ultimate nonbinary lesbian femcel core winifred olmsted

Winifred stares out the second floor window of her bedroom into the endless ocean below and thinks of all the ways she could split herself open. She thinks of all the ways she could rend herself limb from limb from limb, gut herself like a fish, watch the blood drip down her arm, her stomach, from her eyes in the mirror and smile as her lips drip red. It would be easy, barely more than a pinch to start such a beautiful unwinding.

The way her eyes look back at her, like a caged and hungry animal, used to scare her before she died. The twitch in her hands at disrespect spelled trouble for her family, for her name. Her bloodlust was a problem to fix, something to beat or cajole or torture out of her, and even though its been years since she was a small child under her parents thumb, she still feels powerless.

 ...She doesn't move. Frozen like a statue in front of the window, her eyes green and empty like an emerald cut too deep and stolen of its shine. It makes her look evil, according to Edward. According to Viktor, she just looks stupid. their opinions don't matter that much, not like Juniper’s. But the German woman is not so forthcoming with compliments, so Winifred doesn't know what her eyes look like, really.

Something in her propels her closer to that watery push and pull, endless beating heart, a mass of seaweed and living creatures unable to be fully understood by anyone, just like her. Maybe it's anxiety from sitting still too long or maybe it's the feeling that she doesn't belong here, in this house that couldn't be hers, was never hers. Because she's never had anything of her own, least of all a home, least of all a choice.

And its not the point that none of the others in this cursed, wretched, always same, always stagnant house didn't have a choice in the grand of it all either. she passes them with a vacant, pleasant smile on her way down the stairs, and she is pleasant, always, and she is stupid, always. It doesn't matter that the woman she stares at, chooses, longs for in a way that almost scares her if winifred knew what the passion really meant-clasped hands, late nights, eyes meeting in acknowledgement and and and-it doesn't matter that the woman seems to let her be around seems to want her around, a housepet too old and mangy to replace-yet. Juniper is sitting on the couch writing by the door and still winifred can't manage to meet her eyes, still subservient after all this time.

But what does Time mean when you have all of it? Her thoughts wander back to her arm, perfect, unblemished, unscarred, her thoughts wander back to rending flesh, to blood, to making a mess right here in their picturesque drawing room, so loud, so vile, so that everyone would have no choice but to look at her. She would take all of their choices, screaming, writhing, in the blood and gore and red because none of it would stain anyway-nothing does-grabbing onto shirtsleeves and coattails and anything and anyone just to get a taste of being solid for once in her life, wailing and thrashing, till her voice was hoarse:

“IM REAL”

“THIS IS MY CHOICE”

“IM REAL”

Even though. Really. Time would laugh, they all would, at how strange Winifred is, eventually they would move on, the blood would be cleaned up, someone would help her to her room. Where she would be good and quiet and strange again.

She shakes her head, continues walking out the door, immediately bombarded by a flood of noise and the reasons why she never leaves the house: all the changes. Why none of them leave, except for short excursions where they hold hands and want to pretend to be human.

The last time Winifred went out, it was with Helliot and Ed, and women wore long skirts. The world was quiet, but still so loud, and it keeps getting louder. She has to fight the urge to bite and snap at all of the harlots making a fool of her-why does she try so hard if her effort is wasted, why has she been hated so fiercely if they are allowed to live the way they do, she hates them-she stares at one, arms wrapped like rope around a man in a leather jackets side, and she hates herself for the way she stares at the womans legs. She hates him too, and the woman, for letting him get so close, for taking away her choice.

Maybe in another world, Winifred could have felt something other than cold, empty rage as she drifted along a busy 1953 sidewalk, or anywhere, but this husk is one that only understands punishment, that was trained only to bite the hand, the one true girl anachronism, in her clothes, her hair, her face, her listless gaze. She is a feral animal given eternal life and whether this is just, or fair, or merciful is not up to her.

             It seeps out of her sometimes, she knows.

The wicked. Evil blank rot hungry stares and her claws reaching for something to tear apart in juxtaposition of the quiet smile and neatly pressed dress with its lace and bows.

That's why they avoid her as she tumbles down the boardwalk, a drone on its way to see the queen, a thief on the way to the gallows, a woman on her way to heaven-no, not there.

Maybe it's just her matted hair and lack of shoes.

The heat as she steps on the wooden planks of the pier is intense, each step burning, more so when she reaches the sand, making the journey feel more like a pilgrimage than a five minute walk to the beach. She moves slowly, almost dragging herself behind herself, but the pain is good. It's a choice. Winifred escapes divine punishment by punishing herself daily, hourly, every second. She can do this for herself. She does not deserve anything more.

….

The beach is pleasant. Mostly empty, too, except for a few families and the fleeting thought that its not empty, beaches aren't supposed to be empty so why would this one be, and not much scares winifred anymore- there's a buzzing in her head that makes it hard-but the thought that shes constructed an elaborate reality in her head and really, really?

She's still in that rocking chair, dead eyed and complacent, waiting for her husband to chastise her, or feed her more pills, or whatever it is husbands do when their wives are useless. She had no anger then, Winifred was too full of empty. It wasn't until he-

The waves rush out, and with them take the thoughts she's too ashamed to mention.

Winifred is sitting now, dress splayed out around, fingers, unaware of themselves, running through the sand. The little grains are endless, and so is she, but she is more so. The only thing bigger than her, small and weak and evil as she is, is the ocean, its waves flowing and crashing and pulsing like a Giant's Heart.

In the part of her that still hopes for things (tucked away under all the cynicism and screaming) she wishes it could rise up out of itself, pick winifred up in its massive, wet arms, full of all the life she’s lost and all that she still has left-however endless that may be- and hold her in the waves, and hold her like a fish, like one of its own, like she belongs.

This doesn't solve her problems. The anger. The hate. The hollow. That part is such a tiny part, and most of the time she refuses to acknowledge it. Most of the time she sits in the window of the bedroom in the house that is not her own and she wishes she was that part, but she is not.

she is giving her problems to something bigger for a while.