Just as the title says. I'm trying something alittle different that involves the use of symbolism.Problem is, though, that I'm too busy connecting all the dots to read this fic from the readers point of view.
What I need to know are the following:
a) what do you think the ballerina represents
b) what message do you think the fic is presenting
and...
c) how well it flows
Please bear in mind that this is a rough draft and the substitutions of "he" and "she" are on purpose. I don't use the characters names in the fic.
Warning: This is Rated NC-17!
~^tda^~
Disclaimer: I do not own Trigun. I?m not getting paid for this. Oh, yeah. I also don?t own the rights to the song ?Slept So Long? by Jay Gordon of Orgy.
I hate you
I see hell in your eyes
Taken in by surprise
Touching you make me feel alive
Touching you make me die inside
-Jay Gordon of Orgy
A ballerina stared at her with a wide painted smile. She glared back from a pile of paperwork. That figurine was laughing at her. She could tell.
She shook her head, reminding herself that the thought was illogical. The damned figurine was not mocking her. It was not making some snide comment about her obsessive need to work. The perfect ballerina was not snickering at the amount of blank forms that lay on her desk demanding to be filled in. Nor did it point out that she had the week off.
The ballerina smiled.
The music box had been given to her by her mother as a gift. Rare and completely frivolous. But she kept it. When she played it, the petite, graceful ballerina spun on its pointed toes, dancing to the sickeningly sweet melody. She hated that music. But she kept it anyway.
Forcing her gaze away from the purple dress and the wide grin, she stared out the hotel window. The night had brought with it a chill so the window was shut tight. She saw the faint reflection of herself in the glass; saw the gray work outfit hanging in the small closet.
She stood up from the make-shift workstation and stretched. The over-sized shirt she used as night-clothing rose a few inches above her knees. The buttons brushed against her skin as her extended over her head. They froze there for a second when she heard it. The rattle of a knob, the slide of the lock.
She dove to the closet without thought. Slender hands enclosed over cold metal instinctively. There was no such thing as being too cautious.
?Do you honestly think that two derringers can actually do much damage to me??
Familiarity came with the voice. Her grip on the guns didn?t loosen though. ?They might buy me some time.?
The shadow cocked his head. ?To scream, perhaps.?
In a move to fast for her to counter, he was in front of her. His hands enclosed around her wrists in a harsh grip, holding her arms to her side. His mouth hovered inches from hers. She knew he wouldn?t kiss her though. He never did. ?Scream.?
She glanced away, stared at the gloating ballerina instead.
The grasp on her wrists tightened painfully. He forced her closer, so that her small frame barely touched the contours of his tall one. ?Scream,? he repeated.
And she did.
I hate you.
She did as the buttons of her two-sizes-too-big shirt popped. She muffled the cries a bit as he moved in her. Bit her lip as she responded. As she urged him on.
As she closed her eyes so that she didn?t see the painted grin of certain ballerina.
Touching you makes me feel alive.
She used him; used him for something his brother couldn?t give because he was saw someone else when he looked at her.
He used her. Whether it was some twisted sort of revenge or some way to taint the image of a dead woman both brothers saw in her, she wasn?t sure. Maybe he would decide one night to send a bullet through her head and end it. Leave her body for his brother to find on one sky blue morning.
He fucked her hard and she reveled in the power of his hips. Reveled in the bittersweet pleasure that washed over her. Her hands stole around his neck and she felt the familiar slight stiffening in him she felt every time she willingly touched him.
Touching you makes me die inside.
She wasn?t surprised when cold steel kissed her forehead, grazed down the bridge of her nose and settled on her lips. She didn?t start at the sudden pressure of a gun against her firmly shut lips. She tasted copper as her lip split.
?Humans are such nonsensical creatures,? he said, with a touch of scorn. ?You struggle to live even though you know your life means nothing.?
She said nothing. Where the hell had she dropped her derringers?
He was still inside her. ?You are unhappy. You should be begging me to end it.?
?I?m not unhappy,? she said, her words muffled by the gun.
He gave her a disgusted look, as if he should have known she would lie. The pressure of the gun lifted and she reflexively licked the wound with a sweep of her tongue. She saw his eyes follow the movement. Saw the anger that reared its head and tightened the edges of his eyes when he caught himself staring.
She flinched when the gun came back to her mouth. Trembled when the gun grazed the lingering blood on her lips.
Then her shadowed lover was gone.
The shaking didn?t stop though. It shook her hands as she found one of the derringers and aimed a shot at the head of the ballerina. The bullet broke the legs of the ballerina.
The ballerina with broken legs smiled up at her.
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So? Too metaphorical? Too disjointed?
This is in need of an AU label, no?