The Empty Heart of the Sea
Apr. 15th, 2006 11:47 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valis2Title: The Empty Heart of the Sea
Characters: Tom Riddle
Rating: R
Warnings: Poetry.
Het, Slash or Gen: Gen
Description: Tom Riddle, his formative years at the orphanage.
At first he doesn't understand why some leave in the arms of others. There are smiles as they walk through the open door, and he doesn't see them again.
Eventually he is told that no one wants him. He shouts, throws things.
He hurts with each new shake of the head. The other children are either there and gone, or there. He is there. He's too big to be picked up now. They avoid him. There are mutterings, fey, narrowed eyes.
Once a year there is a moment away from the dust and poison of the orphanage. Once a year there is something beyond grey walls. He is careful for days before or she will make him stay.
He likes it when they visit the ocean. It's false. It sounds mournful or angry or soothing but it is none of those things. He wishes he could find its hollow core and curl up inside it.
The first time it happens, he isn't prepared. It's quick, a flash, over before he almost knows it, but he spends the rest of the afternoon remembering it, his face flushed, his breathing quick. She cries in the corner.
He begins to look for it, then, the moment when wonder turns to terror, the thin veil between the two that fascinates him. He coaxes it out in an alleyway, where a child in a blue suit plays with a yo-yo. He makes something happen, looking deep into brown eyes, watching as it shrieks and drops its toy, and he pockets it. Damp and hard in his shabby jacket pocket, it is warm, a heart pulsing underneath his hand, the rough cord snagging his fingertips.
She sits on her front porch, mending, and he turns her needle into a worm, fat, grotesque. He says to himself, scare her, and she is scared, and the thimble's in the grass, winking at him.
Billy hates him, calls him freak, strikes at him and steals the (his) mouthharp. The desire grows and grows. It floods his mouth. It sneaks between his ribs and pricks him. Tomorrow is the Day, the Outing, and he doesn't care if he never goes out again, he needs to see that moment in Billy's eyes.
She won't stop chattering, she flounces, it occurs to him like the burst of a flower that he can take twice as much.
He found a cave last time, he tells them. Secret. Hidden. Treasure. They're predictable. Easy. Just for a moment he can see everything in her head, buzzing images of pirates and gold, and he reels, off-balance.
The dark of the cave is expectant. It smells of salt. Seaweed. The girl is pretending to be bored. He lights a match. The branch he's brought is wreathed in flame, and they are stupid in wonder now, their mouths open as they look about. The air shimmers, and he grins, scare them, he says silently, moving his lips. A twist in his guts, his hair is standing on end, there is something coiling around his arm, cold scales pressing in on his flesh, and the look on their faces is better than he ever imagined. His fingers are tingling. They are screaming, and he hears himself laughing, and then a gust of wind blows out the flame and it's there, scrabbling on the rocks, the terror is brilliant.
Sometimes even now he still thinks of the cave. He can almost taste the salt on his tongue. His followers look to him and he is what he needs to be, empathetic or angry or merciful, but he is none of those things. He is a snake in the dark, fey, the cold heart of the ocean.
Characters: Tom Riddle
Rating: R
Warnings: Poetry.
Het, Slash or Gen: Gen
Description: Tom Riddle, his formative years at the orphanage.
At first he doesn't understand why some leave in the arms of others. There are smiles as they walk through the open door, and he doesn't see them again.
Eventually he is told that no one wants him. He shouts, throws things.
He hurts with each new shake of the head. The other children are either there and gone, or there. He is there. He's too big to be picked up now. They avoid him. There are mutterings, fey, narrowed eyes.
Once a year there is a moment away from the dust and poison of the orphanage. Once a year there is something beyond grey walls. He is careful for days before or she will make him stay.
He likes it when they visit the ocean. It's false. It sounds mournful or angry or soothing but it is none of those things. He wishes he could find its hollow core and curl up inside it.
The first time it happens, he isn't prepared. It's quick, a flash, over before he almost knows it, but he spends the rest of the afternoon remembering it, his face flushed, his breathing quick. She cries in the corner.
He begins to look for it, then, the moment when wonder turns to terror, the thin veil between the two that fascinates him. He coaxes it out in an alleyway, where a child in a blue suit plays with a yo-yo. He makes something happen, looking deep into brown eyes, watching as it shrieks and drops its toy, and he pockets it. Damp and hard in his shabby jacket pocket, it is warm, a heart pulsing underneath his hand, the rough cord snagging his fingertips.
She sits on her front porch, mending, and he turns her needle into a worm, fat, grotesque. He says to himself, scare her, and she is scared, and the thimble's in the grass, winking at him.
Billy hates him, calls him freak, strikes at him and steals the (his) mouthharp. The desire grows and grows. It floods his mouth. It sneaks between his ribs and pricks him. Tomorrow is the Day, the Outing, and he doesn't care if he never goes out again, he needs to see that moment in Billy's eyes.
She won't stop chattering, she flounces, it occurs to him like the burst of a flower that he can take twice as much.
He found a cave last time, he tells them. Secret. Hidden. Treasure. They're predictable. Easy. Just for a moment he can see everything in her head, buzzing images of pirates and gold, and he reels, off-balance.
The dark of the cave is expectant. It smells of salt. Seaweed. The girl is pretending to be bored. He lights a match. The branch he's brought is wreathed in flame, and they are stupid in wonder now, their mouths open as they look about. The air shimmers, and he grins, scare them, he says silently, moving his lips. A twist in his guts, his hair is standing on end, there is something coiling around his arm, cold scales pressing in on his flesh, and the look on their faces is better than he ever imagined. His fingers are tingling. They are screaming, and he hears himself laughing, and then a gust of wind blows out the flame and it's there, scrabbling on the rocks, the terror is brilliant.
Sometimes even now he still thinks of the cave. He can almost taste the salt on his tongue. His followers look to him and he is what he needs to be, empathetic or angry or merciful, but he is none of those things. He is a snake in the dark, fey, the cold heart of the ocean.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-15 03:55 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-15 03:57 pm (UTC)Ooh, is that a new icon? Very cool.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-15 04:27 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-15 11:53 pm (UTC)Thank you for sharing!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-16 01:36 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-16 04:52 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-16 05:17 pm (UTC)Tom is so wrong....
Date: 2008-09-07 02:50 am (UTC)He likes it when they visit the ocean. It's false. It sounds mournful or angry or soothing but it is none of those things. He wishes he could find its hollow core and curl up inside it.
That's just so WRONG in the best possible way. Are you sure you're not a sociopathic young wizard? No? Just a writer? Okaaaaaaay. If you say so. The hollow core of the ocean. Gorgeous.
Re: Tom is so wrong....
Date: 2008-09-07 03:18 am (UTC)hee! Thank you so much. I'm glad you enjoyed. This was the least of the dreams--more of a vague impression. It was enough for a short piece, though. ;)