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intheheartTitle: Roses
Rating: R
Summary: Maya goes to sleep.
Warnings: Rape.
Notes: This is based off some of the more, um, rapey of the Sleeping Beauty myths, so please, be careful when reading. I love you and do not want you to be unhappy.
She calls the brambles up to cover her, to wash like a tide over her body and hide her. Buds bloom when they touch her skin.
--
It's not her fault. They say it's not her fault. She was a baby, she was asleep, how could she know? But she sees the way her parents and her sisters look at her. It is her fault, was her fault, will be her fault. And the roses that come when she calls are just another sign.
--
She likes the way the flowers feel, smooth and velvet like a baby's cheek. She is carrying a baby now, swelling in her womb like a canker in a rose.
--
It is her fault when the spindle slips and stabs into her finger. She remembers feeling only relief. They told her all her life that this would happen: now it had, and there was nothing left to await, nothing left to fear.
--
There is so much more left to fear.
--
It was not her fault when the man slipped and stabbed into her. She was asleep, enchanted, an object, a prize. She does not remember it; she only knows it must have happened, because she woke and her body was not her own, colonized, stolen. It was not her fault. It was not her fault. It was not her fault.
--
It was her fault.
--
Her family thinks that, anyway. They do not speak it. They only think it. They only avoid her. They only hate her, pity her, try to make her better. And she has had enough of that.
--
She pulls the briars over her body like a blanket, like a veil. They twine around her, affectionate as no one has been in years. They cover her legs, her occupied belly, her small, sore breasts. They will protect her, the roses, as they bloom against her cheek and beneath her head. They will guard her as she sleeps.
--
At least her roses love her.
Rating: R
Summary: Maya goes to sleep.
Warnings: Rape.
Notes: This is based off some of the more, um, rapey of the Sleeping Beauty myths, so please, be careful when reading. I love you and do not want you to be unhappy.
She calls the brambles up to cover her, to wash like a tide over her body and hide her. Buds bloom when they touch her skin.
--
It's not her fault. They say it's not her fault. She was a baby, she was asleep, how could she know? But she sees the way her parents and her sisters look at her. It is her fault, was her fault, will be her fault. And the roses that come when she calls are just another sign.
--
She likes the way the flowers feel, smooth and velvet like a baby's cheek. She is carrying a baby now, swelling in her womb like a canker in a rose.
--
It is her fault when the spindle slips and stabs into her finger. She remembers feeling only relief. They told her all her life that this would happen: now it had, and there was nothing left to await, nothing left to fear.
--
There is so much more left to fear.
--
It was not her fault when the man slipped and stabbed into her. She was asleep, enchanted, an object, a prize. She does not remember it; she only knows it must have happened, because she woke and her body was not her own, colonized, stolen. It was not her fault. It was not her fault. It was not her fault.
--
It was her fault.
--
Her family thinks that, anyway. They do not speak it. They only think it. They only avoid her. They only hate her, pity her, try to make her better. And she has had enough of that.
--
She pulls the briars over her body like a blanket, like a veil. They twine around her, affectionate as no one has been in years. They cover her legs, her occupied belly, her small, sore breasts. They will protect her, the roses, as they bloom against her cheek and beneath her head. They will guard her as she sleeps.
--
At least her roses love her.
