one snippet down, at least
Aug. 19th, 2010 05:38 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chanter1944that's one scenelet out of my head, anyway. This is backstory for the 1992 'verse's Tracy, and the depth is in the veiled details. Rated PG13 for mentions of past abuse.
It catches her unawares, staring down a rust-circled drain with one hand beneath the trickling faucet, stands out darker than dark skin, and it jars her.
She doesn't know how it got there; maybe a half-asleep collision with a doorway at midnight, maybe a sharp corner she didn't see until too late - she doesn't know. the fact of the matter is, it's turning her forearm inky blue, black and green, and it's obvious, and it shakes her. Just for a second, but it shakes her.
Tracy's used to hiding things like it, hiding them as best she can, moving on, disguising. Tracy wears a curly fringe at her forehead, long sleeves in autumn, makeup to suit her caramel and cream skin where she can, when she can. Tracy's used to turning the visible invisible as often as it's possible, the better to keep the wrong reasons out of the spotlight. Certain things aren't supposed to show, and she knows it. That's the habit of years to her, long-engrained; that's normal.
At least, that's what was normal for her, once. It might've been different from everyone else's--sure. but that's how it was.
Tracy's used to keeping her bruises under wraps - literally, sometimes. It's the stuff of memories, as much as it is reality; a scratched finger gets bandaged one-handed, and it's a double success if she manages the maneuver with one eye closed. Bronze-tinted foundation is applied ever so carefully, head tilted back from the mirror as the telltale blue-black-green around that half-closed eye disappears. Scrapes get ignored, bumps get passed off - it was nothing. It's nothing. Things happen.
Can't get him in trouble. Can't let anybody know. He's my responsibility, I gotta be careful.
That's how it was.
Even if that's not how it is now.
Tracy knows times have changed. Tracy knows she's not under the same roof now, doesn't have to worry about the same details, the same wavering unexpected swings from one side, the same staircase, the same finger-sticky bottles clattering on the floor. But some habits die a death like a twelve-story fall in slow motion, like a trainwreck dragging its feet, and whatever the reality is, it doesn't stop her remembering.
And that doesn't stop the sight of it rattling her, just for a second.
Tracy's used to covering her bruises.
She's her father's daughter, after all, and some things you can't unlearn in a year. Give it ten, and maybe. Maybe.
It catches her unawares, staring down a rust-circled drain with one hand beneath the trickling faucet, stands out darker than dark skin, and it jars her.
She doesn't know how it got there; maybe a half-asleep collision with a doorway at midnight, maybe a sharp corner she didn't see until too late - she doesn't know. the fact of the matter is, it's turning her forearm inky blue, black and green, and it's obvious, and it shakes her. Just for a second, but it shakes her.
Tracy's used to hiding things like it, hiding them as best she can, moving on, disguising. Tracy wears a curly fringe at her forehead, long sleeves in autumn, makeup to suit her caramel and cream skin where she can, when she can. Tracy's used to turning the visible invisible as often as it's possible, the better to keep the wrong reasons out of the spotlight. Certain things aren't supposed to show, and she knows it. That's the habit of years to her, long-engrained; that's normal.
At least, that's what was normal for her, once. It might've been different from everyone else's--sure. but that's how it was.
Tracy's used to keeping her bruises under wraps - literally, sometimes. It's the stuff of memories, as much as it is reality; a scratched finger gets bandaged one-handed, and it's a double success if she manages the maneuver with one eye closed. Bronze-tinted foundation is applied ever so carefully, head tilted back from the mirror as the telltale blue-black-green around that half-closed eye disappears. Scrapes get ignored, bumps get passed off - it was nothing. It's nothing. Things happen.
Can't get him in trouble. Can't let anybody know. He's my responsibility, I gotta be careful.
That's how it was.
Even if that's not how it is now.
Tracy knows times have changed. Tracy knows she's not under the same roof now, doesn't have to worry about the same details, the same wavering unexpected swings from one side, the same staircase, the same finger-sticky bottles clattering on the floor. But some habits die a death like a twelve-story fall in slow motion, like a trainwreck dragging its feet, and whatever the reality is, it doesn't stop her remembering.
And that doesn't stop the sight of it rattling her, just for a second.
Tracy's used to covering her bruises.
She's her father's daughter, after all, and some things you can't unlearn in a year. Give it ten, and maybe. Maybe.
