Seventeen

𝖛. and all that's in between.

Will the residue of death stain her fingers and mouth like a pomegranate? Will it grey and pale until her skin crumbles with the stone cold flesh mounting beneath her skin, or will it bleed with a wine-red, swallow her whole and spit her out? There's so many ways to describe the deaths she'd ought to wish for herself; any way they come or go, she'd take it. She sat on Hermione's bathroom floor, a blade swirling on the tips of her fingers and she spins it like a child's toy; she smiled. Harm was the only thing that stayed constant with Solaris.

She was slipped in between relapse and recovery, half dead, half depressed— she had blamed herself. Over and over and over: thoughts compiled into flashes of centuries, there's no way out for Solaris but down. She was borderline, she either felt nothing or everything, and that blade between her fingers is the only thing that could emit an emotion out of her, either way.

Her skin had become a ragged patchwork, scarlet red dripping onto her ivory gown,

(drip drip drip)

To feel anything is to derange her: she was searching for religion in those hollow halls, begging for a God to save her, biting down on her bitter, blood ridden mouth and she hisses at the metal kissing at her pretty, pale wrists. Is anyone listening? Was a God humming to the tune of her suffering, or was he deafened by the height of her screams? Heaven, help us, but no one's home. God wasn't home, she wasn't either. There's no place after here.

(half dead half depressed)

Unholy tongue begging for a listener, standing still with the blade cutting deep under her skin and revealing a dark entity that falters into her soul. Solaris couldn't remember a thing. Not even herself. She'd stare at mirrors, but never recognise who was looking back. Cradle, caress— save. Was there an option for her, then? Will there be an option one day?

(half empty half full)

She's kneeling in a cathedral and the priest holds a gun to her head: she bleeds, bleeds and bleeds and mumbles a Hail Mary, but no one ever fucking listened, why would this time be any different? She'd be out soon, so she closed her eyes and let the emptiness drown out the voice of a scared Hermione shaking behind the wooden door.

Alohomora.

The sight of Solaris bleeding on her floor was an artist's prettiest accident. Will God still love her when she's bleeding on his angel's white wings? She's never felt this close to him, she could hear Hermione pleading and murmuring a spell to seal her wounds shut and held her tight to her chest. She'd never done that before. Hermione hadn't even dared to look Solaris in the eyes. Not once, but here, she held Solaris and cried. No one had ever cried for Solaris before, and it was selfish to admit, but she'd always wanted to feel important enough to be cried over.

(half empty)

Her mind is a blank canvas with Hermione's tears as the paint, slowly, she's coming back. Hermione holds her, and in this moment, she smiled a true smile. She was a church filled with broken hallelujahs, haunted like every other holy thing, shaking beneath the glare of a God she didn't praise.

(empty)

"Why?"

"It was for you."

Even heaven can't help us now.

"What?" Hermione asked, bewildered. "Solaris, why would you do this to yourself?"

"I have to protect you and the only way to do that is to disappear."

Hermione was the only thing left for her to love, and she had much more to give, although she never truly showed it. Fille Celeste. She wore the smell of blood and the taste of death as a perfume, always lingering in a corner. There's a certain fragment of demise in her eyes, you could tell if you seep deep enough. She has ice in her veins, freezing her flesh and making her face always rest at stoic— but she was burning with the illumination of a million moons, always a mystery but bright enough to notice.

Even heaven can't save us now.

She had a wicked smile she'd flash in the wrongest of times. Smiling while she bled over Hermione's sink, smiling when she'd been banished by her Papa, smiling at her grandma's funeral— the only person who truly gave a fuck? Belladonna and needles gripped her fingertips, heartless chest and golden hair: she's still finding the remains of her chest. She thinks it may be with Hermione. She wore silk dresses, her sister's flower crowns, but she wore her own sadness equally as well.

"Why would you do that to yourself?" Hermione repeated.

"Why wouldn't I?"

God, you have fucking betrayed her. Solaris can't cry anymore because of how much pain she'd felt, and she was tired— oh, was she so fucking tired.

Even heaven can't save us now.