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Angular Cuts by patronus_charm
Chapter 1 : Angular Cuts
 
Rating: 15+Chapter Reviews: 19


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Her chin is an angular one; even the flicks of brown hair which hang in front of it donít hide the pointedness of it. She has tried many things to hide it, but nothing will. Nothing will hide the scar. The jagged, angular cut.

She notes, looking at her body, that everything is angular. Pointed. Jagged. The ends of her have been chipped away even more since the war, each sign telling their story. The one on her chin, that doesnít have a great one. It was a trip. A fall. Nothing more. Nothing less. Much like her really, the wilted flower, the poor Pansy.

She used to try and embellish the story, make something special of it. She still doesnít really know why. She reckons she never will. She wonít want to know. The paper chains which attach her to a purpose, a need, are quickly ripped apart when they reach the prickly centre, making her lose meaning. It tears it to pieces, shredding it to nothing.

Her hand is raised, and she can see the bone beginning to protrude from it. Another sign of her angular form. Her nails are chipped and torn from the nerve induced nibbles. Hiding doesnít suit her, she realises. Pansy knows she has never liked being on her own though. She needs to be in the crowd, amongst the masses, with her voice radiating out over them and admiration pouring upon her.

Not here. Not alone. Not waiting. Waiting for what though? To hear from the mother who fled as soon as she heard of the Dark Lordís defeat? To hear about her fatherís release from Azkaban? To hear that Draco has magically fallen in love with her and is going to whisk her away?

Pansy lets out a small laugh before pulling a cigarette from her pocket, placing it in her hand and lighting it. She lets out a small cough as she drags on it, still unused to this strange Muggle thing. It's the only thing which makes her feel numb to the world, of the memories, of feeling anything really.

Pansy knows she always runs from her problems, deciding that creating them for others is a better alternative, and now sheís doing it again. Blocking them out. Repressing them. Not solving them.

The fabric of the robe she wears has frayed at the end. The little threads of cotton have become interwoven with one another creating something similar to the state of her hair, the nest for birds. She doesnít care about her looks. No one sees her, even if they did, they wouldnít care. No one cares about her. She has simply vanished without a trace.

For months now, she has whiled away her days in this house, her family home. Waiting for the moment. What will happen at the moment she is still unsure of it, but she knows she will know when it will happen. Then everything will be alright, or so she hopes.

The cigarette is extinguished in a small silver ashtray; the ends of the previous ones have already grown high in number, causing small trails of grey to seep over the tin lid. Pansy doesnít clean it up; she rather likes the effect of it. She thinks it makes her look like a rebel. No longer the brattish one, the loud one, the traitor one, but the rebel one. She likes that idea a lot Ė itís a new role to play.

To enhance the image, she picks up a small black tube, twists the lid and smears the crimson stick against her lips. Her mother always used to tell her off for that, calling her a whore if she did do it, saying that she would never find a respectable husband. For each smear of it, she laughs at her mother and at herself. How naÔve she was to believe her motherís cries, how naÔve her own mother was.

Her mother always had a love for dramatics; Pansy developed her own love for it from her. At times, she wonders whether her life is an act, a play, a scene laid out for others to enjoy while she can hide from herself. Her whole life had been on the stage and to be removed from the world has left her unsure. Did she want to be a rebel? Did she want to be here? Did she want anything?

The only thing she is sure of is that she wants to annoy her mother. She swiftly ignores the cries in her head saying this is done only for revenge for her mother leaving, and continues on with her plans by placing the lipstick on her cluttered table and searching for the next incriminating item. The eyeliner. Once found, that, too, is applied liberally. The wiggly lines are meant to make her look like mysterious, like Cleopatra maybe, but when Pansy catches her reflection in the mirror she realises sheís far from it. Squiggles of colour line her face making the angular cut of it less prominent for once. She realises she looks like a child playing with makeup. Well, thatís what she is, she thinks.

A child playing with life, a child playing with playing. All her actions have been without cause or reason; they were just a game. A game which has to end now she acknowledges the truth of it all. The truth she still tries to deny.

She doesnít want to admit it, but now, she canít avoid it. She doesnít know what sheís waiting for, she doesnít know whose attention sheís seeking, she doesnít know whoís coming for her. She doesnít know if anyone will. None of those roles she played brought her the thing she wants, but then, she doesn't really know what she wants or who she is. She doesn't know who will save her. She doesn't know if anything can save her with everyone and thing now gone.

The one thing she knows, however, is that waiting won't help any more. No one will come for her. Not her mother, not her father, not Draco. She knows that the only thing that the cigarettes and the make-up are hiding her from is the person most unknown to her, herself. Nothing more. Nothing less.

No dramatics will save her from that.

The jagged edges of her body have met and caused her to cave inwards. Everything is coming together. The tears cause the kohl to run down from her face and mix with the red of her lips to form a scarlet hue. They merge together like her fears do, congealing. She is unable to run from them now. Unable to create a new shield to protect herself.

Her angular cuts have now been smoothed down by everything seeping out, but she still avoids looking at her reflection. She doesn't want to acknowledge what she is, the failure; the one role she knows she can play.


Author's Note: I never meant for Pansy to come out so confused but I was half-asleep when writing this so it probably didn't help! I hoped you enjoyed reading it, and I would love to hear your thoughts on it! Thanks for reading! ♥




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