title: this has nothing to do with happiness

summary: build a city and call it jerusalem. ― hogwarts winter olympics biathalon. vaguely inspired by richard siken's works. / i. take my body to the holy land [sprint ; victoire centric ; suicidal thought mentions ; agender vic ; second person]

words: 517

characters: victoire

competition: hogwarts winter olympics biathalon.

notes: so. i love siken so much i love genderqueer vic so much. give me punk rock victoire.

i. take my body to the holy land

this is not the end.

there's a person, here, who's not a he and not a she, with bubblegum hair cut into a bob and combat boots up to the knee.

people call them 'it', and they respond, "i am not an it. i'm victoire." but people say it, ititit. it like the rain that falls to the ground, collapsing and spattering on the pavement and on their nose, it is the devouring mouth on their neck, the stitched up smile and the clammy fingers wrapping around their wrist and grazing the bones just underneath. it is a wishbone, pulled apart, break the wishbone, make a wish. it is the bridge they stand on, creaking and wooden and they're contemplating jumping off. it is the secret that always gets told, it's the shattered lamp and the heavenly chorus, off tune every time.

they are not an it.

needless to say, you are them and they are you. you are victoire.

you're on a bridge, and the world is swinging, and the wood is screeching.

there is whiskey on your breath, and something tells you to go, to get off of the screaming wooden bridge, but you can't, everything is out of control, and it's raining, it's pouring, and this is england, darling, what else did you expect? it's raining, it's always raining, and the wood is creaking.

you've always been a thrill seeker, the wind in your bubblegum hair, and an hour ago people were singing to you, happy birthday, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear victoire, but everyone was sad because fred is dead and it's may second, fred is dead, it's your seventeenth birthday and you ran to the bridge when it's raining.

calm down. you don't want to die.

you've thought about it, sure, but you're staring death in the eye, and merlin, you don't want to die.

calm down. walk off the bridge.

come back to the bridge on a december night, when you're angry and tired and worn and you're not an it but you've just gotten home from hogwarts, and you're tired. it's snowing, but the river's not quite frozen.

lean on the bridge's ropes, stare at the water. wonder if you'd die on impact, if you'd freeze or drown or hit the currents. tired. you are tired.

calm down.

it is not windy out, barely a breeze, just snow settling on your now blue hair, and you feel at peace with yourself, for a long, long moment.

you turn your head up and swallow snowflakes. pretend its glass, but that's okay, you guess.

muggle poetry in your hand, the half frozen river moving below you, and siken is asking, do we simply stare at what is horrible and forgive it?

victoire does not know, therefore you don't know.

you think of forgiveness and horribleness and of the word it, itititit like a curse, like a horrible mantra, like an unforgivable, almost, but not really.

the bridge sways beneath you.

calm down. get down from that bridge, child. you might fall off.