Nothing is ever as it seems.

The Poison Tree

A/N: Translations at the end. Tell me if I have anything wrong. Poem by William Blake

She hadn't thought about it before. Hadn't needed to, not really. It wasn't as if she confronted ceilings that dripped normally, enclosed as she was in that godforsaken house. But outside came with strings, strings almost bearable except for this. She hadn't realised that there were different types of freedom, that she would rather have been tethered indefinitely to the house than here, here where the ceiling dripped. Gods, she hadn't even come to terms with her stint in the cellar. And now she was thrust right into the midst of everything, without her silver-haired anchor and was she having a breakdown? It was more than likely. Another drop fell from the ceiling and instinctively she shied away from it, a frightened colt. Silver liquids gleamed on the floor. She hadn't been aware that she was biting her lip, still wasn't, and the taste of coppery blood frightened her. There were booths, in the far corner of the room, booths that were soon emptying, the flushed and Elysian couples at once making their way towards the centre of the room, where a great chandelier hung. And dripped. Her lip curled in distaste, she braved the falling liquid, making a barely graceful retreat to the booths. Here the ceiling still leaked, as it were, but at least it was less, and anyway, with the curtains closed, the red velvet- stained with silver- afforded her at least the privilege of a breakdown without the discomfort of prying eyes. She tilted her head back, rested it against the wall and tried to remember what Sebastian had said to her- during a training session- about keeping composure. She took a deep breath, and then another. The third was interrupted by the falling of a droplet onto her face. It was the first to have touched her. The music grew unbearably loud and the dripping increased until her skin and dress were coated in the sweet substance. She knew it was sweet, knew it.

She wasn't sure how, wasn't sure when, but she could definitely taste something in her mouth, something silky sweet and overpowering- and wow, had the curtains always been so red? It was sweet, bitter, sour, salty. She tasted it again, and the floor swirled and spun for her. Danced and whirled and sung a pretty song of reckoning. She cocked her head to the side, let another droplet fall onto her. She did not mind it so much. She pulled the curtains aside, and she couldn't remember them being so soft but she could not remember much now. Her head hurt in a delicious way. The fish tank with its creatures called to her and she spent time- but what was time anyway?- staring at them swim and consume and mate and fight. But what was time, anyway, if not a social construct devised only to wear lives away into smaller and yet smaller pieces? What was time, anyway? The whittled down essence of living in a matter of seconds and minutes and interminable hours. What was time? The creatures kept swimming, the droplets that fell into the open tank driving them into a frenzy. Did time exist? She laughed but it was not her laugh. Time was relative and she did not have enough. Her skin did not fit her. Maybe she could strip it off and grow herself a new one. Her fingertips- nails, sharp talons- left indents on her skin that would turn into cuts and litter her arms with tiny scars. They, too, would be impermanent. Oh the vivid blues of everything. She could hear a sound. But she couldn't, not really. She could feel a sound, feel a pulsing rhythm and a soft call, now tender, now chastising, high and low and everything. She was unsure what a religious experience was, but this had to count for something, even as it was in a night club. She wanted someone- oh, what was his name- she wanted them, him, to share in her joy. Her feet moved and she was not sure who was controlling them. Her mouth formed familiar shapes and unfamiliar sounds until she realised she was calling for Sebastian.

She did not sound like herself. Nor did she feel like herself. But that was okay. Herself- her self- was broken and twisted and shaken up, a bitter cocktail of spoilt emotions. She wasn't who she was. Which was good, everything was just good- until she got into the fight. Or a fight. Indefinite articles? she thought, but that was maybe wrong. Steel toed boots on her rib cages. She did not know how it started, or what the middle was like. But she was on the floor and she was being kicked and she was calling, calling again, but help didn't come and when the next drop came- calling silver, silver on her cheekbones- she was transported back to that basement begging in vain for help that would come too late to save her from herself. Nyssa- for that was her name, wasn't it?- Nyssa curled into a ball and told herself to stop hurting. Oh, maybe she was called something else. Nyssa was too abrupt, too short, cut off with a yelp and a cry and a sob for help. Nyssa didn't sound right, didn't sound like it was her voice saying it over and over, louder and louder until the guards scattered, knives out of thin air. A hand, pallid and interesting with scars, helped her up. No, she could not be Nyssa. She was saying her name wrong. It was not her voice. She had forgotten it again. She had forgotten her voice and herself. She cried for the loss of her name and the hand, dark with runes and white with skin, wiped away the tears and came back with tips silvered. Dimly she realised that her voice was wrong because it was not her calling herself back. Back from whence, she knew not. It was Sebastian. Silver hair, silver eyes, silver runes, silver fingers. Metal boy. Metal boy. Silver man. She remembered a hero, from one of her tubes- posters, they were called posters- with a name like that. Silver man. Iron surfer. She was confused. Did her pretty little tin man have a heart?