Ferry Ride Prompt
Mar. 8th, 2025 10:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cathartesauraIt’s just a forgotten deck of cards on a busy boat. Cole an ignore them. She isn’t Hungry or even bored, really, and just because she can feel the hum of power to them doesn’t mean she has to pick them up. It’s just an itch. Willpower or stubbornness or patience should be enough to get her through the next fifteen minutes without touching them. After all, no one is supposed to notice that she’s flying the coup for a few hours, and it doesn’t take much for her to start leaving a trail these days.
She does not have to scratch the itch. She is not the girl who escaped to New York anymore. Time in faerie places tends to change things and she was always mutable. A person born to be a solution for a system burdened by the weight of other people’s bad decisions. She has not forgotten or forgiven the one who trapped and tamed her. Made a pet of her. But the hatred is almost a comforting weight now, different than the warm buzz of the itch that wants to be scratched.
Ten minutes left on the ferry ride.
Even in the swirl of tourists and locals, the smell kept seeping in to her brain, activating receptors and instincts that walk weird lines between the metaphysical and biological. All just to tempt her. She had assumed it was a tarot deck before, because it had a hint of the structure and the softness of tool that was not often used. Not worth this much of her time or attention, but she is trapped and the last thing Cole wants is to be aware of the human mass around her.
The deck of cards that is literally a deck of cards would be so much more interesting. Why is is it pinging her senses? Did some gambler get his cards enchanted? Was it somebody’s good luck token or a symbol of home and safety forged over countless hands of cards played in uncertain spaces? Something sentimental or one of those slightly more rare times where people actually use a standard deck for their divination.
If this were a more literal itch, there would blood under her fingernails already. Five minutes.
She can focus on other things. The way the rock of the ferry reminds her of gliding on her own unsteady wings. Thinking about being a thing with feathers is perhaps not the wisest choice if she wants to avoid the instincts of her other self. But it’s just a few more minutes. Moments really. She can stand and stretch and not look at the spot beneath a seat where the cardboard box is wedged. Turn her back on it literally, physically, and even walking away. Ignoring the impulse. Focusing on her goals. Escaping just a little bit further each time she takes the ferry.
She can do it. She has to.
She does not have to scratch the itch. She is not the girl who escaped to New York anymore. Time in faerie places tends to change things and she was always mutable. A person born to be a solution for a system burdened by the weight of other people’s bad decisions. She has not forgotten or forgiven the one who trapped and tamed her. Made a pet of her. But the hatred is almost a comforting weight now, different than the warm buzz of the itch that wants to be scratched.
Ten minutes left on the ferry ride.
Even in the swirl of tourists and locals, the smell kept seeping in to her brain, activating receptors and instincts that walk weird lines between the metaphysical and biological. All just to tempt her. She had assumed it was a tarot deck before, because it had a hint of the structure and the softness of tool that was not often used. Not worth this much of her time or attention, but she is trapped and the last thing Cole wants is to be aware of the human mass around her.
The deck of cards that is literally a deck of cards would be so much more interesting. Why is is it pinging her senses? Did some gambler get his cards enchanted? Was it somebody’s good luck token or a symbol of home and safety forged over countless hands of cards played in uncertain spaces? Something sentimental or one of those slightly more rare times where people actually use a standard deck for their divination.
If this were a more literal itch, there would blood under her fingernails already. Five minutes.
She can focus on other things. The way the rock of the ferry reminds her of gliding on her own unsteady wings. Thinking about being a thing with feathers is perhaps not the wisest choice if she wants to avoid the instincts of her other self. But it’s just a few more minutes. Moments really. She can stand and stretch and not look at the spot beneath a seat where the cardboard box is wedged. Turn her back on it literally, physically, and even walking away. Ignoring the impulse. Focusing on her goals. Escaping just a little bit further each time she takes the ferry.
She can do it. She has to.
