origamiflowers: (cloud-watching)
with a violin and a song to sing ([personal profile] origamiflowers) wrote2009-05-06 05:28 pm

twilight: "a whisper and a clamor" - alice

title: A Whisper and a Clamor
fandom: Twilight
characters/pairings: Alice
genre: gen, introspection
rating: PG
length: 500 words
disclaimer: This is a transformative work.
summary: A hundred years is a long time to live. Sometimes she feels like a shell. Like 'alice' is only a sequence of sounds, signifying nothing. Alice imagines who she could have been. Five drabbles.

A hundred years is a long time to live. Sometimes she feels like a shell. Like alice is only a sequence of sounds, signifying nothing.

Alice passes the time by thinking. Most of all, she likes to imagine the people she could have been, all the lives that she could have lived. In the absence of any real memories before her present life, fantasy is the next best thing.

Sometimes she wonders if what she has is even better than the truth. If her fantasies tell her even more about herself, about who she is, than her history ever could.

She could have been a circus acrobat.

It’s loud. Garish. Sometimes she wears purple, or pink, or blue, or orange. Vivid colors that highlight her pale skin (even in life, yes, she cannot see herself so very differently) and make her dark hair stand out.

Sometimes there are sparkles and spangles. Sometimes there are flames. Sometimes she has a partner; sometimes she leaps alone.

Those details change. But this is the important part:

She wants to be able to trust herself, to move without thought or hesitation - to fling herself at something, with her whole body, and have no fear.

She could have been a magician's assistant.

A stage, a curtain, a spotlight, secrets. The crowd is hushed, faces furrowed in expectation. Her hands are sure and her fingers are nimble, whether she is shuffling cards or chaining the magician.

There is always a collective moment of doubt, when the audience believes - knows, even - that there is no way out this time, no chance of success - such a trick will surely fail. In these moments it is hard for her to keep still.

Because she knows the truth; because she is in on the trick. Because that moment is hers.

She could have been a dancer.

This is the quietest dream. The audience is not cheering at every triumph, or gasping at every trick, but sits still like statues, in silent rapture. Breaths held, bodies tense, eyes following her, the long line of herself.

Each movement is spare, measured out, never more nor less than it ought to be.

When she performs a triple pirouette that smooths elegantly into an arabesque, she can hear the sigh of the crowd, the collective exhalation. It feels as though their hands are reaching out to her, holding her body up with their love.

She does want to know herself. But the possibilities - all the myriad hers that could ever have been - are such lovely things, floating upward, clouding the blue, blue, sky. Innumerable balloons of all colors, that seem to wave down at her when she gazes up at them, yearningly.

And to reduce the infinite possibilities down to one - to find the true her, to cease her fantasies, to see only the single balloon and know it was her, that it was the limit - well, it would be lonely, hanging up there, all by itself. And so sad.

So she imagines instead.