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writetomyheart2015-10-17 11:31 pm
bluedreaming) wrote in writetomyheart2015-10-17 11:31 pm
[team sonic] in your mouth
First words from Harry Potter and the Champagne of Secrets.
Title from Sweet Nothing feat. Florence Welch by Calvin Harris.
"Very witty," the teacher says, passing Yixuan's report back. There's a big red A+ on the top of the paper, but it feels like he's gotten an F, with the way the teacher is looking at him, the side-long glances of the students, the way his fingers tremble as he tucks the paper into his bag, the crumple of paper as he crunches it into the bottom.
He can picture his father's face already.
"You think you're so much better than us, don't you?" he'll say, alcohol on his breath, his fists hanging heavy, grazing the surface of the table. His mother will only look, with huge eyes, and she won't say anything at all.
The bruises, like purple flowers unfolding into black then green, say everything that needs to be said.
"The tall blades of grass get chopped down by the mower," someone once said, in a book Yixuan read before he learned to be careful, to only learn enough. But he still slips up sometimes, the burn lingering in his chest, the ache of broken ribs that never quite heal.
"You think you'll get out of here?" a boy sneers, his face ugly under the streetlights, dark and shadow clinging to his skin. "You're just one of us. Don't bother dreaming." He works the reminder into the skin of Yixuan's face, knuckles tattooing a message into his skin.
The words in his ears taste like blood, the rust spilling over his tongue, the beginning of rot. Be quiet, he tells himself, just duck your head and eventually the blows will stop.
Until they kill you, he thinks, and somehow he's standing up and punching back without even realizing it. It's almost too easy, mirroring the blows, and Yixuan is frightened.
This isn't me.
So when he sees the sign for space cadets, his eyes skim over the address which he commits to memory as his feet lead him onwards, away from everything else left.
Title from Sweet Nothing feat. Florence Welch by Calvin Harris.
"Very witty," the teacher says, passing Yixuan's report back. There's a big red A+ on the top of the paper, but it feels like he's gotten an F, with the way the teacher is looking at him, the side-long glances of the students, the way his fingers tremble as he tucks the paper into his bag, the crumple of paper as he crunches it into the bottom.
He can picture his father's face already.
"You think you're so much better than us, don't you?" he'll say, alcohol on his breath, his fists hanging heavy, grazing the surface of the table. His mother will only look, with huge eyes, and she won't say anything at all.
The bruises, like purple flowers unfolding into black then green, say everything that needs to be said.
"The tall blades of grass get chopped down by the mower," someone once said, in a book Yixuan read before he learned to be careful, to only learn enough. But he still slips up sometimes, the burn lingering in his chest, the ache of broken ribs that never quite heal.
"You think you'll get out of here?" a boy sneers, his face ugly under the streetlights, dark and shadow clinging to his skin. "You're just one of us. Don't bother dreaming." He works the reminder into the skin of Yixuan's face, knuckles tattooing a message into his skin.
The words in his ears taste like blood, the rust spilling over his tongue, the beginning of rot. Be quiet, he tells himself, just duck your head and eventually the blows will stop.
Until they kill you, he thinks, and somehow he's standing up and punching back without even realizing it. It's almost too easy, mirroring the blows, and Yixuan is frightened.
This isn't me.
So when he sees the sign for space cadets, his eyes skim over the address which he commits to memory as his feet lead him onwards, away from everything else left.