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HOW DOES IT FEEL to morph fate in your palm? To feel it's trembling words gasp with exasperation and others sink with pleasure?
Does it feel godly? Becoming a human sanctuary for the pitied? Or does it feel like Atlas? Burdened to hold the weight of the world. In an irrevocable, miserly universe, each star pointed at the soul awaiting ruin, or a soul destined for glory. It bore its fingers into the crevice of the desired beings heart, and pumped it wickedly. It stained the hands of martyrs and kissed the hands of impeccants. Woefully molding the fate of those gingerly plucked for damnation. The wind hissed in your ears and hugged your figure dangerously tight, the skies blackened with the dried blood of the fallen. The world was perilously ill-fated for a crackle in its terrains, and it was ready to salute the fated beings the same aftermath.
The Golding's were given the same harmful tale of woe. They were harvested with such malicious care, and elevated themselves to harmoniously fit in with the high-ranking glorious entities of the universe. Elegantly crafted, yet a hazard to touch.
Keep the perfect image, the mantra was instilled into their vein and poisoned into the air they breathed. Natural beauty, the skin is to remain instinctively pure and glazed without imperfections. Posture still, minimal words must keep a strong impact. Short heels give you the advantage of holding others minds inferior to your own, you are a threat, show it. Muted colors give the ideology of a professional, Let them know you are business. Crescent smile with a slightly arched brow, politeness can be your weapon. Weapons don't weep, neither should they.
Genevieve Golding, painted from the promised skies and plucked from the millions of galaxies for this very moment. She stood with her back arched at the most precise vertical stand, lips pursed and eyes glancing around. Her fingers tapped hidden on the opposite arm to conceal her almost-evident nerves, you must conceal it. Her small heeled boots tapped against the creamy, tiled floor. Speckles of dirt, paper, and other things tracing the ground. She wrinkled her nose and kept the move on to the room she was supposed to be in. Her black cloth backpack on her thin, frail frame slightly slagged her steps as she moved at a slower pace.
Sky-rocketing unsure thoughts to unsettling memories. It was a custom, a series of events formulated to shape her. It was not supposed to startle her skeletal form and threaten to spew her insides out. Trembling hands and the inside of her cheek began to bleed from the pressure her teeth instilled. The Goldings are a legacy of strong people, how dare you call yourself one? Straight posture, jutted jaw. If you can convince yourself you fear nothing, others will believe it too. Clenched hands, deep breaths, you are nothing if not a power against the universe. Genevieve Golding is not a beggar nor a chooser, she grants herself merely lucky for what is placed before her. She'll show them her skin is tougher than ore and nothing gets past her constantly awakened state of mind, nothing unsheaves itself from the steel chains of her eruptioning heart.
