Fanaa fanfic
May. 30th, 2006 03:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dangermousieTitle: Fanaa fanfic
Rating: PG I guess
A/N: I would really like some constructive feedback as I am not sure this even makes much sense. Of course, this spoils the movie.
She decides not to sell the house. There are no buyers anyway and there is enough money left to live on and, morbid or not, she does not want to leave the graves.
She has screamed herself hoarse, raw mornings whipping her face. She'd run outside, when her child was still sleeping and no one could hear. Then one day she stopped.
She isn't sure what terrifies her most: that she can't forget what he was, what she did, or that sometimes she doesn't care, she just wants to feel his hands on her hair again, his voice shaping her name. Some days it all gets mixed up in one complicated emotional mess and her memories hit her at once and she has to pause what she is doing and sit down.
She misses him and nothing she has learned will change that. That is the hardest thing to accept. She knows, and that knowledge is with her like a shadow, what he had done, what he was planning to do. She knows his hands had killed, destroyed, held knives, guns, took lives. Yet she knows his hands on her skin, gentle and tentative. She tries to reconcile the two in her head, but no matter how she tries the pieces don't fit, just like the cut-out parts of all those faces she'd pasted together to make his face in the scrapbook never seemed to come together as anything more than a crazy patchwork. If she appreciated irony, she'd think what an appropriate metaphor that was. Give her a few years and she will think that, but for now, she just stops trying to reconcile the faces.
She can pick, so she picks Rehan she knew best, and she thinks of the look on his face, unsure and lost and desperate and his eyes and his skin and his touch, all hers, all for her. And she tries not to think of him too often, afraid the image might fade away if taken out too often. She still has no photograph of him.
But she has photographs of her father, and she never realized how many. And when she doesn't think of Rehan, she could be almost content, but then she thinks of her father, or Colonel Uncle, or even her mother (and who'd ever think that her dying was lucky?) and there are ghosts wherever she looks so she might think of Rehan as well anyway.
Sometimes she wakes up at night, heart beating hard, a swooping sensation, as if of falling, in her stomach, wetness cool on her cheeks. She can never remember the dreams, and she is glad of that. Next to her, the small body that is Rehan (also Rehan, always Rehan) sleeps soundly, the diminutive hand curled up around a pillow, mouth open slightly, breathing steadily in the dark.
This is her peace and her victory and her penance.
Rating: PG I guess
A/N: I would really like some constructive feedback as I am not sure this even makes much sense. Of course, this spoils the movie.
She decides not to sell the house. There are no buyers anyway and there is enough money left to live on and, morbid or not, she does not want to leave the graves.
She has screamed herself hoarse, raw mornings whipping her face. She'd run outside, when her child was still sleeping and no one could hear. Then one day she stopped.
She isn't sure what terrifies her most: that she can't forget what he was, what she did, or that sometimes she doesn't care, she just wants to feel his hands on her hair again, his voice shaping her name. Some days it all gets mixed up in one complicated emotional mess and her memories hit her at once and she has to pause what she is doing and sit down.
She misses him and nothing she has learned will change that. That is the hardest thing to accept. She knows, and that knowledge is with her like a shadow, what he had done, what he was planning to do. She knows his hands had killed, destroyed, held knives, guns, took lives. Yet she knows his hands on her skin, gentle and tentative. She tries to reconcile the two in her head, but no matter how she tries the pieces don't fit, just like the cut-out parts of all those faces she'd pasted together to make his face in the scrapbook never seemed to come together as anything more than a crazy patchwork. If she appreciated irony, she'd think what an appropriate metaphor that was. Give her a few years and she will think that, but for now, she just stops trying to reconcile the faces.
She can pick, so she picks Rehan she knew best, and she thinks of the look on his face, unsure and lost and desperate and his eyes and his skin and his touch, all hers, all for her. And she tries not to think of him too often, afraid the image might fade away if taken out too often. She still has no photograph of him.
But she has photographs of her father, and she never realized how many. And when she doesn't think of Rehan, she could be almost content, but then she thinks of her father, or Colonel Uncle, or even her mother (and who'd ever think that her dying was lucky?) and there are ghosts wherever she looks so she might think of Rehan as well anyway.
Sometimes she wakes up at night, heart beating hard, a swooping sensation, as if of falling, in her stomach, wetness cool on her cheeks. She can never remember the dreams, and she is glad of that. Next to her, the small body that is Rehan (also Rehan, always Rehan) sleeps soundly, the diminutive hand curled up around a pillow, mouth open slightly, breathing steadily in the dark.
This is her peace and her victory and her penance.
