#brought to you by that one lucy dacus lyric- 'you called me cerebral/ i didn't know what you meant/ but now i do would it have killed you/

[grasslandgirl]

people asked for it, here’s my nauseatingly projection-filled fig meta

pov you’re fig and you’re cute and you’re at least semi popular in middle school which is a feat in and of itself and you’ve got a good solid group of friends and you all cheer together and go to the mall and have sleepovers and sometimes the boys on the teams you cheer for ask you out and you all go with your various friends groups and you and him sit in a separate booth when you get ice cream and hear your friends giggling from across the shop and it’s awkward but kind of nice bc he keeps looking at you and blushing and he says you look really pretty even though you’re kind of sweaty from practice and the skirt you’re wearing you borrowed from one of your friends so it fits kind of weird but you believe him anyway and you smile and you duck your head and you giggle about it with your friends at school the next day, flush with flattery and giddiness even you don’t really talk to the guy again after that.

pov you’re fig and the summer after eighth grade your scalp starts itching and then it starts hurting and then you wake up one day with horrible little nubs sticking out of your head like something out of a nightmare and you go back to bed thinking you’ve hallucinated it but when your mom comes in to badger you awake at 11 am she stops dead still in your doorway when you sit up in bed and your stomach sinks with the horrifying knowledge that everything is going to be different. she takes you to the doctor that afternoon and you hear his voice echo in the sterile white room when he tells you that you’re a teifling.

pov you’re fig and your mom and dad scream at each other every night when you’re trying to fall asleep and you like at the tender skin around your- horns, you’ve got horns now because you’re a- and when you meet up with your friends again for the first time that summer they all stop and share awkward looks between each other and it’s the first time you’ve been on the outside of one of those whisper-giggle-eyeroll moments instead of one of the crowd. You freeze, standing too far away with a plastic smile on your face, until they stop laughing- at you, you know with a horrifying certainty, they’re laughing at you- and beckon you over with greetings that ring false. And after that they start texting you less and less until the group crystal chat has gone entirely silent save from your handful of halfhearted attempts at conversation and you know they’ve made a new one without you. And the worst part is that it’s not as much a surprise as it should be, your friends have always been a little catty, a little cliquey, but you never paid it much mind because you were safely ensconced in the middle of the group, the cute little flier cheerleader who winked at the junior varsity bloodrush players during halftime and made all the other girls laugh until they couldn’t breathe- not one of the outsiders. Not one of the loners or the losers your ex-friends turned their petite noses up at. Not until now. 

pov you’re fig and your new reality doesn’t really sink in until you run into the guy you went on one ill-fated “date” with in the eighth grade at the park. He looks up at you, the same flicker of recognition on his face, and he starts to smile, starts to lift his hand in greeting, you see the beginning of a flattering ruddy blush gathering on the back of his neck- and then his eyes catch on the horns on the top of your head. And his expression shutters and his hand falls and he turns away, politely pretending his hasn’t seen you, but not before you catch the flash of what can only be called disgust on his face. And your world comes shattering down around your ears entirely. You never put much stock into being pretty- you weren’t the prettiest of your old friends, but upon reflection you weren’t the least pretty, either- but the loss of it stings anyway. The knowledge now that the first thing people think when they see you on the street isn’t oh what a cute girl, it’s oh god she’s a teifling stings. Pokes at a tender, self conscious place in your heart that you thought you’d armored over until your ex-friends glanced at you out of the corners of their eyes and laughed, like you were a pitiable joke. 

pov you’re fig and you don’t really believe it when people say you’re pretty anymore. All you hear is the tittering laugher in the mall cafeteria, all you see is the way your single-day-boyfriend’s hand fell when he saw your horns. People lie all the time- you know that better than everyone. They lie to make people feel better, they lie to make themselves feel better, they lie to get what they want. Even your mom and dad lie, guilt heavy on their faces. Your friends lie, squinting through rose colored glasses you’ve blinded them with. Maybe they think you’re talented or charismatic or even pretty in the right light now, but someday the truth will come crashing down on them like it did on you- you’re not that girl anymore. The skinny little cheerleader with a bright smile and who could look herself dead in the eyes in the mirror. You’re fig, now. The infaethable. You’ve got horns and you’re eyes have turned purple and you bear your teeth when you smile and you’re not as stick-bone-skinny as you were when you were twelve and still had to be light enough to be thrown through the air. You wear black instead of a school uniform and platform boots instead of white sneakers and fishnets under ripped jeans instead of a skirt. You’re cool and you’re punk and you’re scary and you’re- something. You pull away and turn your back on people first, now.  Because you don’t want to see the looks on people’s faces when the facade finally falls and they see who you are. 

pov you’re fig and you flinch away from your reflection in the mirror.