( it's irritating, how instantly she heats, skin mortified into bloodstain-red. parisa's natural talents alina has thus witnessed: needling under skin like a devoted splinter, and her worrying success in bleeding out alina's worst impulses. )
they've captured your smug air and small chest remarkably well, in that case.
( offense as a defense it is, then. more importantly, where is the block function on these stupid things. )
( an important distinction; as ever, there exist two alina starkovs: the ideal version of herself crafted by an imagination, and the reality of what she is. it just happens that parisa's artistic vision for her is — this. a portrait of perfect prostration, painted in more loving shades than parisa seems truly capable of. )
if you're looking for someone to kiss your feet, go back to that stupid party. you've plenty of willing victims to pick from.
i don't need to justify myself to you. you're not the one who gets to decide whether my reasons are good enough. you'll just have to learn to deal with the fact not everyone thinks you're perfect.
So defensive, Alina. You didn't really seem like you hated me the other day. Should I suppose you're good at faking? To spare my feelings from your rejection. How thoughtful.
Yes, you tolerate me quite admirably. Multiple times, as I recall. What a brave soldier. Oh, I don't. I'm as unfeeling as a corpse.
( unbidden: the sour memory of dalton stabbing a construct made in her image with a corkscrew. it wasn't unfeeling. neither was she. neither is she, of course, though alina doesn't want to hear about that — presumably it's easier for parisa to seem cruel and directionless, as a dartboard for her natural insecurities.
nevertheless, every blow of alina's misses the mark. parisa's soft pulpy center is not so small that it's impossible to graze — it's just that alina's natural presumption of her, as most women who first meet her, is entirely misplaced. )
is there a point to this, or did you just feel like lording something over me?
( it's not not tired, routine territory for alina, tracing the steps of the girl she had been: a target on her back, vermin to shoot pellets at. parisa forcing her into those old, worn shoes is a little startling, for how loudly it shows alina that she's outgrown them — outgrown this, outgrown divine beauties like parisa and nazyalensky expecting her to feel at home in the dirt. )
this might shock you, but i have better things to do with my time than listen to you gloat.
because i've known people like you, and i've liked them even less than i like you. you all act like being born beautiful entitles you to being horrible. you use it as a tool to get whatever you can from the world around you.
but you're not better than me. you're not better than anyone. and i suspect you're either too arrogant to see that, or you know exactly what you are and you hate it. selfish. vain. and trying to your hardest to convince yourself that having power over other people somehow gives your life more meaning.
So, you've known people like me, and have decided I'm exactly the same as every other person who's crossed your path, based on ...? Being beautiful? What a shallow outlook on life. Of course, your being beautiful is hardly synonyms with being terrible in your mind's eye, unless you really think yourself as awful as me. That would explain why you like prostrating so much, I guess. See: my initial picture message.
I don't think I'm better than anyone, except the people too inept to form their own opinions of me on something more than my looks. ( what isn't said: that is truly, literally, everyone. ) So I would be better than you, actually, because I know the truth of the matter: looks mean absolutely nothing. Not yours and certainly not mine. Hate me for something real, Alina. I am cowardly and cold and wounded and angry and powerhungry, if you want to pick. I'll at least respect you for it.
no, i've decided based on how much you enjoy making people crawl for you, and then rubbing their nose in it like a puppy that's had an accident on your carpet. i've decided it because you're here, using me as a toy to enterain yourself. your particular taste for cruelty isn't as novel to me as you seem to believe it is.
i don't particularly care if you respect me or not. the feeling would be mutual. you can think of me however you like, for whatever reasons you like. and i'll hate you all i like, for whatever reasons i like. i imagine that's the only agreement we'll be coming to.
Bedroom games should be kept separate from your sense of self worth. For future reference. It's a dangerous game when you like being on your knees — you start feeling like you belong there.
Let me know if you come up with something original. Hating women because they're beautiful is tired.
have you tried living inside of your own head instead of being so desperate to escape into mine? no wonder you think you're such a coward. you'd rather look at me like i'm something that needs your guidance than look too deeply inside of yourself.
i don't, for the record. i know how when and where power matters.
let me know if you come up with something original. your attempts at dominating me, in conversation and in your little bedroom games, are just as tired.
What would feel original to you? You aren't the kind to accept flattery. You don't expect me to be genuine. It seems to me the only thing you are responsive to is a firm, guiding hand.
( if she were to give parisa the benefit of the doubt, it's a harmless question. little more than prodding at someone's ribs with your elbow, really, to earn their attention. the thing is — she feels strangely compelled, for the first time, to be generous in her read of parisa's intentions. she can't know she's pressing on a bruise that's layered black-blue-green-purple-yellow, an ugly bloom on alina's insides.
it doesn't change the reality, and the reality is that panicked fingers claw up alina's insides, itch up her throat. maybe parisa is right. maybe aleksander had seen such a vulnerability in alina from the start. maybe alina is the only fool who hadn't realized what's been so obvious to everyone else. it turns her blood to cold sludge in her veins, tightens the knot in her chest, like struggling to breathe through the oppressive miasma of the fold. )
that's not true. ( or, rather: she's terrified of the implication that it might be true, that she might long for the same pressure of the hand that had broken her. she can't think past the pounding heartbeat in her skull to come up with any better protest of it, past a pathetic: ) stop it.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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they've captured your smug air and small chest remarkably well, in that case.
( offense as a defense it is, then. more importantly, where is the block function on these stupid things. )
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( an important distinction; as ever, there exist two alina starkovs: the ideal version of herself crafted by an imagination, and the reality of what she is. it just happens that parisa's artistic vision for her is — this. a portrait of perfect prostration, painted in more loving shades than parisa seems truly capable of. )
if you're looking for someone to kiss your feet, go back to that stupid party. you've plenty of willing victims to pick from.
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i don't like you. i've hardly been keeping that a secret.
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you'll just have to learn to deal with the fact not everyone thinks you're perfect.
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Should I suppose you're good at faking? To spare my feelings from your rejection. How thoughtful.
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i wasn't aware you had any feelings to spare, besides.
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Oh, I don't. I'm as unfeeling as a corpse.
( unbidden: the sour memory of dalton stabbing a construct made in her image with a corkscrew. it wasn't unfeeling. neither was she. neither is she, of course, though alina doesn't want to hear about that — presumably it's easier for parisa to seem cruel and directionless, as a dartboard for her natural insecurities.
nevertheless, every blow of alina's misses the mark. parisa's soft pulpy center is not so small that it's impossible to graze — it's just that alina's natural presumption of her, as most women who first meet her, is entirely misplaced. )
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( it's not not tired, routine territory for alina, tracing the steps of the girl she had been: a target on her back, vermin to shoot pellets at. parisa forcing her into those old, worn shoes is a little startling, for how loudly it shows alina that she's outgrown them — outgrown this, outgrown divine beauties like parisa and nazyalensky expecting her to feel at home in the dirt. )
this might shock you, but i have better things to do with my time than listen to you gloat.
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I wanted an answer, on why it is that you hate me so much.
I'll leave you alone for now if you give me one.
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but you're not better than me. you're not better than anyone. and i suspect you're either too arrogant to see that, or you know exactly what you are and you hate it. selfish. vain. and trying to your hardest to convince yourself that having power over other people somehow gives your life more meaning.
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I don't think I'm better than anyone, except the people too inept to form their own opinions of me on something more than my looks. ( what isn't said: that is truly, literally, everyone. ) So I would be better than you, actually, because I know the truth of the matter: looks mean absolutely nothing. Not yours and certainly not mine. Hate me for something real, Alina. I am cowardly and cold and wounded and angry and powerhungry, if you want to pick. I'll at least respect you for it.
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i don't particularly care if you respect me or not. the feeling would be mutual. you can think of me however you like, for whatever reasons you like. and i'll hate you all i like, for whatever reasons i like. i imagine that's the only agreement we'll be coming to.
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Let me know if you come up with something original. Hating women because they're beautiful is tired.
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i don't, for the record. i know how when and where power matters.
let me know if you come up with something original. your attempts at dominating me, in conversation and in your little bedroom games, are just as tired.
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What would feel original to you? You aren't the kind to accept flattery. You don't expect me to be genuine.
It seems to me the only thing you are responsive to is a firm, guiding hand.
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it doesn't change the reality, and the reality is that panicked fingers claw up alina's insides, itch up her throat. maybe parisa is right. maybe aleksander had seen such a vulnerability in alina from the start. maybe alina is the only fool who hadn't realized what's been so obvious to everyone else. it turns her blood to cold sludge in her veins, tightens the knot in her chest, like struggling to breathe through the oppressive miasma of the fold. )
that's not true. ( or, rather: she's terrified of the implication that it might be true, that she might long for the same pressure of the hand that had broken her. she can't think past the pounding heartbeat in her skull to come up with any better protest of it, past a pathetic: ) stop it.