Dear Ladyverse: Fuck you.

[nagia]

When Yuffie was a little girl, she dreamed of the flickering light-and-shadow play of fires, of soldiers with guns and SOLDIERs with swords.  Of blood splattering on her mother's face, of the blood-red carmine glow of Leviathan's Materia.  In the dreams that sent a baby ninja running first to her father and then to Chekhov, red and gold paint darkened to brown from the soot of all the fires, while her mother tripped over people who had fallen in hallways and doorways and the streets.

Eventually, her nightmares changed.  They filled with friends who turned into monsters, skies every bit as red as her mother's blood, a comet larger than the moon, hanging in midair as if suspended from an invisible string.  A slim Wutaian-style sword the size of a grown man.  Flowers blooming in broken floorboards, pink cloth sinking beneath pale water, blood blossoming like a red cloud in a clear lake.

Last night, she dreamt of sirens and lights, of clean white hospitals that smelled at once like stale bleach and sour dust, of stitches along high cheekbones and beautiful bonecrushing hands that tensed and then went
limp.  She dreamt of long mahogany hair being shorn for surgery, of
hair the color of cherry wood and the fine, silken texture of cornsilk
being braided into a fishtail by olive gold fingers that trembled, ever
so faintly, as they wove.

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This damned thing wants to be a lyrical piece of pseudo-literature, when I wanted it to be a romcom.  Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.

Comments

[novel_machinist]

that is how these things work. :<