Post by Magda on Apr 13, 2010 21:00:33 GMT -5
It was dawn, and Magda could smell it a mile off.
She sprinted up the incline to Sangue Point, laughing like a lunatic. Her naked feet barely even touched the tarmac before lifting her off again. It felt like she was flying, quite honestly flying through the air, footsteps whipping at the ground. Her vision was a blur, spinning out of control. Long raven hair streamed out behind her like some sombre black funeral banner. Her head was light, her heart heavy.
It’s often been assumed that the concept of Magda and emotion do not go hand in hand, and it’s true that Magda doesn’t regularly put on large displays of emotion unless it’s anger, hate, or sarcasm. But that’s not to say that she’s some heartless bitch who wouldn’t even spare you the ice chipped off her heart even if she could find it.
But Magda was alone, cold, and emotional, and she was free to do as she wished.
War had... kind of fucked her life up. Royally. She was plunged into it when she was just sixteen, and the word ‘plunged’ is really the right word here. It felt like someone had grabbed her round the back of the neck and forced her head into a barrel of ice-cold water as if it was some form of torture. Then a few years later when she’d just become acquainted to living in an everlasting war zone, there was peace and true civilisation... for seventeen years. Then war comes crashing back like a tsunami of death and destruction, and y’know what? Once you got over the death and destruction part, it wasn’t all that bad.
Actually, do you know what it reminded Magda of? It reminded her of those lost teenage years, and it made her feel sixteen all over again, even though at the same time she’d never felt so fucking old. No, really. She was... what? Thirty-six, thirty-seven? – Lord knows she’d lost count by now – and she felt the way some of those old people look. With their wispy, thinning hair and crêpe paper-like skin, reminiscing about how things were better ‘back in the day’ and wishing they were back in their prime again. Hell, Magda had been there and done that, and she didn’t look a day over twenty-five. Magda was a woman who seemed to speak with a quiet exhaustion behind her voice, life enthusiasm thinned by a short lifetime of seeing all the wrong things. She was world-weary. She was fucking through with remembering. Screw that shit. It’s old news. Move on.
Y’know what she felt like doing sometimes? Storming into a bloodstained, dusty pub, and drinking whatever remnants she could sniff out. Being a good-for-nothing adolescent all over again. But these days were few and far between, and decent alcohol was becoming increasingly hard to find. Most days you had to settle with some crap that tasted of cat piss and vinegar. And while it was almost sad to see a woman in her thirties living out her teenage years, you could almost forgive her for it. She was a different woman, she told herself, and this kind of epiphany doesn’t happen every day. As far as Magda was concerned, in a world where laws were dust and order was dead, she was entitled to do whatever she damn well pleased.
This feeling was indescribable. It was happiness, anger, freedom, grief, all tangled up in one messy, unadulterated ball of chaos that pulsed with her heart and flooded every last part of her body. It was spite, joy, malice, and determination. She wanted to carve shapes into stone to make it worthwhile. She wanted to cry for the next millennium of her everlasting life. She wanted to sit in silence for a year if only to accentuate the force behind her scream.
Well, she didn’t have a year to wait in silence. But she had a cliff top, a sunrise breaking over a fresh and dewy horizon, and a silent city. The only thing missing was the scream, so she added it.
She sprinted up the incline to Sangue Point, laughing like a lunatic. Her naked feet barely even touched the tarmac before lifting her off again. It felt like she was flying, quite honestly flying through the air, footsteps whipping at the ground. Her vision was a blur, spinning out of control. Long raven hair streamed out behind her like some sombre black funeral banner. Her head was light, her heart heavy.
It’s often been assumed that the concept of Magda and emotion do not go hand in hand, and it’s true that Magda doesn’t regularly put on large displays of emotion unless it’s anger, hate, or sarcasm. But that’s not to say that she’s some heartless bitch who wouldn’t even spare you the ice chipped off her heart even if she could find it.
But Magda was alone, cold, and emotional, and she was free to do as she wished.
War had... kind of fucked her life up. Royally. She was plunged into it when she was just sixteen, and the word ‘plunged’ is really the right word here. It felt like someone had grabbed her round the back of the neck and forced her head into a barrel of ice-cold water as if it was some form of torture. Then a few years later when she’d just become acquainted to living in an everlasting war zone, there was peace and true civilisation... for seventeen years. Then war comes crashing back like a tsunami of death and destruction, and y’know what? Once you got over the death and destruction part, it wasn’t all that bad.
Actually, do you know what it reminded Magda of? It reminded her of those lost teenage years, and it made her feel sixteen all over again, even though at the same time she’d never felt so fucking old. No, really. She was... what? Thirty-six, thirty-seven? – Lord knows she’d lost count by now – and she felt the way some of those old people look. With their wispy, thinning hair and crêpe paper-like skin, reminiscing about how things were better ‘back in the day’ and wishing they were back in their prime again. Hell, Magda had been there and done that, and she didn’t look a day over twenty-five. Magda was a woman who seemed to speak with a quiet exhaustion behind her voice, life enthusiasm thinned by a short lifetime of seeing all the wrong things. She was world-weary. She was fucking through with remembering. Screw that shit. It’s old news. Move on.
Y’know what she felt like doing sometimes? Storming into a bloodstained, dusty pub, and drinking whatever remnants she could sniff out. Being a good-for-nothing adolescent all over again. But these days were few and far between, and decent alcohol was becoming increasingly hard to find. Most days you had to settle with some crap that tasted of cat piss and vinegar. And while it was almost sad to see a woman in her thirties living out her teenage years, you could almost forgive her for it. She was a different woman, she told herself, and this kind of epiphany doesn’t happen every day. As far as Magda was concerned, in a world where laws were dust and order was dead, she was entitled to do whatever she damn well pleased.
This feeling was indescribable. It was happiness, anger, freedom, grief, all tangled up in one messy, unadulterated ball of chaos that pulsed with her heart and flooded every last part of her body. It was spite, joy, malice, and determination. She wanted to carve shapes into stone to make it worthwhile. She wanted to cry for the next millennium of her everlasting life. She wanted to sit in silence for a year if only to accentuate the force behind her scream.
Well, she didn’t have a year to wait in silence. But she had a cliff top, a sunrise breaking over a fresh and dewy horizon, and a silent city. The only thing missing was the scream, so she added it.