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Jun. 29th, 2014 09:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nomorefeathersTitle: Escape
The flight from His realm is a blur, little more than a blurred impression seemingly endless scrublands with never enough cover to feel safe. Even when she doesn’t have the pressing sensation of being followed she can’t stop, can’t rest. He’ll find her and He’ll drag her back to His realm where the cold and the dark will eat away at her memories until she forgets who she is, until she becomes no better than any of the other twisted playthings scattered around the palace. She has to escape, now when that spark of memory still burns in her heart. So she runs, even as the ground tears at her feet, even as exhaustion gnaws at her bones. The only hope is to run, to keep running, following that vague tug of memory. Even when the land drops away, leaving her scrambling for purchase at the top of an impossibly tall sheer cliff she hesitates only long enough to gather herself. If escape is possible at all, it lies somewhere down there. With a scream that is half defiance and half fear she spreads her arms and launches herself off the edge.
And she falls
And falls
And falls.
They say scent is the strongest sense for triggering memory, and indeed when she makes impact, rolling head over heels and rather painfully into a metal rack, it’s the smells that help her realize where she is. Gone are the scrublands. Gone is the crystal sky with its’ unforgiving white brilliance. Gone is the cold, judgmental moon. Instead she’s surrounded by the smell of sweat and greasepaint. The room is dark but the mingled scents are unmistakable. And as her vision clears from the impact, the spark of memory that has carried her thus far blazes into a full fire. The room may be dark and unfamiliarly silence, but she knows where she is. Its’ the underclassmen dressing room at the Grand Theatre.
She’s home.
The flight from His realm is a blur, little more than a blurred impression seemingly endless scrublands with never enough cover to feel safe. Even when she doesn’t have the pressing sensation of being followed she can’t stop, can’t rest. He’ll find her and He’ll drag her back to His realm where the cold and the dark will eat away at her memories until she forgets who she is, until she becomes no better than any of the other twisted playthings scattered around the palace. She has to escape, now when that spark of memory still burns in her heart. So she runs, even as the ground tears at her feet, even as exhaustion gnaws at her bones. The only hope is to run, to keep running, following that vague tug of memory. Even when the land drops away, leaving her scrambling for purchase at the top of an impossibly tall sheer cliff she hesitates only long enough to gather herself. If escape is possible at all, it lies somewhere down there. With a scream that is half defiance and half fear she spreads her arms and launches herself off the edge.
And she falls
And falls
And falls.
They say scent is the strongest sense for triggering memory, and indeed when she makes impact, rolling head over heels and rather painfully into a metal rack, it’s the smells that help her realize where she is. Gone are the scrublands. Gone is the crystal sky with its’ unforgiving white brilliance. Gone is the cold, judgmental moon. Instead she’s surrounded by the smell of sweat and greasepaint. The room is dark but the mingled scents are unmistakable. And as her vision clears from the impact, the spark of memory that has carried her thus far blazes into a full fire. The room may be dark and unfamiliarly silence, but she knows where she is. Its’ the underclassmen dressing room at the Grand Theatre.
She’s home.