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She was shaking on her knees, her elbows resting on the seat in front of her, hands clasped.
Trembling. You might have thought she was praying. She sank back onto her heels, taking measured, strenuous breaths, eyes closed, trying to succumb to the fog, to find release from the twisting, chafing feeling in her gut. Toxic.
Something in her was toxic.
And the fog would not accept her. At the moment, she could not make the razor-cruel minutes or delirious seconds blur. She noticed everything. The speed of her own heartbeat, the tremor in her hands. The soap fallen from a shelf into the bathtub. The sparse hairs near her knee where she missed shaving. Her shuddering breathing, the strange weakness in her throat. She wanted to speak but was afraid to try, beyond terrified that she would make no sound, dumb, helpless. The feeling in her stomach shifted, just slightly. Shakily, she stood up and sat on the seat, dropped her head between her knees, eyes closed again, draping her arms on one another, mid-calf. For the briefest of moments, a feeling of release. Ended. The discomfort grew again. Again, shakily, she sat up, opened her eyes, moving robotically, wishing she looked as frail as she felt. She thought about what to do.
She should try to call for help.
No, she shouldn't. This had happened before; she'd made it through without help then. It was her burden, her suffering. Besides, she was weak. Her stomach felt like it was receding into her ribs, shrinking. Her throat could not support sound. It would collapse, splintered, fragile, with the weight of speech. It was a trap.
Cautiously, she moved back off the seat. Onto the rug, elbows resting on the seat, hands clasped, trembling. You might have thought she was praying.
A violent shiver ran through her body. Shaky breath in, measured breath out. Aching breath in, barely relieved breath out. She was cold.
-I am praying-
She thought about it. If she was. What for?? If it would make a difference.
A lot of things. I don't know.
I do. I know what. She thought about what she wanted.
Her throat felt like fluid glass. Frighteningly breakable. Any second it might shatter from the thin, wavering breaths. A sculpted, flexible flute. It might collapse. Her stomach twisted. The dull ache was so imprecise, so malicious; it was not any sharp, cutting pain, nothing stabbing or wrenching, just a dull, vague, powerful discomfort, a torture unappealing and therefore exquisitely horrible to the normal masochism to which one can lose the self (blissfully) during definite pain.
Maybe her insides were both swelling and being forcibly compacted at once. She shut her eyes, grimacing.
Another vague twist.
She swallowed. Her throat managed to stay intact.
She twisted her hands, still clasped, arms still trembling, extending from her torso. Thought she was praying.
Praying for what?? She was.
She thought about what she wanted.
Something in her was toxic.
Maybe that's what this was. Longing, desperation.
Inconquerable, insane, obscene hope. What she wanted.
Who.
Why.
Him.
She didn't know why. But, hopelessly and helplessly, she did. She had tried to give up, get over him. The pull was too strong. Whatever it was. Toxic? Maybe. Delirious? Yes. Exquisite, ecstasy, opiatic? Beyond that. She was trapped, corseted, caged, prisoner beyond sight, thought, and sensation. The memories were a vicious cage, from which she could find no escape. They were childlike flirtation and careless freedom, joyful and reckless and unbearable. They were maddening but not enough, because she was reluctant and proud and would not admit what she really thought or why it was so easy for him to wind her up or how much she loved his teasing. She had been so proud and so afraid that it made her blind, she did not recognize any of the opportunities, she did not take a chance. She had been a hypocrite. The memories were desperate, clinging determinedly to a few moments, best, worst, and otherwise insignificant. They were a constant contest between casual and physical, the charged, hypersensitive words traded during denial of chemistry. They were the clichéd sunlit days turned vicious and vengeful, abetted by her irrational fear. There was her masochism, her nihilism, her fear of the utter joy, passion, reckless life which she associated with him. Instead she chose this vague torture of ambivalence, inaction, the emotional incarnation of her present physical situation. Her stomach twisted. She closed her eyes more tightly, curled in upon herself even more, shivering.
She breathed carefully, slowly, through her nose.
Something toxic inside.
She thought about what she wanted.
She shifted her weight back onto her heels, sitting back on them, blinked a few times. She put her hands on her thighs. She was smaller than last year, thinner, slightly. She felt pathetic, miserable, but somehow pretty. She moved her hands down an inch, two, just above her knees. Her skin felt like frayed silk. Or. What was that colloquialism. Glass. Glassy.
She remembered how he looked, sitting around in just his slacks. Angelic. His broad shoulders, slender forearms, large yet somehow delicate hands. Tousled blond hair. Imperfect, devastating smile. Indefinite, unreadable, fathomless silver eyes. Somehow, unbelievably, unaware of what she was hiding from him, unaware of why she stopped laughing freely or acting impulsively.
Unreadable, hiding who knows what thoughts toward her. Never windows, always mirrors. Glassy. Her vision was blurry. She didn’t know what she remembered. She didn’t know if maybe she remembered what she wanted to remember. Maybe it was a lie. Maybe it was what she wished had happened.
Heat.
Hallucination.
She was in a fever, she was dreaming.
She could NOT be dreaming.
The glass of her throat was not fluid now.
It was constricting.
It was searing.
She squeezed her eyes shut more tightly.
Something slipped out, moisture. Not tears.
Molten copper, maybe. Slid down her face, burning, it hurt. She didn’t know copper tasted like iron and regret, but regret of inaction.
Her skin felt like frayed silk. Hot. Catching fire.
Liquefying.
She felt molested. She wished she could let herself forget. She wished she could stop torturing herself with what-ifs and hopes and unwillingness to move on.
This was delirium.
Hallucination.
This was damnation. It was ecstasy.
She thought about what she wanted.
Him.
The glass was splintering. Scalding.
It was sandpaper.
Fire.
She remembered his hands, like fire, on her arms, around her wrists, on her breasts. Bliss. Opposite and equal and parallel to her present torture. She trembled, kneeling, naked, hands on knees, head bowed, the vague unidentifiable pain in her stomach rolling and twisting. How was it that this physical exposure was the equivalent of emotional internalization, of a self-imposed trap that only laid the foundation for an even more constricting prison?
Fire. A sheen of liquid fire on her skin. Skin like frayed silk, glassy, burning, combustible.
She remembered his eyes, undeniable, irresistible, stormy and intense. She remembered heat flooding to her cheeks, color, heating, flooding to the pit of her stomach like thrill and like fear. She remembered his warm iron arms around her, like a cage, like a cradle, like home.
She had loved that. That felt safe.
She remembered shouting at him as he stood in darkness, silhouetted and angelic, as she was feeling triumphant and unsatisfied and brimming, malicious, from behind a stranger in the place she privately considered to be his. She remembered vindictive pleasure in finally crossing that line, embarrassment because the stranger didn’t deserve to used that way, discomfort because she wished she were brave enough for things to be different.
She remembered the sudden silence. Echoing.
The dumbfoundedness.
The...not zenith. Abyss.
She remembered shame. Like frozen metal, like steel.
Like this twisting, indefinable hurt in her gut.
Nearly.
Exactly.
The same thing.
She squeezed her eyes tighter shut.
The glass in her throat was constricting. She rocked back and forth, fingers digging into her thighs, just above her knees. The pain in her stomach twisted. She didn’t understand what she remembered. She wished she had been brave. She wished she were not so proud.
She remembered his hands, like fire, resting like feathers at her waist, just above her hips. She remembered heat flooding, coloring, in her stomach, throat, everywhere.
She remembered things that never happened. She remembered everything.
It should have been unreal. It should have been different.
It was never enough, it was delicious, he never knew and it was her choice and her fault and she wished, wished, wished, that every single memory was
Delirium.
She remembered dreams. Each moment was like a dream. She wished it all had been a dream. She didn’t. She didn’t know. She didn’t know what she wanted. Him. Anymore. Her throat was collapsing, oxygen did not exist. Her stomach hurt, somehow, not quite. She felt nauseous. She wanted it all to end. She wanted to forget everything. She wanted to remember dreams, and not reality. She didn’t know what she wanted.
Anymore.
The twisting grew sharper.
The glass was splintering, it was sandpaper.
She rocked back and forth. She wanted the twisting to stop.
She thought about him.
She wondered where he was. What had happened. If he had made any choice. If he had let go of his family demons. If he was free from his inescapable tier of society. Why she had forever cut herself off from knowing all those things. She had an idea why. Maybe.
She wasn’t sure if that was her reason.
She didn’t know why.
She rocked back and forth. The twisting questions wouldn’t stop.
Someone had tied a cord around her throat from the inside. Someone was pushing all her memories and thoughts and regrets inward, but they would not. She felt like she was imploding and bursting into some indefinable pain at once. Her skin felt like frayed silk. Scalding. Glass. Glassy.
A tremor ran through her, from the bottom of her spine through her ribs, her collarbone.
Her shoulders turned inward. She felt as though the twisting in her gut was expanding. Molten expanding glass.
Something overflowing. Something painful and molten and dangerous. A closed vessel in a kiln. Something was going to shatter. Memories became physical, vengeful, beyond destructive. She was trapped, corseted, caged, prisoner beyond sight, thought, and sensation. It all had consumed her, like a forest fire, like a flood. She didn’t want to let it go. She did. She didn’t know what she wanted. She thought about it. She wanted to forget. She wanted to want that. It was dizzying. She shut her eyes more tightly, and tried not to let the room spin or fade or turn fuzzy and then black. She didn’t want it to fade. She wanted the pain to stop. She wasn’t sure what she wanted. She wasn’t sure how thought could be felt physically, like this.
Her shoulders bent inward. Splintering. Her chest was collapsing. Glass. She was suffocating. A tremor, like a wave from her spine through her ribs. The fire was overwhelming. Her vision was red. She saw nothing. She coughed. Twice again.
Her nose stung.
Her throat burned. This was an identifiable pain. An empty pain.
She tasted bitter iron and honey.
Her nose stung. She coughed again.
Very slowly, she took a deep, cool breath. She opened her eyes. It was quiet. The walls and shapes around her were luridly clear.
She felt clean.
Empty. She took a slow breath. Velvet.
She felt fragile.
So insensibly lucid.
Hollow.
Fragile.
It was as if she had woken up from a nightmare. It felt like autumn daybreak, cold, bitingly clear, hollow.
Beautiful but incomplete and vaguely melancholy.
She closed her eyes and bowed her head.
She thought about what she wanted.
She felt…
It felt like drifting.
Like a breeze through an abandoned building.
Desolate, devoid.
And yet it was open. No walls. No prison.
It almost felt like freedom.
Took a deep breath. You might have thought she was praying.
Trembling. You might have thought she was praying. She sank back onto her heels, taking measured, strenuous breaths, eyes closed, trying to succumb to the fog, to find release from the twisting, chafing feeling in her gut. Toxic.
Something in her was toxic.
And the fog would not accept her. At the moment, she could not make the razor-cruel minutes or delirious seconds blur. She noticed everything. The speed of her own heartbeat, the tremor in her hands. The soap fallen from a shelf into the bathtub. The sparse hairs near her knee where she missed shaving. Her shuddering breathing, the strange weakness in her throat. She wanted to speak but was afraid to try, beyond terrified that she would make no sound, dumb, helpless. The feeling in her stomach shifted, just slightly. Shakily, she stood up and sat on the seat, dropped her head between her knees, eyes closed again, draping her arms on one another, mid-calf. For the briefest of moments, a feeling of release. Ended. The discomfort grew again. Again, shakily, she sat up, opened her eyes, moving robotically, wishing she looked as frail as she felt. She thought about what to do.
She should try to call for help.
No, she shouldn't. This had happened before; she'd made it through without help then. It was her burden, her suffering. Besides, she was weak. Her stomach felt like it was receding into her ribs, shrinking. Her throat could not support sound. It would collapse, splintered, fragile, with the weight of speech. It was a trap.
Cautiously, she moved back off the seat. Onto the rug, elbows resting on the seat, hands clasped, trembling. You might have thought she was praying.
A violent shiver ran through her body. Shaky breath in, measured breath out. Aching breath in, barely relieved breath out. She was cold.
-I am praying-
She thought about it. If she was. What for?? If it would make a difference.
A lot of things. I don't know.
I do. I know what. She thought about what she wanted.
Her throat felt like fluid glass. Frighteningly breakable. Any second it might shatter from the thin, wavering breaths. A sculpted, flexible flute. It might collapse. Her stomach twisted. The dull ache was so imprecise, so malicious; it was not any sharp, cutting pain, nothing stabbing or wrenching, just a dull, vague, powerful discomfort, a torture unappealing and therefore exquisitely horrible to the normal masochism to which one can lose the self (blissfully) during definite pain.
Maybe her insides were both swelling and being forcibly compacted at once. She shut her eyes, grimacing.
Another vague twist.
She swallowed. Her throat managed to stay intact.
She twisted her hands, still clasped, arms still trembling, extending from her torso. Thought she was praying.
Praying for what?? She was.
She thought about what she wanted.
Something in her was toxic.
Maybe that's what this was. Longing, desperation.
Inconquerable, insane, obscene hope. What she wanted.
Who.
Why.
Him.
She didn't know why. But, hopelessly and helplessly, she did. She had tried to give up, get over him. The pull was too strong. Whatever it was. Toxic? Maybe. Delirious? Yes. Exquisite, ecstasy, opiatic? Beyond that. She was trapped, corseted, caged, prisoner beyond sight, thought, and sensation. The memories were a vicious cage, from which she could find no escape. They were childlike flirtation and careless freedom, joyful and reckless and unbearable. They were maddening but not enough, because she was reluctant and proud and would not admit what she really thought or why it was so easy for him to wind her up or how much she loved his teasing. She had been so proud and so afraid that it made her blind, she did not recognize any of the opportunities, she did not take a chance. She had been a hypocrite. The memories were desperate, clinging determinedly to a few moments, best, worst, and otherwise insignificant. They were a constant contest between casual and physical, the charged, hypersensitive words traded during denial of chemistry. They were the clichéd sunlit days turned vicious and vengeful, abetted by her irrational fear. There was her masochism, her nihilism, her fear of the utter joy, passion, reckless life which she associated with him. Instead she chose this vague torture of ambivalence, inaction, the emotional incarnation of her present physical situation. Her stomach twisted. She closed her eyes more tightly, curled in upon herself even more, shivering.
She breathed carefully, slowly, through her nose.
Something toxic inside.
She thought about what she wanted.
She shifted her weight back onto her heels, sitting back on them, blinked a few times. She put her hands on her thighs. She was smaller than last year, thinner, slightly. She felt pathetic, miserable, but somehow pretty. She moved her hands down an inch, two, just above her knees. Her skin felt like frayed silk. Or. What was that colloquialism. Glass. Glassy.
She remembered how he looked, sitting around in just his slacks. Angelic. His broad shoulders, slender forearms, large yet somehow delicate hands. Tousled blond hair. Imperfect, devastating smile. Indefinite, unreadable, fathomless silver eyes. Somehow, unbelievably, unaware of what she was hiding from him, unaware of why she stopped laughing freely or acting impulsively.
Unreadable, hiding who knows what thoughts toward her. Never windows, always mirrors. Glassy. Her vision was blurry. She didn’t know what she remembered. She didn’t know if maybe she remembered what she wanted to remember. Maybe it was a lie. Maybe it was what she wished had happened.
Heat.
Hallucination.
She was in a fever, she was dreaming.
She could NOT be dreaming.
The glass of her throat was not fluid now.
It was constricting.
It was searing.
She squeezed her eyes shut more tightly.
Something slipped out, moisture. Not tears.
Molten copper, maybe. Slid down her face, burning, it hurt. She didn’t know copper tasted like iron and regret, but regret of inaction.
Her skin felt like frayed silk. Hot. Catching fire.
Liquefying.
She felt molested. She wished she could let herself forget. She wished she could stop torturing herself with what-ifs and hopes and unwillingness to move on.
This was delirium.
Hallucination.
This was damnation. It was ecstasy.
She thought about what she wanted.
Him.
The glass was splintering. Scalding.
It was sandpaper.
Fire.
She remembered his hands, like fire, on her arms, around her wrists, on her breasts. Bliss. Opposite and equal and parallel to her present torture. She trembled, kneeling, naked, hands on knees, head bowed, the vague unidentifiable pain in her stomach rolling and twisting. How was it that this physical exposure was the equivalent of emotional internalization, of a self-imposed trap that only laid the foundation for an even more constricting prison?
Fire. A sheen of liquid fire on her skin. Skin like frayed silk, glassy, burning, combustible.
She remembered his eyes, undeniable, irresistible, stormy and intense. She remembered heat flooding to her cheeks, color, heating, flooding to the pit of her stomach like thrill and like fear. She remembered his warm iron arms around her, like a cage, like a cradle, like home.
She had loved that. That felt safe.
She remembered shouting at him as he stood in darkness, silhouetted and angelic, as she was feeling triumphant and unsatisfied and brimming, malicious, from behind a stranger in the place she privately considered to be his. She remembered vindictive pleasure in finally crossing that line, embarrassment because the stranger didn’t deserve to used that way, discomfort because she wished she were brave enough for things to be different.
She remembered the sudden silence. Echoing.
The dumbfoundedness.
The...not zenith. Abyss.
She remembered shame. Like frozen metal, like steel.
Like this twisting, indefinable hurt in her gut.
Nearly.
Exactly.
The same thing.
She squeezed her eyes tighter shut.
The glass in her throat was constricting. She rocked back and forth, fingers digging into her thighs, just above her knees. The pain in her stomach twisted. She didn’t understand what she remembered. She wished she had been brave. She wished she were not so proud.
She remembered his hands, like fire, resting like feathers at her waist, just above her hips. She remembered heat flooding, coloring, in her stomach, throat, everywhere.
She remembered things that never happened. She remembered everything.
It should have been unreal. It should have been different.
It was never enough, it was delicious, he never knew and it was her choice and her fault and she wished, wished, wished, that every single memory was
Delirium.
She remembered dreams. Each moment was like a dream. She wished it all had been a dream. She didn’t. She didn’t know. She didn’t know what she wanted. Him. Anymore. Her throat was collapsing, oxygen did not exist. Her stomach hurt, somehow, not quite. She felt nauseous. She wanted it all to end. She wanted to forget everything. She wanted to remember dreams, and not reality. She didn’t know what she wanted.
Anymore.
The twisting grew sharper.
The glass was splintering, it was sandpaper.
She rocked back and forth. She wanted the twisting to stop.
She thought about him.
She wondered where he was. What had happened. If he had made any choice. If he had let go of his family demons. If he was free from his inescapable tier of society. Why she had forever cut herself off from knowing all those things. She had an idea why. Maybe.
She wasn’t sure if that was her reason.
She didn’t know why.
She rocked back and forth. The twisting questions wouldn’t stop.
Someone had tied a cord around her throat from the inside. Someone was pushing all her memories and thoughts and regrets inward, but they would not. She felt like she was imploding and bursting into some indefinable pain at once. Her skin felt like frayed silk. Scalding. Glass. Glassy.
A tremor ran through her, from the bottom of her spine through her ribs, her collarbone.
Her shoulders turned inward. She felt as though the twisting in her gut was expanding. Molten expanding glass.
Something overflowing. Something painful and molten and dangerous. A closed vessel in a kiln. Something was going to shatter. Memories became physical, vengeful, beyond destructive. She was trapped, corseted, caged, prisoner beyond sight, thought, and sensation. It all had consumed her, like a forest fire, like a flood. She didn’t want to let it go. She did. She didn’t know what she wanted. She thought about it. She wanted to forget. She wanted to want that. It was dizzying. She shut her eyes more tightly, and tried not to let the room spin or fade or turn fuzzy and then black. She didn’t want it to fade. She wanted the pain to stop. She wasn’t sure what she wanted. She wasn’t sure how thought could be felt physically, like this.
Her shoulders bent inward. Splintering. Her chest was collapsing. Glass. She was suffocating. A tremor, like a wave from her spine through her ribs. The fire was overwhelming. Her vision was red. She saw nothing. She coughed. Twice again.
Her nose stung.
Her throat burned. This was an identifiable pain. An empty pain.
She tasted bitter iron and honey.
Her nose stung. She coughed again.
Very slowly, she took a deep, cool breath. She opened her eyes. It was quiet. The walls and shapes around her were luridly clear.
She felt clean.
Empty. She took a slow breath. Velvet.
She felt fragile.
So insensibly lucid.
Hollow.
Fragile.
It was as if she had woken up from a nightmare. It felt like autumn daybreak, cold, bitingly clear, hollow.
Beautiful but incomplete and vaguely melancholy.
She closed her eyes and bowed her head.
She thought about what she wanted.
She felt…
It felt like drifting.
Like a breeze through an abandoned building.
Desolate, devoid.
And yet it was open. No walls. No prison.
It almost felt like freedom.
Took a deep breath. You might have thought she was praying.
Author notes: This is SUPER-angsty. Love hurts- and I wondered how Ginny would interpret that sort of emotion. I'm pretty sure she wouldn't feel this kind of conflict regarding the (cough, cough) hero. I've always felt that (like Draco) she compartmentalizes a lot of thoughts and feelings, and that she probably internalizes as well (like how, as Harry notices, she almost never cries).
Plus, there are other reasons she might have hang-ups and internal conflict: her first year, being the only girl, youngest-child syndrome...the list goes on and on.
Please review! This developed out of something else, and it is my first venture in D/G. Feedback rocks!!
The End.
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