xvaleant-archive-blog ;   "You’re saying this was an accident?"

Send me one of the following (bruised and battered version):

         _{Sometimes they could be cruel. More cruel than usual anyways, and sometimes they could be more frightening than they usually were. Sometimes emotionless eyes would harden or flare with what she thought was, perhaps, potentially, anger—if they could feel such a thing anyways, feelings were impossible for beings like them, so it could not be anger of all things, but was likely something else entirely—and mouths would turn downwards harshly and teeth would be bared in anger. There were times when it happened, and those were moments where she would feel a constricting in her chest, as if something was trying to choke all of the air out of her lungs, as if something was trying to end her life right there.}

                           _{When those things happened, she oftentimes found
                                herself on the receiving end of something.}

         _{Sitting in that white room on the white bed that she had been told was hers, yet she had trouble accepting that it truly was, she had pulled her knees up to her chest. The coat that she had been given, one identical to all of the others but was white instead of black, as if they still tried to set her apart, still tried to label her as an other, had been discarded the moment she stepped into her room. White boots shoved off and a position obtained on her bed that made her curl up into as small of a ball as possible, though she still sat up.}

                  _{In the end she should have expected the other girl’s presence in her room. The girl who had not had a face but had gained one through taken memories, whose face differed depending on whom was gazing upon her, the girl who the blonde had, in some ways, aided in the creation of. After all, she had destroyed that hero not so long ago, and his memories were used to create her. An essence of him, but one that was not him—not in the way that his Nobody was.}

         _{Every day without fail the girl, the replica, would come into her room after a mission, sometimes with things in tow and sometimes without, and sit with her and tell her about her day. About the things that she saw that the blonde never, would never, get the chance to see, spinning stories of wonderment that made blue eyes brighten. So alike they looked facially but even if no one else thought so, Naminé knew that she and Xion were essentially different. They were not the same.}

         _{But she should have known, should have prepared, should have tried harder to hide the purpling mark around her wrist and the cuts along her arms, along the side of her face. Thorns were terribly sharp, rose petals could be also—but the concern that the other girl showed to her was gentle. As if she were reaching out and touching a cloud, something that made her feel warmer on the inside, yet at the same time cold, and she couldn’t help but say the first excuse that came to her mind.}

                                                      _{”It was an accident.”}

         _{They both knew that it wasn’t, and Xion voiced her disbelief at that statement but still the blonde shook her head and tried to hide her face against her knees, wished that she could disappear from existence. Really it would only be a matter of time before the Organization got rid of her, before she became ultimately useless to them. After all, her only reason for existence was to tamper with Sora’s memories as she put them back together in such a manner that he could, at the very least, function normally. But the young man would never be normal again—he would only be a puppet. Just as she was. Would it not be easier to simply disappear right then and there? The urge was true and real and for a frantic moment she wanted to ask Xion to do it for her but.}

         _{No, she could never do that to the girl. Not when she heard the way she sighed and felt the way she sat down besides her, felt the way that she leaned against her slight body and the way that she let Naminé move her head to fall upon her shoulder and rest there. Xion was solid and she was there and she acknowledged her presence—Roxas did too, he really did but he did not always come to see her—and the blonde would never be able to ask the girl to end her existence. Not when she was the closest thing she had to a friend, there in that large castle.}

                  _{So she whispered, ”Xion…” before growing silent, feeling the stinging of her cuts and the aching of her wrist, but not caring.}

                                                                        _{Not in that moment.}