Purple's Prose
Sept 25, 2013 14:45:51 GMT -5
Post by Alista Sabina Castillo on Sept 25, 2013 14:45:51 GMT -5
There’s parts of my characters’ backstories that are briefly mentioned in their histories, but that I don’t really elaborate on in the context of the bio. When I feel like prose-ing a part of someone’s history, I’ll put it here for others to read if they are so inclined. I might also put one-offs in here, for parts of a character’s story that I want to detail but don’t want to/can’t think of a way to roleplay with someone else. The account that I make a post with is the account that the story is in reference to.
I’m going to discuss some potentially triggering things in some of these stories. If I think something might be triggering for someone, I’ll put a trigger warning at the beginning of the post in bold and briefly describe the content.
First up: Alista Sabina Castillo.
[TRIGGER WARNING for discussion of partner abuse (emotional/verbal), racialized transmisogyny, mention of sex-related dysphoria]
Red
January 3rd, 2012
11:49 PM
The sound of his soft breathing filled the silence of the bedroom, the steady rhythm working its way into her thoughts and infiltrating her psyche. She lay with her back to his sleeping form as she stared blankly at the wall, tears streaming silently down her face. Her mind turned over and over in the darkness, racing to recall who she was and how she got here. How had this happened, her body lying on someone else’s bed in a scratchy gray lace nightgown, her hair long and black? How had she ended up having the kind of sex last night that left her curled into a fetal position and wanting to crawl out of her skin? How had she ended up in a relationship with a man who made her feel insignificant, who weaponized her every insecurity?
A cold sense of dread gripped her heart. How had she become this? Was this all she was now, a facsimile of someone else’s fantasy?
Everything she wore, every way she acted was because of him. Her clothing and mannerisms catered to his whims and wishes. She perfectly reflected his ideas of what a Latina girl should wear, how a trans girl should have sex, how she should act and what her mannerisms should be. She scrambled to remember what it was that she had wanted out of her life, her transition. What had she wanted to become? Could she even remember?
All she could recall from the frantic search of her memory was a vague direction that she wanted her life to go when she came out. Her coming out had been a fear-stricken one, yes, but it had also been hopeful, with many dreams about what she wanted to do and what she could become. So many of those dreams had been immediately crushed by the weight of the world. He had been there in the wake of the suffocating hatred and prejudice she had faced from the intersection of her gender and ethnicity – the stares, the catcalls, the hateful words and violent threats. He had told her that she was beautiful, that she was intelligent. He said that he would take care of her, that he was the only one she would ever need.
Slowly but surely, over time it had changed. Beautiful became beautiful in black lace, honey you never wear anything pretty anymore, why don’t you act like a woman anymore? A stated desire to take care of her revealed itself as a desire to monopolize all her time until she had almost no friends outside of his, no interests outside of what he allowed. Even when he wasn’t here in person, he filled her digital world. The backhanded compliments that undercut her confidence, the subtle threats that left her walking on eggshells even if she couldn’t consciously identify why, the isolation – he had left her craving desperately for his love and approval. He had expertly pruned the authentic parts of her away until she had almost nothing of her own left. All of her self-worth was based on how well she performed to his fantasy of the idealized Latina, the idealized trans woman. That was how she had gotten here, to the place where she couldn’t even remember who she was anymore.
Here she was, chained to the bed by fears and insecurities which he had helped cultivate. They grew like weeds around her stationary form, constricting her heart with terror. She knew what she wanted and needed to do, but did she have the resolve?
She reached for her phone, moving at a snail’s pace so as not to disturb him. The phone was held beneath the covers to block the light from reaching his eyes.
A few minutes later, her phone lit up again. Her heart lightened for the first time that night as she read the text.
Moving softly and slowly, she slid off the bed and tiptoed over to her backpack. Though she wasn’t living here at his apartment, she kept a few things here for when she visited him. She didn’t care that much about the stuff, but she didn’t want to give him any reason to get in contact with her, and returning an item of hers would be a plausible excuse. Her heart pounded in her breast – shit, can he hear that? – as she moved around the room as quietly as she could. He was a fairly heavy sleeper, but she still held her breath and stifled her footsteps as she stuffed her possessions into her bag.
The door creaked slightly as she opened it. Shit-
He stirred slightly but kept his eyes closed. She let out a silent sigh of relief and left the room.
Once in the entryway, she tore the nightgown off her body and fished around in her backpack for street clothes. After a moment she came up with a tank top, a pair of jeans, and a simple jacket. It was fairly plain, but it was better than what he wanted her to wear. At least it didn’t feel artificial, like a crude mimic of someone else’s style and reality.
She held up the gray nightgown briefly, feeling the scratchy lace detail. She was pretty sure he had gotten it at a sex shop, insisting she would “look hot” in it. That’s all I was to you, wasn’t I? A fetish object? Well, enjoy your fantasy.
She tossed the nightgown into the corner and closed the door quietly on her way out.
“Alista Sabina, I thought I might never see you again!”
Her friend had been waiting for her at the bus stop, greeting her with a bear hug that made her want to break down and cry from sheer relief. He had been wrong: someone did still want her.
The two of them walked up to the apartment in silence, Alista still too deep inside herself to really say anything. She didn’t really feel anything yet, just numbness and a vague sense of terror. What if he decided to come after her, track her down and discover who she was staying with? How much danger would that put her friend in? How did she even remotely deserve this hospitality?
They entered the warm-colored apartment with soft yellow walls, the couch already made up into a bed. Her friend gently slipped the backpack off her shoulders and sat down on the couch, patting the sheets next to her. Alista walked over and sat down next to her, eyes glazed over as she stared off into the distance in front of her.
After a moment, her friend asked in a soft voice, “What made you finally decide to leave?”
“I-“ How could she explain why she had left tonight, after enduring a year and half of the same abuse? Did she even know? “I just, I couldn’t- I can’t-“ Her voice broke. What was she even saying?
“Hey, it’s okay, take your time. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” Her friend set a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Okay.” Alista’s voice was soft and flat, almost dead. “Thank you.”
Her friend looked at her for a moment, then: “Let me know if you need anything.” She got up and fetched a book from the other room, curling up in a puffy chair in the corner. Alista appreciated it; she was terrified to be left alone, but at the same time didn’t know what to say to her.
Was she supposed to feel something? Elated, maybe? All she felt was numb. She pulled her phone out of her pocket, mindlessly playing around with the apps. Alista supposed she should block him while she was at it. How did she do that? She opened Google and searched “block on android.” Better to do it sooner rather than later.
Her skin felt hot, so she slipped off the denim jacket. Alista held the rough in her hands for a moment, an idea forming in her mind.
She stood up and walked into the kitchen, possessed by a sudden urge. Scissors, scissors, where are scissors? She loudly opened each drawer and riffed through it, not finding anything. Shit, where are the fucking scissors?!
“What are you looking for?” her friend asked, a touch of bemusement to her voice.
“Uh-“ Should Alista explain why she suddenly needed scissors, or just ask where they were? “Do you have scissors?”
“Sure do.” She retrieved a pair from the top of the microwave.
Oh wow, how did I miss that? “Thanks,” Alista responded, some color coming back into her voice.
She grabbed the scissors and went into the bathroom with single-minded determination. She made an incision in the top of each sleeve and cut around, letting the excess material fall heavily to the floor. Frayed ends, how do I fray the ends? The jacket made loud noises of impact as she beat the edges against the counter. They needed to fray, because she needed to see herself – not a horrifying image of maleness, not a soul-killing submissive Latina fantasy, but herself. Alista knew she was buried somewhere underneath the thick layers of façade she had laid upon her body. This might help bring her out.
When her still-bemused friend walked in and leaned against the doorframe, Alista was continuing to fray the edges manually. “Uh, what are you doing?” she finally asked, obviously reining in her curiosity.
Alista didn’t answer directly, but shrugged on the now-sleeveless jacket and did a little spin in front of the mirror. “What do you think?” she asked, appraising her own reflection. What she saw wasn’t quite what she wanted, but it was closer. It was a start.
Her friend tilted her head and looked at her a moment. “It suits you,” she said. “The frayed ends are a nice touch. Not sure what I think about denim on denim, though.”
“Yeah, I should probably pair it with different pants.” The numbness was slowly beginning to fade, away from him and out of reach of his influence. She grabbed a comb and tugged at the knots in her hair, playing around with different ideas for color and cut. Maybe it would look better parted to the side? She tried it, beginning to feel satisfied with what she saw.
“What are you thinking?” her friend asked, watching the scene with curiosity.
What was she thinking? I’m thinking I want to live my life without ever being someone’s fantasy object. I’m thinking I want to feel alive again, not dead inside and in constant fear of what someone’s going to say. I’m thinking I want freedom. I’m thinking never again.
After a pause, Alista spoke: “I’m thinking red.”
I’m going to discuss some potentially triggering things in some of these stories. If I think something might be triggering for someone, I’ll put a trigger warning at the beginning of the post in bold and briefly describe the content.
First up: Alista Sabina Castillo.
--------------------
[TRIGGER WARNING for discussion of partner abuse (emotional/verbal), racialized transmisogyny, mention of sex-related dysphoria]
Ever heard this song? Yeah, I thought so. That song was my jam for a good year and a half of my life.
It was high school, I had just recently come out, I was the most insecure motherfucker you've ever seen. Enter Dude. Dude told me I was pretty, smart, worthwhile... y'know, the whole nine yards. And I fucking fell for it. Of course, Dude turned out to be a chaser and worse, and made me feel like shit the moment I gave any sign of being different from the Trans Latina Fantasy he had in his mind.
~*~
Red
January 3rd, 2012
11:49 PM
The sound of his soft breathing filled the silence of the bedroom, the steady rhythm working its way into her thoughts and infiltrating her psyche. She lay with her back to his sleeping form as she stared blankly at the wall, tears streaming silently down her face. Her mind turned over and over in the darkness, racing to recall who she was and how she got here. How had this happened, her body lying on someone else’s bed in a scratchy gray lace nightgown, her hair long and black? How had she ended up having the kind of sex last night that left her curled into a fetal position and wanting to crawl out of her skin? How had she ended up in a relationship with a man who made her feel insignificant, who weaponized her every insecurity?
A cold sense of dread gripped her heart. How had she become this? Was this all she was now, a facsimile of someone else’s fantasy?
Everything she wore, every way she acted was because of him. Her clothing and mannerisms catered to his whims and wishes. She perfectly reflected his ideas of what a Latina girl should wear, how a trans girl should have sex, how she should act and what her mannerisms should be. She scrambled to remember what it was that she had wanted out of her life, her transition. What had she wanted to become? Could she even remember?
All she could recall from the frantic search of her memory was a vague direction that she wanted her life to go when she came out. Her coming out had been a fear-stricken one, yes, but it had also been hopeful, with many dreams about what she wanted to do and what she could become. So many of those dreams had been immediately crushed by the weight of the world. He had been there in the wake of the suffocating hatred and prejudice she had faced from the intersection of her gender and ethnicity – the stares, the catcalls, the hateful words and violent threats. He had told her that she was beautiful, that she was intelligent. He said that he would take care of her, that he was the only one she would ever need.
Slowly but surely, over time it had changed. Beautiful became beautiful in black lace, honey you never wear anything pretty anymore, why don’t you act like a woman anymore? A stated desire to take care of her revealed itself as a desire to monopolize all her time until she had almost no friends outside of his, no interests outside of what he allowed. Even when he wasn’t here in person, he filled her digital world. The backhanded compliments that undercut her confidence, the subtle threats that left her walking on eggshells even if she couldn’t consciously identify why, the isolation – he had left her craving desperately for his love and approval. He had expertly pruned the authentic parts of her away until she had almost nothing of her own left. All of her self-worth was based on how well she performed to his fantasy of the idealized Latina, the idealized trans woman. That was how she had gotten here, to the place where she couldn’t even remember who she was anymore.
Here she was, chained to the bed by fears and insecurities which he had helped cultivate. They grew like weeds around her stationary form, constricting her heart with terror. She knew what she wanted and needed to do, but did she have the resolve?
She reached for her phone, moving at a snail’s pace so as not to disturb him. The phone was held beneath the covers to block the light from reaching his eyes.
Compose Text:She waited with bated breath and a ball of anxiety hovering in her sternum. What if she said no? What if, like all her other friends, she had decided she was a lost cause and abandoned her for more worthwhile pursuits? The cold hand of dread gripped her heart tighter. She didn’t know what she was going to do if her friend said no.
hey, can i stay over tonight?
A few minutes later, her phone lit up again. Her heart lightened for the first time that night as she read the text.
New Text:Relief flooded through her limbs, invigorating her and giving hew new energy. He had drained the energy from her limbs and the color from her life, but now she had a way out.
Of course :) stay as long as u need, do u need me to pick u up?
Compose Text:She didn’t want to give him any clues as to where she had gone, both for her sake and her friend’s sake, and he might ask around for that kind of thing when he woke up.
no, i’ll take the bus
Moving softly and slowly, she slid off the bed and tiptoed over to her backpack. Though she wasn’t living here at his apartment, she kept a few things here for when she visited him. She didn’t care that much about the stuff, but she didn’t want to give him any reason to get in contact with her, and returning an item of hers would be a plausible excuse. Her heart pounded in her breast – shit, can he hear that? – as she moved around the room as quietly as she could. He was a fairly heavy sleeper, but she still held her breath and stifled her footsteps as she stuffed her possessions into her bag.
The door creaked slightly as she opened it. Shit-
He stirred slightly but kept his eyes closed. She let out a silent sigh of relief and left the room.
Once in the entryway, she tore the nightgown off her body and fished around in her backpack for street clothes. After a moment she came up with a tank top, a pair of jeans, and a simple jacket. It was fairly plain, but it was better than what he wanted her to wear. At least it didn’t feel artificial, like a crude mimic of someone else’s style and reality.
She held up the gray nightgown briefly, feeling the scratchy lace detail. She was pretty sure he had gotten it at a sex shop, insisting she would “look hot” in it. That’s all I was to you, wasn’t I? A fetish object? Well, enjoy your fantasy.
She tossed the nightgown into the corner and closed the door quietly on her way out.
~*~
“Alista Sabina, I thought I might never see you again!”
Her friend had been waiting for her at the bus stop, greeting her with a bear hug that made her want to break down and cry from sheer relief. He had been wrong: someone did still want her.
The two of them walked up to the apartment in silence, Alista still too deep inside herself to really say anything. She didn’t really feel anything yet, just numbness and a vague sense of terror. What if he decided to come after her, track her down and discover who she was staying with? How much danger would that put her friend in? How did she even remotely deserve this hospitality?
They entered the warm-colored apartment with soft yellow walls, the couch already made up into a bed. Her friend gently slipped the backpack off her shoulders and sat down on the couch, patting the sheets next to her. Alista walked over and sat down next to her, eyes glazed over as she stared off into the distance in front of her.
After a moment, her friend asked in a soft voice, “What made you finally decide to leave?”
“I-“ How could she explain why she had left tonight, after enduring a year and half of the same abuse? Did she even know? “I just, I couldn’t- I can’t-“ Her voice broke. What was she even saying?
“Hey, it’s okay, take your time. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” Her friend set a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Okay.” Alista’s voice was soft and flat, almost dead. “Thank you.”
Her friend looked at her for a moment, then: “Let me know if you need anything.” She got up and fetched a book from the other room, curling up in a puffy chair in the corner. Alista appreciated it; she was terrified to be left alone, but at the same time didn’t know what to say to her.
Was she supposed to feel something? Elated, maybe? All she felt was numb. She pulled her phone out of her pocket, mindlessly playing around with the apps. Alista supposed she should block him while she was at it. How did she do that? She opened Google and searched “block on android.” Better to do it sooner rather than later.
Her skin felt hot, so she slipped off the denim jacket. Alista held the rough in her hands for a moment, an idea forming in her mind.
She stood up and walked into the kitchen, possessed by a sudden urge. Scissors, scissors, where are scissors? She loudly opened each drawer and riffed through it, not finding anything. Shit, where are the fucking scissors?!
“What are you looking for?” her friend asked, a touch of bemusement to her voice.
“Uh-“ Should Alista explain why she suddenly needed scissors, or just ask where they were? “Do you have scissors?”
“Sure do.” She retrieved a pair from the top of the microwave.
Oh wow, how did I miss that? “Thanks,” Alista responded, some color coming back into her voice.
She grabbed the scissors and went into the bathroom with single-minded determination. She made an incision in the top of each sleeve and cut around, letting the excess material fall heavily to the floor. Frayed ends, how do I fray the ends? The jacket made loud noises of impact as she beat the edges against the counter. They needed to fray, because she needed to see herself – not a horrifying image of maleness, not a soul-killing submissive Latina fantasy, but herself. Alista knew she was buried somewhere underneath the thick layers of façade she had laid upon her body. This might help bring her out.
When her still-bemused friend walked in and leaned against the doorframe, Alista was continuing to fray the edges manually. “Uh, what are you doing?” she finally asked, obviously reining in her curiosity.
Alista didn’t answer directly, but shrugged on the now-sleeveless jacket and did a little spin in front of the mirror. “What do you think?” she asked, appraising her own reflection. What she saw wasn’t quite what she wanted, but it was closer. It was a start.
Her friend tilted her head and looked at her a moment. “It suits you,” she said. “The frayed ends are a nice touch. Not sure what I think about denim on denim, though.”
“Yeah, I should probably pair it with different pants.” The numbness was slowly beginning to fade, away from him and out of reach of his influence. She grabbed a comb and tugged at the knots in her hair, playing around with different ideas for color and cut. Maybe it would look better parted to the side? She tried it, beginning to feel satisfied with what she saw.
“What are you thinking?” her friend asked, watching the scene with curiosity.
What was she thinking? I’m thinking I want to live my life without ever being someone’s fantasy object. I’m thinking I want to feel alive again, not dead inside and in constant fear of what someone’s going to say. I’m thinking I want freedom. I’m thinking never again.
After a pause, Alista spoke: “I’m thinking red.”
