Work Text:
Sometimes, Michiru dreams that it may have happened like this:
1.
She stands before a wall of glass (it is cold against her fingertips) and watches the city lights (like stars) in the night. She is safe in the (cold) elegance of her lofty home, where she is (stifled) protected.
(she wants to feel the sea wind in her hair)
Her hair is pulled back (too tightly) into a French braid, and she is dressed (like a doll) by her mother’s tasteful hand (because it is summer). The day has been long (arduous), and filled (to the brim) with mother-daughter bonding moments, going from (one) boutique to (another god damn) boutique. There was a nice café (it felt so good to sit and stop and breathe) around lunchtime and Mother let her tip the valet (he had a sweet smile).
(she wonders if she will ever love this)
She likes looking through the wall of glass (so cold against her palms) because she can see the city lights (coldburning bright) and she is tired (so tired) of seeing herself (does not want to see herself). She dislikes mirrors.
(she wants to do and do and do and act)
2.
She screams (like a banshee) and throws a vase (it was ugly anyway) that shatters against the marble floor (like hearts crumbling to dust to dust to dust) and Michiru doesn’t allow herself to flinch (she is strong).
Her mother (jailer) does not (will not) love her. It is Michiru’s fault (all her) that she looks like her (no good) father.
(she cannot decide if she hates him or loves him)
Mother runs (as she always does), heels clicking smartly (harshly) through the halls, and Michiru watches (contemptuously) as she leaves in a flash of (spite) skirt. Then she calls the maid (thank you, Rita) to clean the mess, and goes to her room (haven) and locks the door (behind her, like a wall).
There is a (much handled) picture of her (lovely) father and herself pinned (carefully) on her vanity mirror.
(she cannot decide)
Michiru sits before the mirror and (is stronger than her mother) is tired.
3.
Michiru does not like (cannot stand) her violin. It is her shackle (escape), and her despair (bittersweet remedy). It makes her mother (pitiful villain) weep in the next room. Michiru hopes that (prays that) the broken will heal (whole).
(she likes to go to boutiques after school)
Michiru cannot arch her wrist enough (yet) to vibrato (and it is like being unable to cry). She tightens the horsehair bow (snaps it taut, like determination) and cradles the violin on her collarbone (above her heart), her chin tucked in against its rest snugly (unlike her soul).
(she sits in cafes to do her homework)
She plays (hard) and hair on her bow snaps (like little gasps of pain), and the notes wail through the air (beautiful but not quite) like a perfect morning. When Michiru stops (like a sudden, small death) she shivers at the silence (Silence) and frowns (the only tangible evidence of her fury).
She would like (desperately) to break her instrument against the wall. She does not.
4.
Michiru wakes (like a ghost) softly. The visions do not make her scream (anymore). Fear and pain and sadness do not make her scream (anymore).
(she is cold and still, like deep ocean)
She gets up, and starts (like a fool) when she sees across the room her reflection (pale and wide eyed and resigned). She throws a sheet across it (in defiance) and leaves her room. She moves to stand (alone) before the glass wall (cold like space) to watch the city lights (like electric star-hopes).
(she is always watching over the city)
There is a reflection (lucid and pale) in the glass (so cold and real) and she turns, sharp, to face it (down). There is no one there (anymore?), but there is a shadow in the hall, and then, nothing (only it is something).
Michiru (grim) chases after it, down the (dark) hall, into her (walled in) room, and the door closes behind her (and there is no escape).
(she thinks that she is going insane)
“You are beautiful,” a voice says, and Michiru is (lost) confused. She strikes out and is caught (like a trembling butterfly) in long brown arms and firm, calloused hands. “Save your strength for another fight. You will need it.”
Michiru does not want to fight (but she does).
There are fingers stripping her (like bark from a tree), and her silk robe is sliding from her pale skin (sliding like silken foam down Aphrodite’s firm curves) and she is pushed back into the bed (slightly rumpled).
“What do you think you’re doing,” she asks (gasps), startled and half-furious.
The voice (warm mist and dark earth and mystery) says, “I am making you forget.”
(she is waiting for oblivion to submerge her)
5.
She dances across the strings (like sunlight on waves).
(there is no weeping in the next room)
She plays for hours, the music swelling (like the ocean’s tide).
(the maid is not cleaning shattered glass)
She leans into the music (like it is a lover).
(there is a photograph framed on her desk)
She rocks her wrist, and the notes vibrate and sing (like singers in an opera).
(the broken has been mended)
She comes home from school, prodigy child, with hair loose and her father’s face, and her mother greets her with a smile and a kiss, and something dark tickles the back of her mind, and Michiru cannot depict what is real, no matter how long she looks in her mirror, chasing the shadows.
In the evening, she goes to the theater and to concerts with her mother, and at night she leans against cold, shining glass to watch the city spread out below her, and in her dreams she has visions of a coming silence and a growing sense of urgency and wakes with a startled cry.
And sometimes, she does not dream visions of the future, but of the past, and that is even more confusing and frightening.
Eventually, though, time moves on, and, for the most part, she does as well.