A Realistic Pokemon RP
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“I take back what you have stolen,
and in your languages I announce
I am now nameless.
My true name is a growl.”
- Margaret Atwood
When she was a child, her mother called her Little Ghost.
And Lisette’s sisters, they called her Baby, swept her up into their world. Three Moon girls spinning around the kitchen to the tune of their father’s chastising, hysteric laughter, whispered words. Whirlwind girls, the kind of family people wondered about. They became myths, and Little Ghost became Little Hurricane became Little Ballerina, What Was Her Name Again? No one cared to learn, in case it spoiled the mysticism.
It didn’t matter—from childhood, Lisette knew exactly who she was.
She was the try-hard, who still fell behind in class until a doctor spoke to her mother, and Little Ballerina always remembered when she became Little Dyslexic. Where her mother failed—she didn’t know what to do, she only smiled weakly when her little ghost asked for help—her sisters persevered. They read to her, they helped her with her homework while she tried not to be so angry.
She didn’t want to be just another strange girl for people to look down their noses at. She wanted to be good, she wanted to be liked, and she wanted to prove that she wasn’t stupid even when her peers made fun of her when she tried to read out loud. She studied the way she danced and the way she drew, with a passion one wouldn’t expect from such a demure girl. Her father had always told her image was more important than the truth, that she needed to create her own identity. It’s what he said when she tried on her uniform for the first time, when she excelled in everything she did. It didn’t matter that they weren’t like the other families at the prep school, so long as they held up the image that they were.
They all existed in the sleight of hand.
He told her he was proud for the first time on her first day of school. She pushed herself harder than she should have, her sisters warned her about this, but she reassured him that yes, she was eating, yes, she was sleeping, yes, she was taking care of her body. They had yet to learn how good of a liar she could be.
When she was fourteen, her mother called her Disaster.
She didn’t need to say it out loud, or sign her medical bills with that name, because Lisette could see it in her eyes. She could see it in her hands when they waved around in exasperation, palms up, her mother surrendering because she didn’t know what to do, she just didn’t know what to do anymore. “You’re destroying yourself,” she said. Her father disagreed. He said that it was worth it, to achieve perfection. He wanted his daughters to be perfect.
Her friends gave their condolences, asked to see the injury, asked if she’d ever dance again. All she said was, “I hate the rain,” and they thought her poetic while she thought of long soaks in the tub, pain shooting up from her ankle. Thought of sketches in the margins of her notebooks, prima ballerinas and grand theaters.
It was five Moon daughters now. Lisette watched her sisters become prepatory girls just like her, the Make Father Proud Girls. She knew what they saw in her. The cutthroat who still had time to smile at the younger students, who still offered a helping hand when needed. Her existence stood as a testament to overcoming adversity and the power of hard work. She wanted to tell them that she was a house made of many rooms, and not all of them were so lovely.
By seventeen, she named herself Perilous, and her portraits became chaotic lines, dark greens and browns. She’d always been sharp, tearing out of the dresses her mother made her wear, her ribcage ripping apart her skin. She’s always been devastating. It’s in the way she returns her father’s letters unopened, the way she sneaks smokes, the way she curls a hand around a lover’s neck and squeezes hard. Within her is the potential to destroy but she’s still too soft, too eager to please, and too kind. Her smiles come sweet, but she is raw underneath, a wound wide open. She can’t pin down exactly who she is, what she will become, but she knows this—she is not who they want her to be.