It Fits In A Breadbox

As in, this blog does! XD

So yes, I've been writing this story--fanfiction, of course--and trying to motivate myself. It is my hope that this little Prologue-Of-Sorts is going to motivate me to get my butt in gear and write the freaking thing.

Anywho, this is from my Danny Phantom, Ember-centric fic of which there is no title. Ahem. But yes, it focuses on her human life before she became ghost. Let me just say that as a given (courtesy of my twisted mind) it's dark and angsty and, well, tragic. ^^;;

And with that given, well, given, please do not be shocked by the slight cussing in this here prologue. If you knew the part this story is (will be?) from, you'd understand and commiserate, I think.

Without further ado, I give you the prologue!

Tick.

She blinked, thinking of the clichés that would describe this, this thing trembling along her ribs and crawling through her lungs. It didn’t burn. It didn’t stab. It didn’t tear, or cut, or bruise.

Tick.

It crept, restless and cold, not unlike the goose bumps racing first across her arms and then down her back. It made her feel restless and angry and echoing inside, all at once--a massive, roiling juxtaposition that pitted her Self against her own invisible enemy, the one she saw in the mirror everyday, the one she saw reflected in their eyes.

Tick.

It was like constantly being on the edge of hyperventilating, too fearful to breathe lest it devolve into gasps for air, for oxygen, for life, for all the things she would never find so long as she kept living--

Tick.

She turned, staring at the dark corners instead of the blue-gray wall. She blinked. Blinked again, listening to the sound of the lids snapping together, the soft whick that only you or the unbearably Close and Quiet could ever hear.

Tick.

But the blinking was muffled, like she was wearing her headphones--rhythmic, expected, yet muted. It matched to the clock, the infernal clock that brought nothing but hell and death and all its little friends along with it’s Pandora’s box of misery.

Tick.

For a moment, she thought the shivers had started again. But then she realized they had never stopped.

Just like her thoughts.
Just like the Damn Clock.
Just like her endlessly blinking eyes.
Just like her insufferable, beating heart.

Tick.

She sat up suddenly, screaming against the crap world, the crap people in it, and all the rest of the utter bullshit that everything threw her way--

. . . but she realized that her raging was not echoing off the confines of her room, or phasing through the walls to meet the neighbors and the rest of the stupid, blind people on the street. It was ricocheting off the inside of her skull.

All it’s damage was being thrown against herself, against her own mind.

If she had still been breathing, she would have stopped doing so right about then.
He had done a good job. Far, far too good of a job.

And he was never going to know.

She would make certain of it.

Tell me if it compels you to read, please, or if it needs a grammatical overhaul!