binding than society.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
There was no point in telling the woman that she could have done something differently, that she hadn't needed to give up. She had probably told herself the same thing, but there was nothing to show for it.
To know you should do something is easy. To believe that you have the power to carry it out and succeed…
"That's a completely different story."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Something that she didn't have faith in.
Of course love existed, and she had never questioned that—still, it seemed to be mostly reserved for people with the ability to look at the world through another pair of eyes. Most of the time, she couldn't stand to look at the world.
It was easy to give herself away—she didn't expect anything better to happen, so why not?
He dreamed of green bills and gold coins; she dreamed of finding something to dream about. He wanted a girl who would obey him without dissent; she had no idea what she wanted.
Despite having virtually nothing in common, they were the perfect match.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Her cheek was dry, her expression blank. Gradually, she had become far less emotional—far more distant. It was almost as if she was telling a story about someone else, someone other than herself.
Unfortunately, it was her story.
She just didn't want it to be.
The details were becoming more vague, time jumps becoming wider, and he was tempted to ask for some more detail regarding the years she had briefly and flatly summarized. But no, it wasn't his job to speak, and it wasn't his job to direct her memories. He was there to listen.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was a quiet and plain wedding—not really worth mentioning.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Besides, she probably didn't want to remember.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Twenty-eight years old, and she felt as if nothing had changed.
In reality, nothing was the same. Standing there, it was more or less impossible to find any connection between the laughing seven-year-old and the lost woman. Her hair was cropped short, her false smile stretched tight, and her feet were always clean.
The only similarity between the twirling girl and the empty shell was a lack of concern over the future—in a way, that was also the biggest difference. At seven, she hadn't given a second thought about what tomorrow might bring, living in and for the moment with every breath she took. Of course that had changed in high school, but now she was back to her indifferent mindset.
Ironically, the distance between the two was greater than it had ever been.
At twenty-eight years old, Risa didn't give a second thought about what tomorrow might bring, but she didn't live in the moment. She never took risks, never dreamed of impossibilities, and never twirled.
There were too many ways to fall, and she had forgotten how to get back up.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The tone of her voice, the tear on her cheek—evidently, something had woken this blank shadow up. Regardless of how numb she had been all those years, it was apparent that she felt something now. Empty people don't shiver with unwanted recollection.
Empty people don't run away.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She had known about his drinking problem long before they were married, and she knew he wasn't very good at holding his liquor. Anyway, he had apologized the first time. She had forgiven him.
People can be violent when they're drunk. Risa had been in the way, so it wasn't really his fault.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The last word was choked out, a painful effort to finish the sentence.
He didn't ask her to continue. Glancing over, the woman was staring straight ahead, unblinking. Shaky breath rattled her frame. Silently, in an act of attempted consolation and support, he lightly touched her shoulder—a nonverbal way of telling her to continue or drop the memories at her own will.
Even so, he couldn't help noticing the involuntary flinch that met his hand.
"Sorry," she muttered, making an effort to relax her tense skin. He waved his hand—she didn't have anything to apologize for.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You know what you are? Fearful anticipation filled her heart almost as quickly as violent rage filled her ears. Arms held in front of her face, a feeble shield against the physical and emotional shame. Before she had a fair chance to react, Risa found herself thrown onto the floor.
Shock and terror delayed the pain.
Pathetic. He let out an ugly laugh as she tried unsuccessfully to lift herself up. Did you hear me? Another laugh, followed by a kick. She was back on the floor. Pathetic. That's what you are.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Stories of domestic abuse were not uncommon at all. Even though he had heard many before, something in the way she told her story set it apart. Maybe it was her voice, maybe it was her determination to hide the pain.
"Maybe," she whispered, "he was right all along."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Praise loses its significance quickly—positives easily become personal clichés. Slander rarely falls on deaf ears—it digs itself in deeper with each repetition. The more you hear it, the truer it becomes.
Up until her junior year in high school, she had been told by others that she wasn't good enough. Not fun enough, not serious enough, not confident enough. As more sticks and stones were thrown, Risa started to believe them.
Once she had achieved perfection in the blind eyes of outsiders, the piercing words turned into soft compliments—the emotional bruises from the past and her own self-hatred drowned out the praise.
The things he said to her were far more painful than the material scars. Those would fade eventually, and she could bear the beatings.
Worthless, that's what you are.
Failure cannot be healed.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She wasn't running from anything.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rain fell hard against the window pane, thunder rumbled over head. He had left her lying on the floor, too shaken to stand.
Strings of faded expletives flew at her from the living room, mingled with the sound of flying furniture. Reaching for the counter, she somehow managed to pull herself up.
More swearing, more crashing. Risa closed her eyes and rested her cheek on the cool glass. She had forgotten how comforting the sound of rain was.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"There's nothing to run from, after all." From someone else's lips, it could be seen as defeatist.
It wasn't.
Her voice was filled with courage, words heavy with hopeful implications.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
One foot out, two feet out.
Risa!
Run.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Forward.
It's impossible to escape the past. She wasn't trying to achieve that.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Through the city, down the street, under the rain.
How far could she go?
Not far enough on foot, refreshing as the drops felt on her skin. For a moment, she tilted her face up and closed her eyes, catching as much water as possible on her cheeks. It was disappearing too quickly.
She didn't want to lose it again.
"Taxi!"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Trying to grab something that had always been there, just out of her reach. No, she wasn't running.
She was chasing.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hesitations and second-guesses were never very fun, and life was too short for shoes.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"How much do I owe you?"
"Nothing—I'll make it a free ride." The woman laughed. Her smile was beautifully sincere, trying to make up for the years of absence.
"I'm not talking about the cab fare."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Risa preferred to twirl, and she only ever danced barefoot.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He had offered her an umbrella, just to be polite. Unsurprisingly, the woman had turned the offer down—she didn't want to shield herself from something so beautiful.
As he drove away, he couldn't help looking back once more. The woman had her arms stretched high above her head, and for a moment she wasn't a woman dying at the age of twenty-nine.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Consequences were of no importance—in that sense, she hadn't changed much from the indifferent shadow. Truthfully, she was completely different.
At twenty-nine years old, Risa didn't give a second thought about what tomorrow might bring; she wanted to live every moment in the moment. She wanted to take risks, dream of impossibilities, and…
Shoes came off, hair came down. Hands stretched high, she twirled in the most beautifully undignified pattern possible.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He briefly considered going back, wondering if she would be okay on her own. This woman—this girl—had nowhere to go. How could she manage on her own?
No, he knew she would be fine.
With nowhere to go, she could go anywhere. Rewrite her regrets, live life where she had left off.
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Drivers passing by stared at her, muddy dress and tangled hair and bare feet. A few of them honked. Risa just smiled and waved.
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She had every flaw needed for perfection.