&& ă alternate au: harry potter ă
    â   sheâs mad but sheâs magic; there is no lie in her fire.   â
house: slytherin blood status: pureblood best subject: defense against the dark arts wand: ebony, unicorn Hair, 14ÂŒâ; slightly yielding patronus: fox amortentia: burning sage, cauldron fire, tobacco & sandalwood.
you are the monster that leaves the womb wailing. writhing and spitting as you cry out for the warmth of your mother and the heartbeat that sounded in time with yours for as long as you can remember. instead, you are assaulted with the sound of shards breaking and a blood curling scream. you do not recognize those things so early on in your life, but what you can tell apart is the aura of rage that surrounds your father and the fear that entrenches the midwife that holds you. for the night you are born, you enter the world with your father spitting curses at your wailing form, and the shaking of the midwifeâs hands as she cleans you in a warm tub, her own feet drenched in the blood of the healer who was felled for failing your mother. she dies on the birthing bed, and instead you take her life. â you are a mistake. you are unwanted. you killed your mother. this is the mantra that your father passes onto you, repeating it when you can not. he takes it upon himself to whisper it into your searching eyes. his tongue curled upon his teeth as his fists clench into the frail of your shouldersââ ( how easy it would be to just crumble, you think. )Â for the longest of times, you wonder what it is that youâve done, your mantra only going so far in finding you an explanation. thankfully, youâve learned long ago to stop asking. so it goes like this: your father does not look at you, and you hate it. but sometimes he does, and you hate this even more. because youâre too young to understand the look in his eyes, the overwhelming feeling of sadness that lies there, but it makes you feel like everything wrong in the world is your fault, even at such a young age. you convince yourself that you donât care however, because you tell yourself youâre something special, and thatâs enough.
â as the only daughter of the family name, you spend too much of your childhood being told what to do. sit still, look pretty, be seen but never heard. this is the next mantra you learn, and this time it runs circles within your mind in the sharp voice of your aunt. taking up a corner in your thoughts, this is where she worms her way inside, slicing open your skull and carving out a space for herself because no matter how hard you try, her voice becomes one you will never be able to shake. even when she sits three rooms away, you are always left with the hesitant feeling of being watched, as if she could see you, and by the time you hit your sixth year of survival, you can hear her there, in your head, even when she isnât. it drives you half insane as a child, being locked in the confines of that grand house. your days spent away in learning to knit a tea cosy or the proper etiquette for being seated at dinner. you learn to be soft, because that is all your are good forââ a pretty face and a womanly touch for whoever came out as your highest bidder. and you, you sit there and listen and donât say a word about it, because that is what girls are meant to do. to stay quiet, to sit pretty. the world is run by men, your aunt says, and you are not a man. what she does not know however, is the truth of your rage as she sleeps through the night. that way you scream into your pillows at the top of your lungs, smashing your porcelain dolls and ripping at your clothes and hair until your fingers dry sticky with the blood. for they remind you of everything you are meant to be, and everything you are not.
it is safe to say that from early on, you learn quite easily that destroying is easier than building, and much, much more fun. â it isnât never fair to you that your brothers can do as they wish. while you learn to squeeze your body into the demands of your dress and how to shape you words around a language that you never wanted to learn, they are free to roam about house and home. unlike you, the daughter whom your father has pushed aside, he starts to pay attention to your brothers once you hit a certain age. itâs not the right attention perhaps, with more being said through your fatherâs fists than his words, but it is attention nevertheless, and you rage with such jealousy; your vengeance a tangible thing.Â
this is how you plan. for if your father will not look at you, you will make him glare. if he will not speak to you, you will make him scream. and so he does. he screams until his voice his hoarse and his face is blue, and when even that becomes too little, his large hand snaps out and strikes you across the cheek. you should be afraid, something whispers, perhaps guilty, you should apologize, but you DONâT. instead, you grin, ( you mad, mad girl, your aunt will later tsk. ) so when he slaps you once more before leaving, you are still grinning. itâs surprisingly easy to pick yourself off of the floor after his exit, your movements fuelled by the bursting sense of accomplishment that fills your chest, and the blood that stains your lips. that day is ingrained into you as proof, those hits a symbol that show you that your father can actually feel for you. that he can be something more than that indifferent human being that you had spent so many years sharing with him a house. â some days, you feel yourself on the verge of cracking, buckling at the seams and ready to bubble over at any moment. but like always, you endure. ( some days, you start to believe that that is all you are good at; enduring. ) whether it is the bruises from your fatherâs hand upon your body, or whatever awful trick your aunt has hidden up her sleeve to turn you into a â proper woman â. you learn to endure. because you have never felt proper, and you have never felt womanly. if anything, you, ahn soyeon, feel too large for the small skin you have been poured into. for all you have ever wanted was to swell large enough to fill the skies so that maybe one day your father would look up to you, instead of glaring down his nose. for you always knew, deep in your soul that you were meant for things more than dinner settings and tea cosyâs. fire moved like lava in your veins, and monstrous thoughts echoed in your mind. you are meant to burn down the world and laugh while doing it, to paint the skies and spill the streets with blood and anger, but you will bide your time instead, always waiting for the opportune moment: you will endure.
