Fan Fiction ❯ The Words That Move ❯ The Words That Move ( One-Shot )

Sitting alone in her bedroom, clad only in her sleeping wear, a young woman propped a black notebook on her mostly bare thighs as she stared at a blank sheet of paper. Alternately chewing and sucking on an end of an eraser pencil held between her lips, the young woman tapped an end of her pencil against a top corner of the page gently. There was a thoughtful look to her face, a slight narrowing of the eyes and a small frowning of the lips, as she looked at a sheet of writing paper adorned only with its red and blue margin lines.

Occasionally the writing edge of the pencil would be lowered down to the writing area of the page, and start to be pressed into contact with it in preparation of writing something down on it. Before the contact could be made between the two objects, though, she would stop the pencil's moment with a soft sigh and a slow shake of her head in rejection of whatever idea she had just had. And the pencil would return to the top of the paper, start being tapped against the slowly growing gray circle that was the only thing marring the perfectness of the otherwise completely clean sheet of college-ruled paper.

She stared at the sheet for a few more moments in silence, before sighing again as she stopped the rhythmatic beating of pencil against paper. Lowering herself back onto the darkly colored comforter of her bed, her red tank top briefly wrapping her torso up in a tight embrace as she did so, she covered a small black pillow with dark brown strands of hair as she laid her head upon it. Pulling her feet up on her bed, forming an inverted V with her legs as she did so, the back of her notebook touched bare thigh as the short legs of her black boxers slipped down her thighs to puddle around her hips in this new position.

She returned her attention to the notebook being held onto her vertical lap, humming softly to herself around the eraser that was sticking out of a corner of her mouth, staring at the same sheet of paper that she'd been looking at for the past twenty minutes straight. A small smile tugged at her lips as she lifted her pencil to press against the sheet of paper, and started to make the first mark of a letter on it with a slow movement of her hand. A slow movement that came to a sudden stop, with a low growl from clenched teeth as she angrily removed the short mark from existence with her eraser before returning it to its place between her lips.

Now she was glaring at the paper, as if silently claiming it to be responsible for her inability to come up with an idea of any kind. Longing to Belong had, on both her computer (and thus Mediaminer as well), temporarily caught up to what she had written out on paper; yet she had no where else to let the story go at the moment. The direction that she intended for the rest of Arc One of the story to go was all mapped out, an extreme rarity for her, but she couldn't get the next chapter to start in a satisfactory manner.

Dark Revelations had originally been the recipient of her attention when the legacy of Amarra was being troublesome, but that tale was no longer an option since she had admitted something that she had always known on some level: that it was merely a knock-off of Love Struck that didn't measure up to the original in the slightest. A new persona was birthing in the back of her mind, with a story and destiny all of its own, but hadn't fully developed just yet. And this persona, this tainted stalker of the night, was thus unable to start weaving the tale that would be its saga.

To start telling of the triumphs, the tragedies, that would shape and define her life. Her being. That made her who, and what, she is and will make her into what she will be.

Was unable to help its mother in her time of need. When something needed to be expressed, before she exploded like a balloon with too much hydrogen in it, as she feared she would if this nameless something wasn't expressed. But she knew neither what it was that needed to be expressed nor how she could/should express it to best satisfy its overwhelming need to be recognized by others.

"No, that's not true, Tina, and you know it." She muttered to herself, as she closed her eyes with a groan. "You know exactly what's wrong with you, but don't have the slightest clue what to do about it. How to soothe the burning need that scorches you with its consuming want, its devouring need."

Green eyes snapped open, and the pen rose to press itself against the paper one more time. The strokes that it made against the white sheet were fast and savage, with little to no attempt made on her part to keep the results between the horizontal blue lines. And when she had finished, she slammed her feet onto the floor, swung her body up and out of bed, and stalked out of the room with a storm cloud almost visibly thundering above her head.

Negligently tossing both notebook and writing equipment onto her computer desk as she stormed past it on her way out.

The notebook landed partially on top of a tiny square sheet of formal paper and pressing against a small plaque that sat at an otherwise empty corner of the desk. The savagely-written words, visible as that sheet had landed face up, were "Alone; always alone. Sad, always sad. Pain, always in pain, always hurting. Loveless; always loveless. Always wanting, seeking, needing, but never having. Why is the one thing I want the one thing I can't find?"

The formal sheet of paper, a soft beige/pink mixture, was an invitation to a marriage ceremony from a close friend. An offer to be one of the Maids of Honor for the blushing bride. And the plaque had only these words written upon it, in a less violent, more flowing, version of the now gone writer's handwriting:

"The words that move the strong, come merely from a heart that wishes to move itself."

Christina aka The Lady Syllia