CW - blood, violence, massacres and war, abuse, trauma, abandonment, pain (physical and mental), self-harm, substance use, magic, meaningless sex (short mention), angels/dolls/witches (I guess)
.......
She knew exactly where and what she was. Severely wounded, crawling through mud inadvertently accompanying these kinds of battles she knew this was no different. They were using her, would always be using her. Whatever she did there was no way to rise above. But there was sweet purpose in it. Use meant she had value, right? Value, reason, attention. Yes, attention. She would be noticed. At least until they threw her away yet again. But there was always another one ready to throw her into the meat grinder of ever lasting terror. She was skilled in survival. And she would always bear whatever they made her do. It didn’t matter.
Out of the ruins created by yet another nameless massacre she dragged a little girl. Folding a piece of cloth taken along for situations like these she gently put its head on it to rest and looked around. The targets, the explosions, the rifts and bodies, the markings in the wounds, the ones chosen, she recognized the slaughter’s structure and unmistakable signature. It was just as those she had created, back when he had still used her. Glorious times. It didn’t matter what he put her to, she was willing. Massacres, bloodbaths, rampages of violent crusades all in his honour, in his name. She had thrived. So blissful was the drug of fragile notice, fleeting attention that covered her senses. Until, laughing and relishing in her naivety as they all did, he sent another one. And let her fall. Yet again. Just like the others. And those before. But desperation, it always took over. She sighed. She knew her duty. Turning again to the little girl as it rested in the dirt she took a knife and cut into her right arm. As blood flowed out, dropping onto its body in neat and tidy runes she spoke the words as instructed. Words that made the girl know who saved it, made it forget the entity in front of her. Words meant to strengthen worship. Never giving a thought to where the capacity to magic in one like her came from. As always, the girl woke up. She sighed, job well done. And yet she couldn’t turn away, something held her back, was different. She looked at it, focused. There was no tired smile, no simple comfort signalling peace in effortless veneration. Instead, eyes greeted her. Eyes looking directly at her, noticing her. Eyes filled with adoration, with faithful trust and affection, directed straight at her own ones. Right through the layers that should have shielded her from worship meant for another one. Small, clear eyes. Just another flickering moment in this world that was hers, soon to fall back. A small cut. But it was enough, enough to breach the fortress of self she had built. She ran away. No, no no no no no this couldn’t be. Back, back to her own, safe form of being. Back to her cycle of use. Back to the comfort of foreseeable pain, the certainty of abuse. It didn’t matter that ze would break her like the others, cut the chains ze had bound her to them, use them as punishment, as torture for yet another trivial misstep and throw her back to earth. There was purpose in use, a crude and painful sense of self, that short moment of unfiltered attention and marvel she got. And in the end, what were they all without beings like her, free to abuse in their own desperate search for true love and attention.
———
A smoky room looking out onto a dimly lit alleyway. Cracked walls scarring its ambience, stains in all the colours imaginable crudely decorating it, describing her personal history of whatever substance of escapism she could get her hands on. A small refuge, personal sanctum of escape. It was here that she went in a meaningless attempt to vanish, once again dumped into the wastelands she herself had helped create. Small, simple tasks every now and then paid the witch for a wanting and willing body to relieve herself on and a place no one would ever care for her. Though, she knew, it was less the errands and more the pleasure of seeing this creatures endless suffering first-hand that served motive. Black smoke surrounded her, tainted purple as it left her body. On the ground, scarred arms pulling scarred legs against a scarred body she sat, wings faltering as her mind tried to escape. Blood dripping from parts yet unscarred, slowly mixing with the smoke as it crawled its way around her. Sometimes they would heal, made to vanish by magic she never knew the source of. But she didn’t mind, it just meant there was more to scar. One hand dropped a knife, broken and rusted from time and abuse. Head squeezed deep into her thighs she embraced the overpowering thoughts and waited. The visions came. But they were different. Instead of overpowering, all engulfing images of pain and belonging they were of large rooms, decorated with and in beautiful wooden designs and furniture. Of a forest away from the massacre. Of a blooming garden surrounded by small creeks of sparkling, transparent water. And a thought. You belong. Slowly, she lifted her head. Tears filled her eyes, but still she tried to open them. In front of her a shadow of a being strangely familiar. Tall, dressed in a black dress covered in simple yet visible patterns of runes and roses, eyes looking down on her, eyes strong and loving, powerful and gentle. Too weak to resist, too weak hold on to her sense of self, to jump, fight it or run away she closed her eyes, collapsing into the darkness while deep in her mind unconscious visions of that being, visions of her kept raging.
As a seed within her finally cracked.
———
Once again she flies, once again demoted to mere attendee begging for that sweet sense of acknowledgement. Knowingly yet willingly she flies towards her new end and beginning, her new source of false, painful hope. Out of the corner of her eyes she sees a motionless figure watching. Perfectly still, perfectly focused, perfectly, despite being so far away it couldn’t possible be, pinned at her. As she looked into those eyes a sense of trust, of deep and unfiltered admiration looked back. Yet again they created a vision, a vision of a future, an identity that might be, or might have been. Maybe this time she would be weak enough to let the barriers she had built crash, weak enough to just plunge. Maybe this time there was strength.
And through the clouds and winds howling in her ears a little voice, high pitched and clear, almost pleading in nature, called out to her: “let go, Miss. Let go.”