yourstarringrole - Tumblr blog

yourstarringrole · 3 years ago

Text

i love you

♡tw: grief, survivor's guilt, crying, death, malnutrition and sickness from neglect, ribs (?)♡

enjoy the angst that fucked me up too <3

no dream would ever match the isolation reality measures at.

luxanna didn’t know how to cope with the ache, deep beneath her skin and even her bones. she’d already strayed past visiting hours, lingering longer than she should in that room. she was exhausted, yet the pain beneath her ribcage strung her up by a silver thread. her fingers felt numb, her vision toppled into a permanent greyscale, her guts were still dribbling out from those dreaded words that sliced her open: but her lungs still fought for every breath, every ounce of oxygen it can get.

she didn’t know why it was trying so hard; everything she’s ever made a promise to is dead and gone now.

she undressed, not bothering to look into the mirror. she didn’t need another someone to tell her she’s gotten thin. she was sure she looked sick, that subliminal message was clear enough when the doctor offered her a check-up. she could feel her skin if she bit the insides of her cheek, she could feel the definition of her ribs from her back. she didn’t have to look to see the survivor’s guilt eating her alive from the inside.

she hesitated in touching her sides. she knew how long she’s gone without physical touch, she counted each second, each minute, each hour, each day. she knew her body was deprived, starved, of love. but she didn’t want to cry, nor did she have the strength to. she was only a flower, already wilting enough: she didn’t need anything else to knock her down.

so instead she fills the bathtub with water. she puts in soap, she lights up as many candles as she could without burning herself, she sat on the floor, by the enamel tub, and watched the water bubble. the fluorescent white light burned in contact with her naked skin. summer’s midnight brought a chill down her stomach.

she turned the water off when the tub is filled halfway with water, milky and scented sweet with jasmine and lavender. she gets in, and sinks herself down until the warm liquid slithers over, placing a blanket every part of her body but her neck and head.

she closed her eyes. her whole body ached.

it ached to be touched, to be loved, to be cherished by the hands of another who had just left for paradise. without her.

her face felt hot, her sight blurred into smudges of a painting, and she exhaled. with the breath of air came tears. tears she dared not cry at the medical facility. tears she dared not cry in front of the grieving masses. tears that corroded her into a rotten mess from the inside.

tears that she spent the last of her dignity withholding for her lover’s sake.

without her or her presence in sight, there was no use keeping up with the bravado anymore.

the luxury of grief was all hers to take now, sitting in a tub, overworked heartbeat pulsing in her wrists, water levels slowly rising with every discarded bit of saline solution.

she cried. she let her guard down and let go until she saw stars. the hatred, the guilt, the grief all condensed to the material, tangible rain of pearls and poured, disintegrating craters into the fizzing bubbles.

the pain in her chest loosened, but it had yet to fall away. the wound was still bleeding, the sting of awakening residing, endlessly reverberating, within each acre of minefield inside her head. the tears only washed away the salt in the wound; water can only ever only dilute blood.

she could barely breathe. the floral aroma turned sickly, like decaying nectar. it hurt to think, it hurt to feel. she felt cold, despite the lukewarm shell of water preserving her burnt-out conscience. she longed for the piece of her heart that now laid to rest temporarily in the morgue, soon to be lowered six feet under. she longed for her lover, her guardian angel. she longed for someone who was never walking through her front door in the dead of night, asking to talk or a hug, again.

‘xanna.’

she thought she heard someone calling her name. she couldn’t be sure, not with her head spinning.

‘lux.’

there it was again. she’d recognise that voice anywhere.

‘hey, what are you doing with the tub only half-filled? it’s winter, aren’t you cold?’

‘...izzy...?’

‘hi.’

‘b-but…you’re not real…you can’t be…’

‘i know.’

her lower lip trembled. ‘i miss you already…’

‘i know honey, i’m sorry i had to go…’

she didn’t ask why she left. she knew it all too well. ‘h-how are you feeling…?’

‘…oh sweetheart…’ the shadow in the corner of the room darkened, the ivory lighting blocked out by the presence of another. ‘don’t ask me that…are you okay…?’

‘n-no, it’s fine, i’ll manage…’

‘hey…look at me…?’

she could barely lift her head.

‘i heard that promise you made for me…’ she felt the gentlest of touches under her jaw and obeyed, her chin tilted up slightly. ‘you didn’t have to do that…especially not if you’re swearing on your life…’

luxanna saw through the illusion of the girl seated on the edge of the tub. she looked too much like a holograph to be real. if she stared long enough, she knew she’d catch a flicker of a glitch somewhere on her body. she knew a reunion like this was too good to be true.

but her heart, her broken heart of tempered glass, latched on to this disposition of her mind like a lifeline.

so she let herself live in this fantasy. if only just for a little longer.

’you’ve suffered through t-too much…i just wanted to m-make sure it doesn’t s-stay that way…’

‘…i swear, you really are too good for this world…’

‘huh…?’

‘who else would give their life’s promise to someone who’d be dead in a few days…?’

her eyes felt puffy. each breath in and out felt like a knife to her chest. ‘i w-would...for you...’

‘...whoever you end up with is going to be so lucky...’

‘i w-wish it could’ve been y-you...’

‘but it can’t, right...?’

she shielded her face away from view, loathing but depending on the sense of false security the action brings.

‘oh, i’m so sorry baby, i didn’t mean to make you cry...’

‘i-it’s fine...’

‘xanna...’

‘i-i’m so sorry i c-couldn’t protect your happiness...or y-you...’

‘it’s not your fault...some of us just aren’t meant to be happy in this life...’

‘d-don’t say that...’

the girl sighed. ‘look...i know how you feel about me...i’m so lucky to have someone like you who loves me so much...but at the same time, i regret every moment i spent looking at her instead of you...you’ve been nothing but good to me, and had i been more observant, i would’ve known...i should’ve noticed and cherished it and not let your love go to waste...i’m sorry i wasted so much of your time...and i love you too.’

luxanna watched her take her hand, raise it to her heart-shaped lips, and gave it a kiss.

‘i...i l-love you s-so so m-much...’ her mind crumbled to ash, trickling out of her skull through each drop of sapphire down her throat and into the bathwater.

‘i owe you so much, lux, i’m so sorry i can’t return all of your past favours...but for now, you have my promise...i’ll be there waiting for you in the next life. i can promise you that much...and i swear i will repay those endeavours one at a time...’

‘d-don’t go...p-please, i need y-you...’

‘you have to move on, my love...i can tell there’s someone out there, someone who will love you so much better than i did, waiting for you...if you ever miss me, just play your guitar...i’ll always be there listening to your voice...and love every second of it...’

‘p-please...’

‘i love you baby...but i have to go...i’m so sorry...’

‘no...d-don’t...’

‘we’ll meet again...i promise...’

‘i-izzy-’

her phone rang from the living room.

izzy was nowhere to be found again.

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yourstarringrole · 3 years ago

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she's all i wanna be

today, she is lorelei andez.

she wakes up at 4 a.m. she gives herself time to rejuvenate from a night drenched in liquor and secrets. she lights a candle and cleanses herself with burning sage and crystals. she takes a half-an-hour long bath, because lorelei values her ‘me’ time for self love.

she does her make-up, going with as little as eyeliner, blush and a little bit of highlighter. lorelei believes in the afterglow of her sun-kissed skin, so she will believe in it too. she glues on a pearl, just under each black butterfly wing accentuating her eye shape.

she looks herself in the mirror for a moment. she grabs her favourite tube of lipstick. she puts it on, and on the mirror writes ‘xoxo’. she hesitates for a faction, then kisses the reflection of herself.

she undresses. the sunlight bends at her will. she decides on a lace bralette and her beige blazer with black jeans and 3-inch stilettos. lorelei lives for champagne gold and rings. she puts on 5 rings in total, even the one made of jade that she swore never to put on due to it’s history. she puts on her signature designer cologne.

she makes herself breakfast. sliced avocado and egg toast, with a side of earl grey. she doesn’t rush herself, lorelei does not like to be rushed. she places her phone on the other end of the table, she doesn’t need to be distracted focusing on herself. she takes 7 bites out of the toast and decides it was enough to last her through the morning.

she packs her purse with her phone, her wallet and keys. her headphones are in its casing, along with chocolate and a water bottle. she checks for her lipgloss and spare earrings, lorelei’s always the one to be prepared for any occasion, and does up the magnets. she places her laptop in its carrier and puts on her vintage sunglasses.

she sits in the lecture hall, taking notes for the english literature lecture. she kept her handwriting neat, aligned with the grids of her notebook and in elegant cursive. every once in a while, she takes a sip from her fruit-infused tea, not missing a beat of the discussion on of Shakespeare’s Othello. she sits at the middle rows, front and centre. she participates occasionally, because lorelei would know everyone’s watching her every move.

she takes the subway home, missing her stop on purpose. she watches the daylight drain from the rain-stained windows of the metro and reads her French novel. she feels another sit next to her and smiles at them. they smile back and make brief conversation. they exchange phone numbers, the stranger leaves. she feels a foreign feeling swell in her guts and sighs. lorelei loves this feeling.

she unlocks the door and places the fresh ingredients on the counter. she changes out of her day clothes into her oversized sweater. she pulls her hair up to a bun and makes caesar salad with a poached egg and parmesan cheese. she has it with a cup of apple tea, on the couch, with her favourite series playing on the television. lorelei knows the best way to cure a hectic day.

she cleans herself of makeup and does her skin care routine. she cleans off the mirror and does her nails to the radio. she dances to her favourite songs in her room and drinks a few more glasses of water, because that’s what lorelei loves about nights in her room alone.

she was out like a light by 10:30 p.m.

---

today, she is tate reynolds.

she wakes up at 6:40 a.m. she lays in bed for 10 minutes more. she gets over her existential dread and puts on her favourite pairs of stockings. she flips through her magazines with a cup of freshly brewed coffee, on the floor of the living room. she leaves the curtains open and bites back a smile when the sun rays warm up her skin. tate may hate mornings, but the sun, before it ripens into a sweltering afternoon, is her reason to live on.

she puts her playlist on full volume and curls her hair. she sings to herself in the mirror, making a mental note to keep the beautiful little art form to herself and herself only. tate loves to see herself energised and thrilled for the day yet to come. she plays around with her perfumes and draws text emojis on her cheek, flushed from all the dancing. she decides on a small ‘:p’ and twirls her hair in between her fingers.

she turns on her stereo and undresses. she decides halfway to undo the blinds and lay in the sun spot on her bed. she gets up when her phone chimes with a text, because tate always knows what to say, and responds after a few moments of consideration. she pokes another hole in the new belt she bought and threaded them through the loops of her suit pants. she switches out her bra for a red corset top and an oversized black cardigan. she layers her pearl necklaces and weaves a ribbon through her hair.

she has another cup of coffee, with skimmed milk and vanilla this time, and made herself pancakes with assorted berries. she buries her toppings in whipped cream and has it on the carpet, leaning against the corduroy loveseat. she puts her hand up against the sunlight and squints, letting the halo of gold filter through the gaps of her fingers. tate is immortal, and the sun is her only eternal companion.

she finishes the stack of pancakes and places the dishes in the sink. she saves the cup of coffee for later, because tate cannot stay awake at all without it. she picks out her heels, 6-inch nudes with attached silver chains. she puts on her safety pin earrings and lays on her sofa, awaiting her friends’ notice. she thinks, tate tends to overthink a lot of things, weighing the pros and cons of the outing.

she sits, shotgun, in her best friend’s Porsche. she listens to them gossip, never intervenes. she watches the malibu sun float along the light-bleached clouds and closes her eyes. she takes initiative to undo the roof of the car and link her streaming service to the speaker system. she plays infinite by lyn lapid, because the song has made home and lives in tate’s heart, and takes in the scent of leather and oceans. she is forever 16, and she doesn’t have the luxury of dying young.

she lets her friends pick out her clothes in each store. she tries them on, and whether she likes it or not, she showcases it to them. she treats them to gelato and smiles when they get it on the tip of their noses. tate loves each one of her friends with her own life. she sits with them, on the beach, with her magazines while they splash each other with saltwater by the shoreline. she thinks to herself, this is the life lorde talks about in her songs, and lets the golden sky devour each longing inch of her skin.

she invites her friends over. she borrows to them her stash of hoodies and they stay in for the night. she takes pictures with her polaroid camera and films moments of their sleepover on her video camera. she captures as much of the euphoria bleeding from each second that passes as she possibly could, and records it all on rolls and rolls of video tape. tate will miss them, and she always does her best to keep as many pieces of them as her fingers and memory would allow her to.

she talks to them. about her life. they listen and kiss her on the cheeks. they rope her into a hug, and god, it feels so good to be touched again. they tell her it’s okay, and for once she believes them, because tate knows the consequences of not trusting her friends enough. they pop open a bottle of tequila and they make cake together. she smooths out the frosting and sneak in extra pieces of chocolate truffle. they sit, together, under the midnight sky, out on the front porch with pieces of the cake, and feel.

she falls asleep last, by the window seat of her room, with a bottle of half-empty liquor, at 2:37 a.m.

---

today, she is demilia locke.

she wakes up at 9:49 a.m. she doesn’t want to get out of bed. she stays in bed for another 2 hours. she puts on her reading glasses and lights a candle. she gathers her tablet and stack of annotated books and flipped through them, reading over every highlighted verse with nostalgia. she browses on tumblr, through all the feeds with aesthetic quotations and low-quality images that seemed cut out from a magazine.

she pulls a hoodie on, over her oversized band t-shirt. she doesn’t bother fixing her hair, because who was going to see her like this anyway? she washes her face and sits on in the dry bathtub with her face in a white fluffy towel for a few minutes.

she slices up an assortment of fruit to the steady rainfall. she accidentally cuts her thumb. she runs it under cold water and leaves the little wound alone. she tosses the fruit pieces in a bowl and pours herself a mug of hot water. she lays on the carpet and feels the centre of gravity shift inside of her. it sinks, down her veins, until it gathers like a bruise where her skin connects the floor.

she has her fruit salad in silence. the silence helps demi think. she traces her eyes over the walls, over each pigmented pattern etched on. she blows on the hot water and admires the way white smoke drifts off until it thins into invisibility. she takes a sip and breathes out a sigh.

she washes the dishes and dries them off, putting back to where they originated from. she returns to her room, to her bed. she removes her laptop from her backpack and places it above her sheets. she opens it, runs her fingers over each sticker surrounding the display retina. each one has it’s story, and demi loves each one more than she did life.

she opens another word document and stared at the blank page. she couldn’t feel anything. she puts on her writer’s playlist. the only thing she could hear was her heartbeat choking her by the throat. she slams the laptop shut and lies down. maybe she cries a little, but that’s okay, creative burnouts happen all the time for demi.

she feels horrible. so she turns on her current series. she takes pictures of scenes and matches lyrics to them. she whispers each lyric to herself, sacred as any oath and smile a little when it planted a soft candle-like glow inside of her chest.

she opens her laptop again and types. she spills her guts out onto the page, until grey and white blurs with ink. she feels a hollow beckoning that came with its catharsis, one that strangely brings her enough peace to look up. it was dark outside, her clock reading 4:19 a.m.

she writes some more, and passes out somewhere in between the lines of passing time.

and she woke up.

today, she is eris darklight.

#my ocs #and my psuedonym #eris darklight #lorelei andez #tate reynolds #demilia locke #writeblr #writing #writing community #writing ideas #writing prompts #prompts #writing inspo #that feeling when you want to be anyone but yourself?#yeah this is that #my pseudonym living the lives of my ocs #a little bit inspired by she's all i wanna be - tate mcrae

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