Transformation

docholligay:

Hi hello hi. I am trying to do a few quick writes each week for October, going off this list from @horrificmemes. I hope you like them! I’ll try to tag all of them with #october quick writes and we’ll see how I do! This is 520 words. 

It’s beautiful, isn’t it?

In all the art and stories and television shows, the princess of old coming out of the simple and young girl, and the flames dance around her, and the sea rises next to her, and the force of it creates a delicate spiderweb on the screen, and the music is so very compelling and thrilling,  encouraging her on as she turns into the powerful creature she was always meant to be.

The liberties creatives take with such concepts is to be expected and forgiven, I suppose.

I could not describe to you the beauty or elegance of the action, any more than I possess the gift to turn war into a ballet, as some writers do. No, blood spatter has never made a delicate lace on mine or anyone else’s skin, and the pounding throb of my heart was never a drum urging me onward, or anything but a reminder that I was frightened, and that there was so much yet that I wished for in life.

But it seems a constant obsession, this transformation, how a girl is made into a warrior, nattily attired, her hair elegantly coiffed, power at the edges of her fingertips and at the ready.

And so, I will tell you. I will tell you how it is, when first you take the transformation rod and feel the heat of it against you palm, how it burns a mark there, for you are property now, and it is a brand.

It vibrates against you, and then through you, with power, and you think to yourself how silly it is that it glitters in the light as if it were a children’s toy. As if it were harmless. It is the act of pouring bleach into a juicebox, this creation.

When you call the words that bring her forth, you feel a rage awaken inside you. It is nothing that comes from you, and yet it has never been apart from you, for she has been sleeping, she has been waiting, and she is hungry.

The flames lick at your flesh, and they expose her, waiting beneath. She drowns you, and you feel the saltwater in your lungs, the way it bubbles and fights and destroys, bursting them and every word you have ever had to give on the subject. The force ricochets through your body, and she finally tears her way through the top of you, ripping you apart and splaying your body as if it were a banana peel, and just as worthy of concern.

She laughs as you cry out against it. The only words she will permit you say, in that moment, in the brief grey darkness where the vessel you both inhabit is more she than you, are the words she has whispered to herself from the beginning. Those words that call upon her planet. The words she whispered to you as a baby, both curse and lullaby.

You stand, looking through the eyes of a creature that both is and is not yourself, and never more clearly have you understood what it is to be possessed.