![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: Memories
Author/Artist: GW Katrina aka![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
icedark_elf
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII: PuppetKitty
Pairing/Character: PuppetKitty
Theme: 15-Dip for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-syndicated.gif)
25_streetsigns
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 398
Disclaimer: FFVII isn't mine, and the concept of PuppetKitty belongs topegunicent, written cause she promised me Itachi/Zack for it. *nods*
Memories
He’s alone. He doesn’t like to be alone. Alone is cold and there is no warm thing to nestle next to.
Fingers prod at him, fingers and sharp things. He doesn’t like the sharp things. His eyes aren’t even open yet, and he already knows that the sharp things are bad. Sharp things mean he can’t cuddle against the warmth. That the nasty stuff is coming up.
All his memories are like this. From the first time he was not happy, was cold and wet, and had just felt the brush of a mother’s tongue once, he was stabbed with a sharp thing and could feel something under his skin. Large, cold smelling things poked him and prodded him and did things that made him mewl for the comfort of his mother. Those are his first memories.
His first real scent that he recalled was something just as sharp as the things that jabbed him. Sharp and so not-scented of anything real. Later would understand the word sterile, but for now, all he knew was that it smelled bad and he didn’t like it. It, like so many other things, made his nose burn.
His first memory of seeing is full of green. It burned his eyes the same way the sharp things make his insides burn. He doesn’t -like- the sharp things or the green or the cold not-smell. It fills everything and he can’t seesmelltaste anything but the green. It’s a sharp tang. Still doesn’t like it at all. Being dipped in it over and over doesn’t help him get used to it, either. It always burns, and he cries when he covered in the liquid.
All his world is full of sharp, burning pain. He cries every time he is taken from his mother, from the others like him who also cry when the smelly things pick them up and take them away. He already knows that some of them haven’t come back. He wonders if next time he won’t come back.
He already knows he doesn’t want to be here anymore. From the time his vision was still blurry, and his legs wobbled under him, he knew that this place was badwrong, and he didn’t want to be here, and he started to watch, watched and waited.
Eventually he would have memories of a place that isn’t badwrong and full of not sharpburning things.
Just to keep a running total, so far this November, I've written 398 words. I'm so slow.
Author/Artist: GW Katrina aka
icedark_elfFandom: Final Fantasy VII: PuppetKitty
Pairing/Character: PuppetKitty
Theme: 15-Dip for
25_streetsignsRating: PG-13
Wordcount: 398
Disclaimer: FFVII isn't mine, and the concept of PuppetKitty belongs to
pegunicent, written cause she promised me Itachi/Zack for it. *nods*Memories
He’s alone. He doesn’t like to be alone. Alone is cold and there is no warm thing to nestle next to.
Fingers prod at him, fingers and sharp things. He doesn’t like the sharp things. His eyes aren’t even open yet, and he already knows that the sharp things are bad. Sharp things mean he can’t cuddle against the warmth. That the nasty stuff is coming up.
All his memories are like this. From the first time he was not happy, was cold and wet, and had just felt the brush of a mother’s tongue once, he was stabbed with a sharp thing and could feel something under his skin. Large, cold smelling things poked him and prodded him and did things that made him mewl for the comfort of his mother. Those are his first memories.
His first real scent that he recalled was something just as sharp as the things that jabbed him. Sharp and so not-scented of anything real. Later would understand the word sterile, but for now, all he knew was that it smelled bad and he didn’t like it. It, like so many other things, made his nose burn.
His first memory of seeing is full of green. It burned his eyes the same way the sharp things make his insides burn. He doesn’t -like- the sharp things or the green or the cold not-smell. It fills everything and he can’t seesmelltaste anything but the green. It’s a sharp tang. Still doesn’t like it at all. Being dipped in it over and over doesn’t help him get used to it, either. It always burns, and he cries when he covered in the liquid.
All his world is full of sharp, burning pain. He cries every time he is taken from his mother, from the others like him who also cry when the smelly things pick them up and take them away. He already knows that some of them haven’t come back. He wonders if next time he won’t come back.
He already knows he doesn’t want to be here anymore. From the time his vision was still blurry, and his legs wobbled under him, he knew that this place was badwrong, and he didn’t want to be here, and he started to watch, watched and waited.
Eventually he would have memories of a place that isn’t badwrong and full of not sharpburning things.
Just to keep a running total, so far this November, I've written 398 words. I'm so slow.