emptyinkblots
emptyinkblots
Beneath the Static
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Inspired by stories that made me feel something.
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emptyinkblots · 2 days ago
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The gift of a name 🪻
not a weapon.
not a tool.
just a girl
learning how to bloom.
When He Gave Me My Name
(Her perspective)
I didn’t know what he was doing.
Not really.
Not then.
He didn’t treat me like the others did.
Didn’t lift my chin to inspect my posture.
Didn’t measure my usefulness with a number.
He just looked at me.
Like I was something…
real.
And then he knelt.
No one had ever knelt for me before.
No one had ever looked up at me
instead of down.
He didn’t ask for anything.
Didn’t order.
Didn’t command.
He offered.
“Your name… will be Violet.”
The sound landed softly.
Like something placed in my hands
instead of ripped from them.
I didn’t know what it meant.
Only that it was the first thing ever given
instead of taken.
I didn’t react.
At least, not how he might have hoped.
I didn’t speak.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t understand.
But something inside me moved.
Quietly.
Like snow melting beneath frost.
Violet.
He said it like it meant something.
Like it wasn’t just a word,
but a path.
He said I wasn’t a tool anymore.
But I didn’t know how not to be.
Still,
when he spoke,
his voice wrapped around me
like warm arms
saying, you’re safe now.
And for the first time,
I wondered what it would feel like
to rest inside a name
instead of an order.
"Violet"
(His perspective)
My brother handed her to me
like a trophy.
“A present,”
he said
“for your promotion.”
She didn’t speak.
Didn’t ask who I was.
Didn’t ask where she was, or why.
She only looked up at me
eyes blank, hands still,
like she was waiting for another command.
And that silence
that cold, obedient silence
was louder
than any explosion I’d ever survived.
Because it wasn’t the silence of peace.
It was the silence of someone
who had never been treated
like a child at all.
A child who had been given nothing
not even a name.
And in that moment,
as I knelt before her,
something inside me broke.
Or maybe
it was the first thing inside me that ever truly healed.
The wind stirred
not harsh, but soft.
The kind of breeze that carries spring
even through ruins.
A white butterfly floated by.
Weightless.
Alive.
I followed it with my eyes
and then I saw it:
a single violet, blooming in the dirt.
Small.
Delicate.
Beautiful.
Growing in a place it had no right to survive.
Just like her.
I looked back at her face
so young,
so terribly empty.
Not because she lacked emotion
but because no one had ever given her the space
to feel.
And with a voice that held both gentleness
and unshakable truth,
I said:
“Your name… will be Violet.”
She blinked.
Only once.
But it was enough.
Enough to tell me the name had landed somewhere deep inside her.
“You won’t be a tool,” I whispered.
“Not anymore.”
“You’ll grow into this name.
You’ll become someone…
someone as beautiful as the flower itself.”
Because Violet was never just a name.
It was a message.
A quiet rebellion.
A whisper that said:
you can bloom, even here.
Violets bloom in winter
not despite the cold,
but through it.
They rise without asking,
soft petals pushing through frost,
carrying warmth where none should exist.
That was the kind of strength I wanted for her.
Not the kind made of armor,
but the kind made of grace
that refuses to die.
It meant she could be gentle
without being weak.
It meant she could have roots
without being caged.
It meant that her life was still unfolding,
no matter how many times it had been torn.
I gave her that name
so she’d know:
she was never meant to be a weapon.
She was meant to grow.
To feel.
To choose.
And like the violet,
to survive the season that tried to bury her
and bloom anyway.
Because maybe the first step to healing
is being called by something
gentle.
So I gave her that name
not as a label,
but as a shelter.
A place to grow into.
A word to come home to.
And if she ever forgot what she was worth,
I hoped that name would remind her:
that she was not born to be used
she was born to bloom.
“Violet.”
Not just what I called her.
But who I believed she could become.
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emptyinkblots · 2 days ago
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💚 “The Color of You” — A Love Neither of Us Knew How to Hold
She had always followed orders.
But this time
her heart led her.
A brooch the color of his eyes.
A choice made freely.
And a man too heartbroken to accept
that she chose him.
The Color of You
(Her perspective)
“What is appropriate for me to want?”
That’s what I asked.
Because I had never been allowed to want.
Only told.
Only ordered.
Only given tools to complete a task
never desires
to carry in my own hands.
The Major smiled.
Kind. Careful.
“A girl your age might want a dress,” he said.
“Or an accessory.”
So I answered quickly,
the only way I knew how:
“I want the same thing suggested.”
Mission accepted.
Desire mimicked.
It was easier that way.
But then
as we walked beneath the warmth of night,
under lanterns swaying like distant stars,
I stopped.
Something pulled me.
Softly.
Without reason.
A brooch.
Set in gold.
And at its center—
emerald green.
Not just any green.
His green.
The exact color of the Major’s eyes.
What is this feeling?
It stirred something quiet,
something unfamiliar,
a soft ache
a kind of gravity
drawing me in.
The vendor noticed my gaze.
She smiled and asked,
“Isn't it beautiful?”
Beautiful?
I’ve never heard that word until now…
Is it the same as pretty?
Why does it feel so much deeper than that?
I held the brooch tightly,
as if it might slip away.
Then he asked, gently
“Are you sure you don’t want a brooch
that matches the color of your eyes instead?”
But I didn’t need to think.
I knew the answer
without understanding the reason:
“No… I want this one.”
Because even if I couldn’t name it yet,
even if I didn’t know what beautiful truly meant,
I had always thought
his eyes
were the most beautiful thing
in the world.
And this brooch
this small, quiet thing I chose
not by command,
but by instinct
was the first thing
I ever reached for
that reminded me
of him.
I just didn’t know
that feeling had a name.
That it was
love.
She Chose Me, Anyway
(His perspective)
She had no childhood.
No lullabies.
No birthdays.
No idea what it meant
to want something
for herself.
And that was my fault.
I gave her a name.
A uniform.
A rank.
But I never gave her a life.
She followed me like a shadow
not because she was trained to,
but because I was the only warmth
she’d ever known.
So when I asked her,
“What do you want?”
and she looked at me,
lost but obedient,
I knew before she spoke
that she would echo my suggestion.
A dress.
An accessory.
Anything to make me proud.
To get it right.
My chest ached.
And still,
I smiled.
But then
something changed.
She stopped.
Not because I told her to.
But because her heart pulled her
somewhere I hadn’t led.
A small brooch.
Gold.
And in its center
emerald.
Not just any green.
My green.
The color of my eyes.
She didn’t know what she was feeling.
I could see it in her face
bewildered, soft,
like something foreign had bloomed in her chest.
I asked, gently,
almost afraid of the answer,
“Why don't you pick one that matches your eyes?”
Because why would she choose something
that reminded her of me?
Me
the man who turned her into a weapon.
Who used her,
even with the best intentions.
But she held it tighter,
like she was holding something sacred.
“No,” she said.
“I want this one.”
And I wanted to cry.
Right there.
In the middle of that street,
under lanterns and stars and everything I didn’t deserve—
I wanted to fall to my knees
and beg for forgiveness.
Because she didn’t understand love.
Not yet.
But she had already given it.
Freely.
Without conditions.
To the man who had ruined her innocence
and still somehow
earned her trust.
She looked at that brooch
like it held the world.
Like it held me.
And I
too cowardly to say “I love you,”
too late to undo what I’d done
stood there
and let her choose it.
Let her choose me.
And I’ve never hated myself more
for how much I wanted to believe
I was worthy of that choice.
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emptyinkblots · 3 days ago
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🌧 The words you left me with
She didn’t cry when she killed.
She cried when he said he loved her.
Because now she had something to lose.
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Gilbert’s final words. Violet’s first heartbreak.
Last orders
(His perspective)
You're pulling me—
not with hands,
not with strength,
but with everything you have left.
Your teeth are clenched in my uniform,
body trembling from agony
and desperation.
And still,
you drag me.
Through blood.
Through smoke.
Through the end of everything.
And it hurts—
not the wounds.
Not the blood.
But the look in your eyes.
Like a child
begging the world not to take the only thing she has.
And I’m that thing.
Violet.
I don’t deserve the way you look at me.
Like I’m good.
Like I’m worth saving.
I should’ve told you sooner.
I should’ve protected you from this.
From war.
From what I turned you into.
From me.
But I didn’t.
I stood by while they gave you a gun
and called it love.
I called you useful,
when you were already hurting.
And now I’m here—
bleeding out in your arms,
finally ready to say the words
I should’ve said when I had time to explain them.
You are not a weapon.
You never were.
You are a person.
You are beautiful.
You are loved.
By me.
I love you.
And it kills me—
truly kills me—
that I only say it now,
when I’m leaving you behind to make sense of it.
When I know it will destroy you.
When I know you’ll carry this moment
like a scar no one else can see.
But please…
live.
Even if it breaks you first.
Live.
Because loving you was the only thing I ever did right.
The Words I Didn’t Know
(Her perspective)
No.
Don’t speak like that.
Don’t say goodbye with your eyes.
Don’t leave me.
You’re all I’ve ever known.
You were my command.
My compass.
My world.
And now you're slipping away—
and I can’t stop it.
No matter how tightly I hold you.
No matter how loud I scream.
You say things I don’t understand.
Things no one ever taught me.
“You are loved.”
“Live.”
And then—
“I love you.”
What does that mean?
Why does it sound like the end?
Why does it make my chest feel like it’s tearing apart
from the inside out?
I was built to follow orders.
To obey.
To fight.
But this—
this pain
is something else entirely.
I would’ve taken that bullet for you.
I would’ve followed you into death
without hesitation.
But you asked me to live.
You asked me to stay.
And then you gave me those words
like a gift
and a curse.
“I love you.”
I never knew what love was.
And now I know—
it’s unbearable.
It’s screaming until your throat collapses.
It’s holding someone who’s already fading.
It’s hearing the words
when it’s already too late to say them back.
I didn’t understand when you said it.
But I do now.
Because whatever’s left of my heart—
it broke
the moment you stopped breathing.
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emptyinkblots · 18 days ago
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I’m in a tight financial spot and need urgent help covering bills. If you’ve ever liked my writing, please support me. Every little help means the world to me ❤️
Tips: Kofi
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