Plated Prisoner Quotes

You’re not the villain in my story.” “I am,” he says without remorse, his sharp jaw tight with tension. “But I’ll be the villain for you. Not to you.

When you drop a glass or a plate to the ground it makes a loud crashing sound. When a window shatters a table leg breaks or when a picture falls off the wall it makes a noise. But as for your heart when that breaks it s completely silent. You would think as it s so important it would make the loudest noise in the whole world or even have some ... Read Moresort of ceremonious sound like the gong of a cymbal or the ringing of a bell. But it s silent and you almost wish there was a noise to distract you from the pain. If there is a noise it s internal. It screams and no one can hear it but you. It screams so loud your ears ring and your head aches. It trashes around in your chest like a great white shark caught in the sea it roars like a mother bear whose cub has been taken. That s what it looks like and that s what it sounds like a trashing panicking trapped great big beast roaring like a prisoner to its own emotions. But that s the thing about love no one is untouchable.

A cage is a cage, no matter how gilded.

It’s the arrogance of men, to think so little of women. And it’ll be their downfall too.

I’ve wanted you since the moment I laid eyes on you, Goldfinch. I was just waiting for you to catch up.

Sometimes,” he murmurs, “things need first to be ruined in order to then be remade.

Shove down weakness, and strength will rise.

Men making deals on the behalf of women never seems to go very well for the women.

If you tried, you could shine brighter than the fucking sun. Instead, you’ve chosen to sit back and wither.

Find me in another life. Find me in them all.

You can have all the gold in the world and yet lack everything of real worth.

But memory and time aren’t friends. They reject each other, they hurry in opposite directions, pulling the binding taut between them, threatening to snap.

Love happens in all kinds of ways. Fast. Slow. In bits and pieces, or immediate. Filled with lust, one-sided longing, a snap realization never noticed before. Deeply. Thoroughly. Love is a whisper we didn’t hear or a sound that drums in our ears and drowns out everything else.

You can’t cut off the strings of your puppet and still expect it to move for you.

One person’s pain doesn’t negate another’s. Our heartaches are not competition, but the bridge to empathy. So that we can look at one another and know that on some level, we understand.

We’re all captives of something, even things we don’t want to admit to.

Kindness shouldn’t have to be earned. It should be freely given.

I wish I could string up the sun and keep it tied in the sky, but wishes are for stars, and I hardly get to see any of those anyway.

He may wear the crown, but I was the one who made it gold.

Life takes you on paths you don’t have a map for.

But I'll be the villain for you. Not to you.

But that's the curse of the survivors. We have to live with our dead.

Does it really matter if your cage is solid gold when you aren't allowed to leave it? A cage is a cage, no matter how gilded.

You don’t have to be cruel to be strong. You don’t have to be mean to seem brave. You don’t have to look down on others in order to stand tall. Having emotions does not mean you’re weak. It means you’re smart enough to let yourself feel.

I need you all to tuck your dicks in for a second and try to think rationally. Like a woman.

Plotting is what I'm best at. A good thing too, since I lack both of the traits that this world respects: power and a penis.

The problem with truths is that they’re like spices. Add a little, and it can enrich things, let you experience more layers. But if you pour out too much, it becomes unpalatable.

You're going to find out just how far you can be pushed until you're tipped over. And when that happens, when you find your edge, just promise me one things. Don't fall. Fly." - King Slade Ravinger

If you insist on lying, at least be better at it.

My own good hated me, fought me, argued with me, but I didn’t care, because I watched her slowly come out of her shell, peeling back one layer at a time, and it was stunning.

How did I mistake an owner for a lover?

Sometimes, you look at the silver lining so much that you drift into denial about the clouds.

You never notice what’s keeping you balanced until you realize you’re not standing straight anymore.

No, Goldfinch,” he interrupts. “I’m good to you. But I am every bit the villain that I warned you I was.

I’m ridiculously fun. You kind of have to be when the only person you hang out with is you. I wouldn’t want to bore myself.

Though, it seems to me that trying and failing is better than giving up.

He shakes his head. “No, Auren. You’re the one that needs to burn. You need to spark to life and fight. Stop letting him dull you, stop letting the whole fucking world trample you,” he shouts, making me flinch from the vehement demand. “If you tried, you could shine brighter than the fucking sun. Instead, you’ve chosen to sit back and wither.

The world taught me that things could always be worse. I learned to always look up, to take what I could get, to settle. I became too blinded by my bright sides to see the truth. Sometimes, you look at the silver lining so much that you drift into denial about the clouds.

If you’re a villain...then I’ll be a villain with you.

It’s time to start choosing me.

There’s safety in loneliness, but there’s a lurking danger too. One that doesn’t come from anything other than yourself.

You see a commander from another kingdom’s army coming toward your king’s favored, and your instinct is to back the fuck up?” he seethes.

I want to be so strong that I never have to fear anyone else in this world. That if I need to, I can make them all fear me.

I kept taking it and taking it, convincing myself that this was the way it needed to be. Lying to myself because I loved him, because he manipulated me. I’ve been bending over backwards for so long that I forgot I even had a spine.

You may not be behind bars anymore, but you're still in that cage. And I think part of you wants to stay in there because you're afraid. But I think another part of you, the part you repress, is ready to be free.

When you feel swallowed by the dark, may you become your own light.

I don’t choose him. Not anymore. I’m choosing me.

... You can't reason with feelings. They do what they want, forcing you to endure.

Having emotions does not mean you’re weak. It means you’re smart enough to let yourself feel.

Oh, Goldfinch, I’d follow you to the end of the world and tip right off the edge, all because of a crook of your finger.

I cried beneath my parents’ kisses, but they told me to go. To be brave. That they would see me soon. One order, one urge, one lie.

You are worth more than all the gold in this castle. But I still own you, and I will spend you any way I see fit.

I stare at him, not in fear, but in recognition as the beast in me rises up and answers to the beast inside him.

because there it is. The ugly truth that he never wanted me to know: that power doesn’t just come from magic. It comes from your own grit. And I have both.

But a simple friendship. Just two people who enjoy talking to each other, who can share stories and meet in laughter, conspiring only for one another’s amusement.

I don’t think gold’s your color, Commander.”  “I disagree. Gold has quickly become my favorite.

There comes a point in your life when you have to choose between having regrets and the possibility of making mistakes. I’d rather make those mistakes than live without ever taking a chance, because I’ve missed out on too much already. Taking chances can be like walking through a mudslide, where every inch of you gets stained, but regrets are the stagnant pools of deprivation, and I’ve been wading in them for far too long.

That’s the thing with trauma to the body—it shows up instantly. In breaks and bruises, in burns and in blood. But the trauma on the inside, that’s harder to see. It creeps around your mind, poisons you with disquiet. It can hit you out of nowhere, debilitating and ruinous. There are no marks visible for those. None, save the shadows in your eyes.

There it is, Goldfinch,” he purrs, and that dark caress is back in his voice. “You’ve finally found your fight.

Even the most powerful can be made to feel powerless.

Despite what I look like, I’m not a coin to be spent.

You’re so much more than what you let yourself be.

With the right person, there is power when you kneel. There is adoration with submission. There is balance with control.

That’s the thing about escapism. In whatever form, it always ends, and then we’re forced back into a reality that’s not nearly as satisfying.

Why am I so cursed to endure the greed of men?

Sometimes, things need first to be ruined in order to then be remade.

If only we could stop competing, stop the petty jealousies, stop letting men pit us against one another. Imagine what women could do if we started being loyal to each other?

I’ve been in a cage of my own making.

The blindfold has been ripped from my sight. Now, my heart doesn’t squeeze. My stomach doesn’t flutter. He broke something inside of me far more than just my heart. He broke my will. My drive. My voice. He broke down my very spirit, and I let him.

Careful," he says, baring his teeth in a wicked smile. "There's a saying about rocks and glass houses." "I don't live in glass, I live in gold. So I can throw whatever damn rocks I want," I snap.

I’ll be the villain for you. He is the epitome of death and revenge. The personification of rage. He destroys everything and everyone in his vicinity without glance or thought, and through the chaos, through the massacre, I revel in it.

Truths are like spices. When you add some in, it means you have more layers to digest. You get a taste of things you were missing before. But if you add too many, life can become unpalatable. But when those truths are repressed for too long, when you realize you've grown accustomed to the bland lies, there's no hope of removing the overpowering taste from your tongue.

He kept me safe.” “Safe.” He growls it like he’s a wolf who’d like to devour it whole. “Always the same damn argument. Yes, how magnanimous of him to lock you behind bars all day and call you his favored whore.

You’re mine, Auren. As wholly as I am yours. If there’s something you crave, if there’s some freedom you want to try the taste of, then you will do it, and I will be right there with you. Watching you devour your wants. And then I will devour you.

Shove down weakness, and strength will rise...

One should never decide something as serious as bangs when they have a bottle of wine in their stomachs.

You are the worst bad mistake I’m glad I never made,” she hisses. “And you’re still the best mistake I can’t wait to make,” I retort with a smirk.

Because that’s what he always does for me. He finds every aching part and helps me work through it. Even when I don’t want to.

Men ruin all of women’s best laid plans.

Why is it that a man can make you feel like nothing, when you have given him everything?

I promised her I’d be the villain on her behalf. So that’s what I’ll fucking be.

Mouth dribbles red life, breath like choked water. Blue-tinged lips to match his eyes as they rain. My heart shatters itself against my ribs. He looks at me, my teardrops landing on his. I sob. He shudders. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I cry. Lying for him, as he did for me. And with his last breath, he nods.

Maybe none of us truly know our own strength. Not until the world has hacked away at us. But the point is, we aren’t strong because of our trauma. We were always strong to begin with. We just needed to figure it out for ourselves.

She stares at me like I’m her lifeline. Like I’m her only hope of not being torn to shreds. But I will always ground her. I will always remind her of who she is. Because I see her. I always fucking have.

She settles my magic, calms my anger, calls to my fae nature. She’s a burst of light in my dark, erupting life in the rotting depths of my soul.  She is everything I don’t deserve.  But I’m going to keep her anyway.

But memory and time aren’t friends. They reject each other, they hurry in opposite directions, pulling the binding taut between them, threatening to snap. They fight, and we inexplicably lose. Memory and time. Always losing one as you go on with the other. I can’t recall what my mother’s face

Maybe I'm finally letting the words out because he breathed some of his unending confidence into me. Or maybe I feel bolder when I'm shadowed by night. I think some questions can't bear to face the light. It's easier for hesitant words and feared answers to be given in the dark. At least then, we can hide them in the shadows - hide ourselves from them.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. The silence, the scrutiny, the confessions lying at my feet like plucked fruit left to rot. “Are you going to say anything? I just admitted that I want you, and you’re just standing there.” Slade blinks. “I was processing.

Are you a princess?” an older girl asks, but I smile and shake my head. “No. Are you?” The children all scoff together, trading looks. “You think princesses live in the shanties like street urchins?” I lower my hood and give her a conspiratorial smile. “Maybe hidden princesses do.

I’m glad you’re choosing you,” he says quietly, and my lips part, like I want to swallow the rumble of his cadence. “You are?” I go completely still as he moves his hand and grips my chin, like he wants to make sure I’m paying attention. I am. “Yes, Goldfinch. Because I’m choosing you, too.

The smallest smile finally graced his face as he handed me a paper plate. Nestled in the center was a slice of lemon cake. I stared at it for a moment before a tear escaped the corner of my eye. Braxton laughed . “You are still the only supe I know to cry about cake.” I sucked down my sob . “There are very few things in this world which can move me to tears.” I hugged the plate close to my chest. “This is just beautiful.” Eve, Jaymin (2015-01-29). Dragon Marked: Supernatural Prison #1 (pp. 307-308). . Kindle Edition.

You can pretend a lot of things in life. You can pretend so well that you even start to believe your own deceit. We’re all actors; we’re all on pedestals with a spotlight shining on us, playing whatever part we need to in order to make it through the day—in order to help ourselves sleep at night.

Time changes with torment. It stretches on, lengthening seconds, extending minutes. I’ve learned that pain and fear have a way of prolonging. And as if that weren’t cruel enough, our minds make sure we relive those moments again and again and again, long after they’ve passed.  What a bastard, time is.

When I chose to hide away, I was barely more than a girl. Vulnerable. Battered. Scattered. Utterly sick of what the world had to offer. So I hid in a cage, and I was content to do so. After the things I endured, I wanted it. I accepted the bars, embraced them, even - not to keep me in, but to keep others out.

I want all of you,” he tells me, a newfound hunger in the depths of his green eyes that stirs heat beneath my skin. “Every piece, every memory, every minute, every inch. This isn’t going to be some casual dalliance. This isn’t going to be temporary. I want you soul, mind, and body. I want your trust and your thoughts. I want your past, your present, your future. So make very certain that you want me for the right reasons. Be certain that you’re choosing this, because once you do, there’s no turning back.

I mean “God” as Jane Kenyon described God: “I am food on the prisoner’s plate . . . / the patient gardener / of the dry and weedy garden . . . / the stone step, / the latch, and the working hinge.” I mean “God” as shorthand for the Good, for the animating energy of love; for Life, for the light that radiates from within people and from above; in the energies of nature, even in our rough, messy selves.

Insomniacs should not be forced to exist in a realm with reflective glass. From the first look I’m boxed in a prism, rainbows charming the other dark-circled self into sharing my prison. One eye turns on the other, each accusing the other of being responsible for an appearance oddly elfin, before exiting head and bouncing like lottery balls through the mirror walls and then drifting up and out the open and unguarded Well of the Wyrd. There, everyone with mirrors and mushrooms is waiting for me, faded and dissolved into giggles.

We’re women in a man’s world. I’m sure you know how that is.” I dip my chin. “I do.” “Good,” she says with a terse nod, the shaven blades in her scalp stabbing down with the movement. “Then you know that we have two options.” She lifts a finger. “The first is, we can conform. Be what they want, act to please. It’s the safe option.” I fidget on my feet. Every part of me is listening, attention rapt, though uneasiness mingles alongside my intrigue. “And option two?” She holds up a second finger, but instead of doing it on the same hand, she raises her other. I don’t know why that feels significant, but it does. “Option two is harder. It’s harder for us,” she admits, looking me straight in the eye. “There will always be someone who will try to make us choose option one. But don’t. Don’t lie down to make it easier for the world to keep you under its thumb. Own your shit and choose yourself.

That's how, on the second-to-last day of the job, the convict crew that tarred the plate-factory roof in 1950 ending up sitting in a row at ten o'clock on a spring morning, drinking Black Label beer supplied by the hardest screw that ever walked a turn at Shawshank Prison. That beer was piss-warm, but it was still the best I ever had in my life. We sat and drank it and felt the sun on our shoulders, and not even the expression of half-amusement, half-contempt on Hadley's face - as if he was watching apes drink beer instead of men - could spoil it. It lasted twenty minutes, that beer-break, and for those twenty minutes we felt like free men. We could have been drinking beer and tarring the roof of one of our own houses.

Can you hear it?” she whispers. I pause, ears straining, but all I hear are faint sounds from the city below and the constant draw of the waterfall at the base of the mountain. “Hear what?” And she smiles, through the tears dried on her cheeks, through the glassiness of her eyes. The sight is so damn beautiful that it’s hard to breathe. “The sun,” Auren answers quietly, tone filled with a tentative, innocent joy. One that you’re afraid of saying too loud in case it breaks. “She’s singing to me.” Emotion clogs in my throat as I watch her tip her head back again. Watch her eyes close. I draw a knuckle down her soft cheek. “And what does she sing, Goldfinch?” I murmur. Her smile breaks through like the sunlight above us. “The song of home,” she says. “The sun is singing the song of home.” My chest swells, and when she reaches a hand up and tugs at my arm, I lie back with her, situating until we’re arm to arm, leg to leg. “Listen,” she whispers. So I do. I thread my fingers through her own, and I listen. But my song of home doesn’t come from the sun. Mine comes from her.