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15minuteficlets // Prompt word: mediocre // “The Taste of Victory”
Jan. 9th, 2007 01:15 pmkatiefooleryI’m in a very cranky-pants mood today and for no good reason. I think that might show a bit in this week’s ficlet. It was a lot of fun to write, although I do worry about what the main character in this might end up doing in her future. Her bad temper is based on mine, but mine never got quite as out of hand as hers does.
Since I managed to write about the reaction to the prompt word and haven’t actually included it in the ficlet, I will give triple bonus points to anyone who can guess it. And maybe a reward in icon form, if you’d like.
Guessed by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rilla06 here.
Title: The Taste of Victory
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG13 (language)
Word count: 879 - O.o 879 words?? I had to triple check that but it turns out WordPerfect wasn't lying to me.
Prompt word: mediocre
My head’s on the desk, but don’t let that fool you. I’m not giving in. I’m not submitting. I’m not weak, upset, defenceless or defensive.
I’m angry. So angry that I can’t even find the words to properly express myself. So angry that I’ve almost stopped being angry at all.
I’ve become anger.
How dare she say that to me? How dare she even open her mouth to me? What does she think she is?
I’ll tell her what she is in words she’ll understand. And my fists will be my punctuation. And the story of herself will end when she’s too blinded by pain to comprehend anything more.
Don’t worry about me, seriously. I’ve been this way before. I have a short temper but my leash on it is strong. I just need to sit here for a while, with my head on my desk, contemplating everything that’s wrong with everyone else. Grinding my teeth. Panting with rage.
I’ve been here before. Many times. You should have seen me as a kid. Gods! Something... no, that’s wrong. Usually it’s someone who sets me off. Someone who says the wrong thing. Someone who just can’t keep their mouth shut, especially when they know exactly what will set me off.
Now, I just sit here with my head on the desk, quietly fantasising about beating someone to a bloody pulp. When I was a kid, I screamed. Screamed things I’d never dare say otherwise and screamed them so loudly that people in the next neighbourhood must have wondered who was being killed and when they’d shut-up about it. And once the screaming was done, I’d sit in a corner somewhere and I’d fume.
Sometimes I’d break things too, although I stopped that when I broke my wrist in the process of punching my door.
I’m clenching my hands against the desk now, mostly because I think I’m remembered how good it felt to take my anger out on things that couldn’t feel it. Yeah, it hurt me a lot sometimes. And I think I liked that pain. It went so well with my anger; fury surging through my blood and pain singing through my nerves - a perfect harmony. I haven’t felt this need to break things for a long time.
But she shouldn’t have said it. She really shouldn’t have said it. And she shouldn’t have looked at me like that as she did, as though she knew exactly what her words were doing to me. But of course she knew.
Damn. Just broke a pen. I think it was one I really liked, too. I’m not going to look now but I can feel the sticky tepid moisture of ink all over my right hand. A bit like blood, really.
“Christa?”
Oh, wonderful. She’s here. I’m not surprised, don’t get me wrong. I knew she’d come in eventually. She likes to gloat because she can do it so well when she hides it under the mask of honest concern.
“Are you OK, Christa?”
No. You’re too close to me to be OK.
“I’m sorry if what I said upset you.”
The ink’s dripping to the floor now, making a dark patch on the worn-out corporate carpet. Like when I broke my wrist and mum yelled at me for getting blood all over the nice new carpet. (Don’t judge her by that, though. She was hugging me fiercely at the time and yelling at dad to ring for an ambulance. She just needed to distract herself from her panic.)
“Can I get you anything?”
Does she really expect me to say anything to her? To respond? I know what you’re like, you bitch. I don’t play your stupid game.
“Christa?” I can hear her moving a bit and then the sounds of some tissues being ripped out of a box. “Do you want a tissue?”
No, because I’m not fucking crying. Bitch!
I bet she’s looking concerned, too. Biting her lower lip in worry. Shading her eyes with gentle consideration when she’s secretly crowing her victory inside.
She thinks she’s consolidating her victory, but really she’s just stoking the fires of my anger. And she seals her fate when she stands up quietly and goes to the door. “I’m just going to shut the door on us, OK? Give you a little privacy.”
I move quicker than I could have dreamed. My mug of coffee is airborne before she even turns from pushing the door shut and it hits her right in the chest, shatteirng in shards of ceramics and showering her flimsy dress with steaming hot coffee.
Because I always need coffee when I’m fuming in anger.
She utters a short, sharp sort of noise before falling to the floor, whimpering in pain. I look at the stain of coffee on her chest and almost wish it was blood. I walk over to her, smiling at the way her emotions are now revealed plainly in her eyes. Pain. Disbelief. Fear.
“Never,” I hiss at her, “never call me that again.”
She whimpers and manages to nod as her hands tear uselessly at her dress, trying to get the steaming hot spill of coffee off her skin.
“And stop dripping coffee on my carpet,” I say as I step over her.
Comments and feedback are most appreciated. :D
Since I managed to write about the reaction to the prompt word and haven’t actually included it in the ficlet, I will give triple bonus points to anyone who can guess it. And maybe a reward in icon form, if you’d like.
Guessed by
rilla06 here. Title: The Taste of Victory
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG13 (language)
Word count: 879 - O.o 879 words?? I had to triple check that but it turns out WordPerfect wasn't lying to me.
Prompt word: mediocre
My head’s on the desk, but don’t let that fool you. I’m not giving in. I’m not submitting. I’m not weak, upset, defenceless or defensive.
I’m angry. So angry that I can’t even find the words to properly express myself. So angry that I’ve almost stopped being angry at all.
I’ve become anger.
How dare she say that to me? How dare she even open her mouth to me? What does she think she is?
I’ll tell her what she is in words she’ll understand. And my fists will be my punctuation. And the story of herself will end when she’s too blinded by pain to comprehend anything more.
Don’t worry about me, seriously. I’ve been this way before. I have a short temper but my leash on it is strong. I just need to sit here for a while, with my head on my desk, contemplating everything that’s wrong with everyone else. Grinding my teeth. Panting with rage.
I’ve been here before. Many times. You should have seen me as a kid. Gods! Something... no, that’s wrong. Usually it’s someone who sets me off. Someone who says the wrong thing. Someone who just can’t keep their mouth shut, especially when they know exactly what will set me off.
Now, I just sit here with my head on the desk, quietly fantasising about beating someone to a bloody pulp. When I was a kid, I screamed. Screamed things I’d never dare say otherwise and screamed them so loudly that people in the next neighbourhood must have wondered who was being killed and when they’d shut-up about it. And once the screaming was done, I’d sit in a corner somewhere and I’d fume.
Sometimes I’d break things too, although I stopped that when I broke my wrist in the process of punching my door.
I’m clenching my hands against the desk now, mostly because I think I’m remembered how good it felt to take my anger out on things that couldn’t feel it. Yeah, it hurt me a lot sometimes. And I think I liked that pain. It went so well with my anger; fury surging through my blood and pain singing through my nerves - a perfect harmony. I haven’t felt this need to break things for a long time.
But she shouldn’t have said it. She really shouldn’t have said it. And she shouldn’t have looked at me like that as she did, as though she knew exactly what her words were doing to me. But of course she knew.
Damn. Just broke a pen. I think it was one I really liked, too. I’m not going to look now but I can feel the sticky tepid moisture of ink all over my right hand. A bit like blood, really.
“Christa?”
Oh, wonderful. She’s here. I’m not surprised, don’t get me wrong. I knew she’d come in eventually. She likes to gloat because she can do it so well when she hides it under the mask of honest concern.
“Are you OK, Christa?”
No. You’re too close to me to be OK.
“I’m sorry if what I said upset you.”
The ink’s dripping to the floor now, making a dark patch on the worn-out corporate carpet. Like when I broke my wrist and mum yelled at me for getting blood all over the nice new carpet. (Don’t judge her by that, though. She was hugging me fiercely at the time and yelling at dad to ring for an ambulance. She just needed to distract herself from her panic.)
“Can I get you anything?”
Does she really expect me to say anything to her? To respond? I know what you’re like, you bitch. I don’t play your stupid game.
“Christa?” I can hear her moving a bit and then the sounds of some tissues being ripped out of a box. “Do you want a tissue?”
No, because I’m not fucking crying. Bitch!
I bet she’s looking concerned, too. Biting her lower lip in worry. Shading her eyes with gentle consideration when she’s secretly crowing her victory inside.
She thinks she’s consolidating her victory, but really she’s just stoking the fires of my anger. And she seals her fate when she stands up quietly and goes to the door. “I’m just going to shut the door on us, OK? Give you a little privacy.”
I move quicker than I could have dreamed. My mug of coffee is airborne before she even turns from pushing the door shut and it hits her right in the chest, shatteirng in shards of ceramics and showering her flimsy dress with steaming hot coffee.
Because I always need coffee when I’m fuming in anger.
She utters a short, sharp sort of noise before falling to the floor, whimpering in pain. I look at the stain of coffee on her chest and almost wish it was blood. I walk over to her, smiling at the way her emotions are now revealed plainly in her eyes. Pain. Disbelief. Fear.
“Never,” I hiss at her, “never call me that again.”
She whimpers and manages to nod as her hands tear uselessly at her dress, trying to get the steaming hot spill of coffee off her skin.
“And stop dripping coffee on my carpet,” I say as I step over her.
Comments and feedback are most appreciated. :D
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no subject
on 2007-01-09 02:57 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2007-01-09 09:02 pm (UTC)