Alabaster Pride
folder
Original - Misc › -FemSlash - Female/Female
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
2
Views:
1,811
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Original - Misc › -FemSlash - Female/Female
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
2
Views:
1,811
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
All characters and places within are fictitious and any resemblance to real individuals live or dead is purely cuincidental.
Alabaster Pride
Alabaster Pride
Prologue
Mr. Armistice Alexander Aloe.
What a wonderful, interesting name for a wonderful, interesting person. The kind of name that, when read from a list, you just couldn’t ignore. It was a name meant for a god, or at least some high powered king, or general, or both, from some long distant time. The kind of name meant for a history book, like Napoleon, or Adolf Hitler. Say what you will about them, but they had great, unforgettable names. Well so did Armistice.
And so did his wife Machete, Machete Wyl Aloe. The goddess of the runway, face of every magazine, (even those Goth ones that usually hated or mocked big famous airheads) an orphan, a survivor of cancer, a brilliant strategist and mathematician. She fit so snugly in with Armistice, or maybe he fit snugly with her.
Machete and Armistice.
My grandparents must have been some crack addicts for naming their children that. Well I’m pretty sure my Mom’s parents were, but seriously, big frigging knife and peace, and they played into their names like good cop bad cop.
Did I happen to mention they’re both supermodels? With the long legs, flawless skin, and smooth sultry voices, and to top it off they’re both well over six feet! My Dad just barely tops Mom by half an inch, but that’s probably because her hair is so thick it gives her a good two more inches.
She’s got bronze skin too, I don’t mean bronze as in spends all day in the oven baking until she gets cancer, again, I mean natural, deep honey skin only native people are allowed to have. She’s First Nation, by the way. Her hair is long and dark and thick, it might be crazy if the weight of it didn’t help keep in flat and straight on her head. She chops it off every couple of months, trying to keep it just past her shoulders so her head isn’t bending down because it’s so heavy. At least that’s what I think; she says it’s for fashion.
Dad, unlike my Amazon goddess of a mother, is fair. He’s got this thick, beautiful head of red hair he keeps in a neat style that has some funny name but I can’t ever remember. It’s short, really short, in the back, because my Dad says too many guys out there like the mullets, but it’s nice and long and curly in the front. His curls are beautiful and loopy, like what you get when you spend two hours and a million gallons of hairspray with a curling iron for prom. Some people, jealous no doubt of his magnificence, say he goes to bed with curlers. He doesn’t though; in fact he has to have the messiest hair in the morning. If he did wear curlers they’d come out in the middle of the night do to all my parent’s nighttime activities.
He’s also got these really cute freckles my mom likes to kiss. Not big clusters splattered all over his face, but small pattering of orange. I counted once, when I was little and just learning to count. I counted eighteen freckles.
My mom counts every morning now, right before breakfast, twenty three she says, kissing every one. Its kind of sickening to watch sometimes, but there would be something seriously wrong if I woke up and she wasn’t sitting on the counter kissing along my dad’s nose.
And, with the beautiful description of my famous, loving, sexually active parents out of the way we get to me. Their daughter, their pride and joy, the only person they love as much as each other. Me. Alabaster Aloe, I don’t have a first name, well I do but no one uses it. It’s Affection, Affection Alabaster Aloe, just like my dad is Armistice Alexander Aloe, all A’s, because my parents are psychotic, like my grandparents.
Yes, here we are, with me Alabaster, no Affection, Alabaster. My middle name, remember that. I’m like Mom in some ways, and like Dad in others, and different from both of them in the really important teenager ways that I just have to mention because I’m a teenager and that’s what I do. I’ve got my Mom’s beautiful thick black hair, which is why I know it’s so heavy because I get neck pains sometimes, and my Dad’s beautiful curls, except mine are wild and untamable and usually end up in my eyes and mouth more than in any kind of style.
My eyes, like my parents, are blue, but mine are kind of smoky, like grayish, Mom says the doctors thought I was blind for a long time, wouldn’t that have been fun? Born blind, just add it to my list of problems. Like being deaf, but we’ll get into that.
My mom was diagnosed with cancer when she was five months pregnant with me. At seven months she went into labor, I was born really tiny, the nurses called me Polly Pocket, that’s why my parents wanted to name me Affection, because they loved me so much, I figured it was because a headstone with the name “Affection” across it would look good in the tabloids. Not saying my parents didn’t love me, just not as much as they do now. What parent, other than the really creepy ones, really loves their baby when it’s first born?
Don’t get me wrong, a lot of people love their kids as babies, but you can’t say you love them as much as you love them growing up, because you barely know them. The creepy ones never change though, and they’re the ones who talk baby talk to eight year olds, you know, like those big puffy pink aunts you see on TV sometimes. Glad I don’t have one of those; all I have is my Uncle Avian, Avian Antony Aloe. My dad loves him, my mom loves him because my dad loves him, and I love him because he’s short.
Did I mention I’m a dwarf?
No?
Well anyway I was named Alabaster because my skin is so white, it’s also why everyone calls me Alabaster instead of Affection (yeck), because I’m more than just pale, I’m god awful white. Ashen pallor, grey eyes that unless you stare right into them and compare them to a blind persons eyes you think I’m blind, and thick wild hair that no matter what anybody says I love because it makes me look half mad.
Everything about me makes me look half mad. It’s great. I’m this little half wild person who looks like I climbed out from under some kid’s bed. It’s brilliant.
This particular morning, as I come down the stairs, taking extra slow care so my parents have enough time to finish the freckle count before I arrive in the kitchen, I think back over everything in my life, all my beautiful positives.
Okay, okay, no, you got me. I’m not happy at all. I hate everything, my hair, my eyes, my skin, my height, my mother and father who, despite everything, don’t see my great black void of happiness through their beautiful dreamy world.
I want to curl up and die. I’m just waiting for some sad person to not be looking where he’s going and accidentally kill me because I’m so small and easily missed.
Why do all the normal people get to die?
Prologue
Mr. Armistice Alexander Aloe.
What a wonderful, interesting name for a wonderful, interesting person. The kind of name that, when read from a list, you just couldn’t ignore. It was a name meant for a god, or at least some high powered king, or general, or both, from some long distant time. The kind of name meant for a history book, like Napoleon, or Adolf Hitler. Say what you will about them, but they had great, unforgettable names. Well so did Armistice.
And so did his wife Machete, Machete Wyl Aloe. The goddess of the runway, face of every magazine, (even those Goth ones that usually hated or mocked big famous airheads) an orphan, a survivor of cancer, a brilliant strategist and mathematician. She fit so snugly in with Armistice, or maybe he fit snugly with her.
Machete and Armistice.
My grandparents must have been some crack addicts for naming their children that. Well I’m pretty sure my Mom’s parents were, but seriously, big frigging knife and peace, and they played into their names like good cop bad cop.
Did I happen to mention they’re both supermodels? With the long legs, flawless skin, and smooth sultry voices, and to top it off they’re both well over six feet! My Dad just barely tops Mom by half an inch, but that’s probably because her hair is so thick it gives her a good two more inches.
She’s got bronze skin too, I don’t mean bronze as in spends all day in the oven baking until she gets cancer, again, I mean natural, deep honey skin only native people are allowed to have. She’s First Nation, by the way. Her hair is long and dark and thick, it might be crazy if the weight of it didn’t help keep in flat and straight on her head. She chops it off every couple of months, trying to keep it just past her shoulders so her head isn’t bending down because it’s so heavy. At least that’s what I think; she says it’s for fashion.
Dad, unlike my Amazon goddess of a mother, is fair. He’s got this thick, beautiful head of red hair he keeps in a neat style that has some funny name but I can’t ever remember. It’s short, really short, in the back, because my Dad says too many guys out there like the mullets, but it’s nice and long and curly in the front. His curls are beautiful and loopy, like what you get when you spend two hours and a million gallons of hairspray with a curling iron for prom. Some people, jealous no doubt of his magnificence, say he goes to bed with curlers. He doesn’t though; in fact he has to have the messiest hair in the morning. If he did wear curlers they’d come out in the middle of the night do to all my parent’s nighttime activities.
He’s also got these really cute freckles my mom likes to kiss. Not big clusters splattered all over his face, but small pattering of orange. I counted once, when I was little and just learning to count. I counted eighteen freckles.
My mom counts every morning now, right before breakfast, twenty three she says, kissing every one. Its kind of sickening to watch sometimes, but there would be something seriously wrong if I woke up and she wasn’t sitting on the counter kissing along my dad’s nose.
And, with the beautiful description of my famous, loving, sexually active parents out of the way we get to me. Their daughter, their pride and joy, the only person they love as much as each other. Me. Alabaster Aloe, I don’t have a first name, well I do but no one uses it. It’s Affection, Affection Alabaster Aloe, just like my dad is Armistice Alexander Aloe, all A’s, because my parents are psychotic, like my grandparents.
Yes, here we are, with me Alabaster, no Affection, Alabaster. My middle name, remember that. I’m like Mom in some ways, and like Dad in others, and different from both of them in the really important teenager ways that I just have to mention because I’m a teenager and that’s what I do. I’ve got my Mom’s beautiful thick black hair, which is why I know it’s so heavy because I get neck pains sometimes, and my Dad’s beautiful curls, except mine are wild and untamable and usually end up in my eyes and mouth more than in any kind of style.
My eyes, like my parents, are blue, but mine are kind of smoky, like grayish, Mom says the doctors thought I was blind for a long time, wouldn’t that have been fun? Born blind, just add it to my list of problems. Like being deaf, but we’ll get into that.
My mom was diagnosed with cancer when she was five months pregnant with me. At seven months she went into labor, I was born really tiny, the nurses called me Polly Pocket, that’s why my parents wanted to name me Affection, because they loved me so much, I figured it was because a headstone with the name “Affection” across it would look good in the tabloids. Not saying my parents didn’t love me, just not as much as they do now. What parent, other than the really creepy ones, really loves their baby when it’s first born?
Don’t get me wrong, a lot of people love their kids as babies, but you can’t say you love them as much as you love them growing up, because you barely know them. The creepy ones never change though, and they’re the ones who talk baby talk to eight year olds, you know, like those big puffy pink aunts you see on TV sometimes. Glad I don’t have one of those; all I have is my Uncle Avian, Avian Antony Aloe. My dad loves him, my mom loves him because my dad loves him, and I love him because he’s short.
Did I mention I’m a dwarf?
No?
Well anyway I was named Alabaster because my skin is so white, it’s also why everyone calls me Alabaster instead of Affection (yeck), because I’m more than just pale, I’m god awful white. Ashen pallor, grey eyes that unless you stare right into them and compare them to a blind persons eyes you think I’m blind, and thick wild hair that no matter what anybody says I love because it makes me look half mad.
Everything about me makes me look half mad. It’s great. I’m this little half wild person who looks like I climbed out from under some kid’s bed. It’s brilliant.
This particular morning, as I come down the stairs, taking extra slow care so my parents have enough time to finish the freckle count before I arrive in the kitchen, I think back over everything in my life, all my beautiful positives.
Okay, okay, no, you got me. I’m not happy at all. I hate everything, my hair, my eyes, my skin, my height, my mother and father who, despite everything, don’t see my great black void of happiness through their beautiful dreamy world.
I want to curl up and die. I’m just waiting for some sad person to not be looking where he’s going and accidentally kill me because I’m so small and easily missed.
Why do all the normal people get to die?