She knows he watches her. She can feel the weight of his gaze, and it sets a slow, deep fire in her soul. Unable to help herself, she adds an extra sway in her step, draws herself into a more dignant posture, and sends a flirtatious smile to a cute guy across the room.
Really, she shouldn't tease him like this, but part of her argues that it's only fair. He treats her far worse. At the thought of his treatment, she frowns, and an angry energy comes into her step. Frowning, she makes her way out of the building and slips out to car; even as she drives away, she can feel him staring at her.
Oh, she's in it when she gets home. A terrifyingly-exhilirating mixture of excitement, anger, and fear race through her, and she has to fight against pressing harder on the gas and speeding home. Still, her grip tightens until her knuckles are white. Finally, though, she arrives at her small, out-of-the-way house, and her observer stands casually in her doorway as if he's been there this entire time.
“Leo,” she frostily greets as she exits the car, but the fire in her soul has spread throughout her body. She feels as though she could set her house alight with a single touch, yet she gives the tall man the cold shoulder as she glides up to her locked door. Such a contradiction of temperatures; how can she act so cold when she's burning alive?
“Rose,” he softly greets, his voice an odd mixture of anger and fondness. She stiffens at his tone, and her eyes narrow as she stabs the key into the lock. He's angry? Despite knowing what she was coming home to, indignation floods her and feeds the fire into a roaring beast. Flinging her door open, she stalks indoors and flings her heels off. Behind her, Leo quietly walks in and softly shuts the door; his anger has always been quiet, soft, calm. Much different than her volcanic rage.
Just another thing she hates but loves about him. In all situations, he is calm and collected, the perfect illusion of control, whereas she is untamed passion, the perfect reality of lack of contact. It pisses her off how stupidly calm he can be, yet she admires him for it, which pisses her off even more.
Everything pisses her off. She welcomes the anger with open arms as she stares into his honey-brown eyes. They reflect the fire within her, and she struggles to hold onto the fury. As if sensing her weakness, he steps forward and tenderly caresses her cheek. She leans into the touch before snapping back to her senses and slapping his hand away; he watches, amused, as she strides across the room to get away from him and his stupid touches.
“No!” she snaps. “You can't keep striding in her, buttering me up with a few soft touches and some tender words, and leaving without a word in the morning!” Her words are harsh, angry, and bitter, but there's an underlying sense of pain and hurt. As much as she tries to hide it, she loves the man just as much as she hates him—maybe even more. Definitely more. While her hate can be smoothed away with a few sweet words, no amount of bitterness or abandonment can chase away her love.
He knows it, too. With a sigh, he leans against her counter and regards with a slightly condescending look as if she's a child throwing a fit. Stop this game, his gaze says, and give in to me like we both know you will. He, however, doesn't put these thoughts into words; instead, he says, “Rose, you know I am a busy man. I can't stay.” His words are even more condescending, and she bites back a scream of frustration.
“Stop treating me like a child!” she hisses. Her chest heaves with emotions, and he regards her with a cool look that only strokes the flames burning just beneath her skin. She knows that he's busy being a god or whatever, but she's good enough for more than a night of love! Right?
“Then stop acting like one. If I could visit more often, I would. You know that, Rose,” he explains softly, but his tone and gaze have lost their condescending edge. She frowns; does she, though? Her flames are slowly smothered by a blanket of self-doubt, and she turns away from him to keep the god from seeing her weakness.
“Do I?” she snaps back, but her anger is forced and has lost much of its fire. She craves his touch, yearns for his comfort, needs all of him, but she can't let him see that. Not yet. Maybe it would be easier to just welcome him with open arms every time he visited, but her pride won't allow it.
“Yes, you do. I'm not the one with another lover,” he quips back, and she whirls around at his accusation. The dying fire has been reignited, and this time he rises to meet her in her passion. Usually, the anger in his eyes would be enough to make her back down; this time is different. This time he's accused her of cheating. He has accused her! In her anger, she strides forth, closer to him, and sends him a scatching glare.
“Oh? Really now? Have you ever seen me with anyone else? I've been faithful! I haven't—why would you—I can't believe you would say that!” she splutters, too worked up to even speak. It hurts because she really has been faithful. Even if she doesn't think he's coming back, she doesn't touch another man, and it hurts that he doesn't recognize that. Why does she even bother?
“I—well,” he stutters for something to say, and the fire blazes higher with every failed attempt at speaking. He stares down at her and bites his lip. She stares up at him and narrows her eyes. Neither one speak for a few moments, but she eventually breaks away and paces angrily across the floor.
“Exactly. Maybe I should have another lover; obviously you do. Maybe you should just leave because obviously you don't love or trust me,” she snaps. As soon as the words leave her mouth, she stops in her tracks, shocked by her own words, and her anger dies out as she glances at the surprised god. He gazes sadly but fondly at her, and he offers her an apologetic smile so full of emotion that she has to turn away
“Do I need to remind you, Rose? I love you. Only you, and no one else. I'm sorry,” he softly tells her as he walks across the room. His arms wrap around her waist; she stiffens but leans into his touch. As she turns around and wraps her arms around his broad shoulders in a tight, possessive hug, tears leak from her eyes and wet the fabric of his shirt. They stand in silence, both clinging onto each other as if this is their last night.
It could be. Every time he leaves, she knows that she might never see him again, and the pain of uncertainty haunts her always. For now, though, she pushes those thoughts and away and instead pulls away to lead the god to her room. If it's their last night, she will make the most of it.
After their night of passion, she fights against sleep, but it eventually claims her. He stays awake, though, and watches over her as she sleeps. He thinks about if they'll ever meet again, and as the sun rises, he thinks about just staying with her and never leaving. As always, though, he gives her one last fond look before walking out the door and promising that next time he'll stay.
Always next time.
A Myriad of Stories
Moderator: Tea House Moderators
Re: A Myriad of Stories
Even the stars seem foreign and cold. Shivering, I wrap the blanket tighter around my form and hunch closer to myself, but I don't bother to move towards the warmth of the fire where everyone else sleeps. A muttered spell increases the warmth of the blanket slightly, but in the end I'm still sitting sitting on top of a snow-covered igloo. How warm can I get?
“You should be asleep,” Zyran remarks as he climbs up beside me, and I roll my eyes. He holds out a blanket, though, so I scoot over to give him room beside me. After a bit of shuffling, we're both situated under the warm blankets and staring up at the Kryous sky. Stars glitter, each one marking the existence of a realm; my eyes settle on Eroan, the brightest one.
Isn't it odd how the artificial realm is the brightest one? The magic forces of all those people shining across the space between realms, a beacon to any lost or wandering soul… does it really mean anything? I frown and let my eyes wander across all the other stars in an attempt to find answers to questions that have been unanswered for centuries.
“Do you think that there's a reason to live?” I whisper, turning to the hybrid sitting next to me. His black eyes stare into mine, and I can only handle the intenseness of his gaze for a few seconds before I look back up at the clear sky. Thankfully, the famed snowstorms of Kyrous haven't hit us yet, but it's bound to happen soon.
“No. But I'm not sure I'm the person you should be asking,” he responds, his voice a mixture of amusement and meloncholy. Sighing, I huddle closer to myself under the blanket. It's so cold. Isn't it fitting, though? We've been essentially banished; everyone we've ever known and loved is either dead or has turned their back on us.
And it's my fault. Swallowing thickly, I take a deep breath and try to distract myself from the thoughts of the past, and as a distraction, I ask, “Is there a reason to die?” Zyran hums in thought, and a particularly cold wind blows past. A shudder racks my body; it's so cold! The blankets seem to barely help. How can it be so cold?
Too focused on the chill in my body, I don't notice as Zyran shifts closer until he wraps an arm around my shoulders, and I tense up. He begins to pull away, worried that he freaked me out, but I huddle closer against him. For the warmth, of course. We sit, just starting at the stars, and I forget that I even asked him a question until he answers me.
“No,” he begins, “I don't think so. There can't be a reason for something so destructive. Besides, if life doesn't have a reason, death wouldn't either to keep the world balanced.” He seems more secure about this answer, and I wonder how many times he's thought about it. Just how much death has he seen? I glance over at him, and maybe it's my imagination or the reflection of the stars but it feels like I can see the dying souls reflected in his black eyes, his own pain hiding right behind.
“Yeah,” I whisper, unable to say anything else. Zyran doesn't seem to mind, and we stare at each other, just analyzing the emotions in the other's eyes. Once again, I find myself intimidated by the intensity, and I return my gaze to the stars once again. Now that I'm warm, the exhaustion of the day catches up to me, and my mouth splits into a huge yawn.
“Sleep, Droenix. You'll need your energy,” Zyran softly informs me, and as my eyelids slip shut, I shift to be comfortable resting on the male next to me. Before I can even really think about what I'm doing, I'm drifting off into the first real sleep I've had in a week.
It's also probably the only real sleep I'll have for a while. These next few months are going to be rough; who knows when we can go back home? How long will we be outcasted? Will they ever accept us? These thoughts swirl around my head as I fall asleep, and I gratefully welcome the ultimate, thoughtless oblivion of sleep. Later I can worry; now I must rest.
“You should be asleep,” Zyran remarks as he climbs up beside me, and I roll my eyes. He holds out a blanket, though, so I scoot over to give him room beside me. After a bit of shuffling, we're both situated under the warm blankets and staring up at the Kryous sky. Stars glitter, each one marking the existence of a realm; my eyes settle on Eroan, the brightest one.
Isn't it odd how the artificial realm is the brightest one? The magic forces of all those people shining across the space between realms, a beacon to any lost or wandering soul… does it really mean anything? I frown and let my eyes wander across all the other stars in an attempt to find answers to questions that have been unanswered for centuries.
“Do you think that there's a reason to live?” I whisper, turning to the hybrid sitting next to me. His black eyes stare into mine, and I can only handle the intenseness of his gaze for a few seconds before I look back up at the clear sky. Thankfully, the famed snowstorms of Kyrous haven't hit us yet, but it's bound to happen soon.
“No. But I'm not sure I'm the person you should be asking,” he responds, his voice a mixture of amusement and meloncholy. Sighing, I huddle closer to myself under the blanket. It's so cold. Isn't it fitting, though? We've been essentially banished; everyone we've ever known and loved is either dead or has turned their back on us.
And it's my fault. Swallowing thickly, I take a deep breath and try to distract myself from the thoughts of the past, and as a distraction, I ask, “Is there a reason to die?” Zyran hums in thought, and a particularly cold wind blows past. A shudder racks my body; it's so cold! The blankets seem to barely help. How can it be so cold?
Too focused on the chill in my body, I don't notice as Zyran shifts closer until he wraps an arm around my shoulders, and I tense up. He begins to pull away, worried that he freaked me out, but I huddle closer against him. For the warmth, of course. We sit, just starting at the stars, and I forget that I even asked him a question until he answers me.
“No,” he begins, “I don't think so. There can't be a reason for something so destructive. Besides, if life doesn't have a reason, death wouldn't either to keep the world balanced.” He seems more secure about this answer, and I wonder how many times he's thought about it. Just how much death has he seen? I glance over at him, and maybe it's my imagination or the reflection of the stars but it feels like I can see the dying souls reflected in his black eyes, his own pain hiding right behind.
“Yeah,” I whisper, unable to say anything else. Zyran doesn't seem to mind, and we stare at each other, just analyzing the emotions in the other's eyes. Once again, I find myself intimidated by the intensity, and I return my gaze to the stars once again. Now that I'm warm, the exhaustion of the day catches up to me, and my mouth splits into a huge yawn.
“Sleep, Droenix. You'll need your energy,” Zyran softly informs me, and as my eyelids slip shut, I shift to be comfortable resting on the male next to me. Before I can even really think about what I'm doing, I'm drifting off into the first real sleep I've had in a week.
It's also probably the only real sleep I'll have for a while. These next few months are going to be rough; who knows when we can go back home? How long will we be outcasted? Will they ever accept us? These thoughts swirl around my head as I fall asleep, and I gratefully welcome the ultimate, thoughtless oblivion of sleep. Later I can worry; now I must rest.
Hating Love
He hates the way she smiles. It sets his blood on fire, how happy she can look, and sometimes, he gets the urge to--oh, she irritates him so much, it's not his fault. He's not crazy.
He just can't stand her. Not anymore. It's been four months since she smiled at him like that. How unfair is it? Since when can you just smile like that at everyone? It's--it's--it's a sin! A crime!
Christ, he sounds insane. He lets out a breathless laugh, looks down at the picture of her, and shakes his head. Maybe four months ago, when he had been so in love and so euphoric, but not anymore.
He was crazy for loving her, sane for hating her.
But is this level of hatred warranted? He frowns, looks back down at the picture--of course. She violated their relationship, lied to him, deceived him into thinking their love was real! Then she had the nerve to blame it on him! It's his fault for not loving her like he should have, when he loved her more completely than anyone else could have ever hoped to achieve! He worshipped the ground she walked on, lavished her with affection, sacrificed everything for her--what did he not do for her?
A small, angry huff escapes him, and his hand tightens into fist at his side. He tries to keep a hold on his control, a hold on his emotions--God, he's so tired of losing control. He just wants to be normal again. He wants to forget he ever loved her, yet something keeps those memories at the very front of his mind, assaulting at every chance they get.
He hates her. More than he ever loved her because love is weaker than hate, hate is stronger and hotter and better and he should have never wasted his time with her. She wasted his time, he wasted her time, they screwed each other over--no, wait, no!
It's all her fault! He barks out a rough laugh and bangs his hand on the table. The picture rattles and falls over--distractedly, he picks it up and rights it. Four months ago, she stood in front of him and tried to excuse her despicable actions, as if there's any excuse.
Me, he bitterly remembers. Her excuse was me. Me and my supposed coldness. How else was I supposed to love her? Why did she not--how could she have just accepted all I have and everything I am and still want more?
So, yes. He hates the way she smiles because she used to smile at him just like that, except apparently not really because he wasn't good enough. It boils his blood that he wasn't good enough but someone far, far inferior to him is!
Or supposedly is. Maybe he isn't good enough. Maybe nobody is good enough for Her Majesty, maybe she's just lying to everyone with her stupid, stupid smile.
He hates the way that smile still makes his heart do flips and his knees weaken, desperate to bow before her and beg for forgiveness, to grovel on the ground before her. He hates how that smile brings back memories, except all of those memories are fake because she never loved him. He hates the way her smile still deceives him.
He hates the way he loves her.
Sometimes, like now, he truly does hate her. He wants to see her burn, slowly--he wants to destroy her very being and savor every moment of beautiful, cruel destruction. Only pure, writhing, burning hatred exists, and it takes over his mind, staining his vision red and threatening to destroy his sanity.
Other times, he just wants to bury himself in her center and drown in her essence; he loves and needs her so completely, so desperately, that he wants to devour her, simply so she will finally be his. He wants to destroy her in an entirely different way, and it comes so strongly that it blurs the edges of reality--there she is, her and her stupid smile, across the street when she should be at home under her boyfriend's brother.
This dichotomy between love and hate--he can't stand it. Oh, how horrible it is. Hating hate just breeds more hate, and hating love? Peace of mind has become the faintest whisper, somebody he might have known four months ago but whose memory now only lingers at the very edges of his mind.
Please, he just wants some rest. With a soft sigh, all the hate vanishes, back again to Pandora's Box until he cracks it open once again, and in its wake, a void, gaping and black and mysterious, appears.
What is better--to simultaneously feel infernal hatred and divine love or to feel nothing at all?
Perhaps neither. Perhaps both. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps--his life, just a bunch of maybes and unsurities.
Maybe it was his fault. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe he's crazy. Maybe he's not. Maybe she never existed, maybe she always existed, maybe none of this even happened and he's actually just hallucinated this entire thing, sitting in some white padded room somewhere. A comforting thought, really.
Can anything even be considered real? He hates the question, still he numbly slips down the wall and brings his knees to his chest to better ponder such existential questions.
Are love and hate real? They are not tangible, not quantitative--you can't say you have a thousand love units versus four hundred hate units. They both exist in relatives, relative to each other and other such intangible emotions. Love more than hate, hate more than love--what does it even mean?
How pathetic is he? A sharp, self-pitying laugh breaks him out of his existential crisis, and he struggles to his feet, the weight of his love-hate still weighing him down. Once again, he looks down at her picture, at her smiling face, at her arm around his waist.
Calmly, he picks her picture up and studies it. He takes in the way her blue eyes crinkle, the way her dark brown hair seems like liquid chocolate, how happy she seems to be standing next to him. Then, he turns around, looks down at the picture once again--and hurls it across the room. It hits the wall and then the floor, landing face up.
The glass has cracked and broken off; over his face, there's so many cracks his features are illegible. Her smiling face, though, shines clearly through all the broken glass.
He just can't stand her. Not anymore. It's been four months since she smiled at him like that. How unfair is it? Since when can you just smile like that at everyone? It's--it's--it's a sin! A crime!
Christ, he sounds insane. He lets out a breathless laugh, looks down at the picture of her, and shakes his head. Maybe four months ago, when he had been so in love and so euphoric, but not anymore.
He was crazy for loving her, sane for hating her.
But is this level of hatred warranted? He frowns, looks back down at the picture--of course. She violated their relationship, lied to him, deceived him into thinking their love was real! Then she had the nerve to blame it on him! It's his fault for not loving her like he should have, when he loved her more completely than anyone else could have ever hoped to achieve! He worshipped the ground she walked on, lavished her with affection, sacrificed everything for her--what did he not do for her?
A small, angry huff escapes him, and his hand tightens into fist at his side. He tries to keep a hold on his control, a hold on his emotions--God, he's so tired of losing control. He just wants to be normal again. He wants to forget he ever loved her, yet something keeps those memories at the very front of his mind, assaulting at every chance they get.
He hates her. More than he ever loved her because love is weaker than hate, hate is stronger and hotter and better and he should have never wasted his time with her. She wasted his time, he wasted her time, they screwed each other over--no, wait, no!
It's all her fault! He barks out a rough laugh and bangs his hand on the table. The picture rattles and falls over--distractedly, he picks it up and rights it. Four months ago, she stood in front of him and tried to excuse her despicable actions, as if there's any excuse.
Me, he bitterly remembers. Her excuse was me. Me and my supposed coldness. How else was I supposed to love her? Why did she not--how could she have just accepted all I have and everything I am and still want more?
So, yes. He hates the way she smiles because she used to smile at him just like that, except apparently not really because he wasn't good enough. It boils his blood that he wasn't good enough but someone far, far inferior to him is!
Or supposedly is. Maybe he isn't good enough. Maybe nobody is good enough for Her Majesty, maybe she's just lying to everyone with her stupid, stupid smile.
He hates the way that smile still makes his heart do flips and his knees weaken, desperate to bow before her and beg for forgiveness, to grovel on the ground before her. He hates how that smile brings back memories, except all of those memories are fake because she never loved him. He hates the way her smile still deceives him.
He hates the way he loves her.
Sometimes, like now, he truly does hate her. He wants to see her burn, slowly--he wants to destroy her very being and savor every moment of beautiful, cruel destruction. Only pure, writhing, burning hatred exists, and it takes over his mind, staining his vision red and threatening to destroy his sanity.
Other times, he just wants to bury himself in her center and drown in her essence; he loves and needs her so completely, so desperately, that he wants to devour her, simply so she will finally be his. He wants to destroy her in an entirely different way, and it comes so strongly that it blurs the edges of reality--there she is, her and her stupid smile, across the street when she should be at home under her boyfriend's brother.
This dichotomy between love and hate--he can't stand it. Oh, how horrible it is. Hating hate just breeds more hate, and hating love? Peace of mind has become the faintest whisper, somebody he might have known four months ago but whose memory now only lingers at the very edges of his mind.
Please, he just wants some rest. With a soft sigh, all the hate vanishes, back again to Pandora's Box until he cracks it open once again, and in its wake, a void, gaping and black and mysterious, appears.
What is better--to simultaneously feel infernal hatred and divine love or to feel nothing at all?
Perhaps neither. Perhaps both. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps--his life, just a bunch of maybes and unsurities.
Maybe it was his fault. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe he's crazy. Maybe he's not. Maybe she never existed, maybe she always existed, maybe none of this even happened and he's actually just hallucinated this entire thing, sitting in some white padded room somewhere. A comforting thought, really.
Can anything even be considered real? He hates the question, still he numbly slips down the wall and brings his knees to his chest to better ponder such existential questions.
Are love and hate real? They are not tangible, not quantitative--you can't say you have a thousand love units versus four hundred hate units. They both exist in relatives, relative to each other and other such intangible emotions. Love more than hate, hate more than love--what does it even mean?
How pathetic is he? A sharp, self-pitying laugh breaks him out of his existential crisis, and he struggles to his feet, the weight of his love-hate still weighing him down. Once again, he looks down at her picture, at her smiling face, at her arm around his waist.
Calmly, he picks her picture up and studies it. He takes in the way her blue eyes crinkle, the way her dark brown hair seems like liquid chocolate, how happy she seems to be standing next to him. Then, he turns around, looks down at the picture once again--and hurls it across the room. It hits the wall and then the floor, landing face up.
The glass has cracked and broken off; over his face, there's so many cracks his features are illegible. Her smiling face, though, shines clearly through all the broken glass.
Alive
With a sigh, I settle down onto the plush couch in my room, a cup of warm tea on the table in front of me. As I reach for it, the door opens, and I glance over at the form walking through my door.
"Droenix," Zyran greets, and I give him a warm smile before taking a sip of my tea. Its warmth moves down my throat, into my stomach, and spreads through my entire body. Letting out a content sigh, I settle further back into the couch and look over at Zyran, who sits on the edge of the couch and looks at me expectantly.
"It's always a pleasure to see you, Zyran. Is this a pleasure visit, or is there a reason?" I question, the words feeling too formal for talking to somebody so close to me. The unfortunate side-effect of a year of etiquette class, I suppose—being king has many little nuances and skills to it. With a sigh, I push my hair, which has become overgrown yet again, out of my face and drag myself out of my thoughts to focus on Zyran.
"Well, throughout our journey, you've taught me a lot about emotions and relationships and morality and, well, everything, but you've always danced around the subject of mating—sex, I should say," Zyran awkwardly points out, his black eyes shifting to the side and avoiding my incredulous gaze. Taken off guard, I take another drink of my tea to give myself more time to formulate a response, but nothing really comes to mind. Or, at least, nothing good.
Sex? I've never… how… why does this have to be a thing? Frowning, I scrunch up tighter against the couch and furrow my brows in thought. Eventually, I open my mouth and, slowly and hesitantly, inform, "Well, sex is when two people agree they're mutually physically attracted to each other and want to, uh, fuck." Based off of the confusion on his face, Zyran still doesn't understand, which means I'll have to answer questions. Great.
Honestly, I don't mind his ignorance—it's both understandable and humanizing. Having to teach him the relatively normal parts of life doesn't bother me; it's just that this is such an uncomfortable topic that I don't have any experience in. Feeling guilty about being unable to answer his questions, I anxiously tighten my grip on the still-warm cup, take another sip of calming tea, and peer over at the lost-in-thought humeri sitting on the couch across from me.
"How do you know if you have a physical attraction to somebody?" Zyran finally question, curiosity shining in his gaze. Biting my lip, I drum my fingers against the cup and try to dredge up some of past experience and vague knowledge to answer his question. Nothing comes to mind; guess I'm winging it.
"Well, when you see somebody in a specific state of undress or a particular position—bent over, maybe, or on their knees—do you ever feel the urge to get closer? To touch them? Do you get hot or have some sort of reaction in your lower area?" I ask, giving him questions to think about and hopefully obtain some sort of knowledge from. Judging by the realization dawning on his face, it worked—at least somewhat.
"Can you demonstrate? I mean, can you give me an example of something that would bring about such an attraction?" Zyran blurts out, a faint blush spreading across his pale cheeks. Gulping, I take another drink of my tea and try to keep from dying—a second time, might I add.
"U-uh, I mean, I guess?" I stutter, my voice cracking in the middle. Clearing my throat, I reluctantly unfold myself and set the almost-empty cup down on the table. As I shift to perch on the edge of the couch, I raise my shaking hands to the top of my dress shirt, and my eyes skitter around the room nervously as I begin to fumble with the buttons. About halfway down, my fingers begin shaking too much to really be of any use, and the shivers have spread to wrack pretty much my entire upper body.
Kismus, I can't do this. Swallowing thickly, I prepare myself to give up and apologize to Zyran, but when I refocus back on the large hybrid, he has already moved to kneel in front of me, his eyes full of concern. Wordlessly, he grabs a hold of my hands and gives me a questioning look; hesitantly, I nod.
Slowly, he unbuttons the shirt and reveals my chest in all of its thin, pale, scarred glory. His fingers delicately trace over the pink, raised lines slashing from my shoulder to the top of my hip, and I squeeze my eyes shut at both the memories and the sensations running through my body—a mixture of phantom pains, a ticklish feeling, and the oddly intimate and arousing light touch of a caring lover.
"Are you okay?" Zyran questions; his voice is low and concerned, tinged with an emotion I haven't quite heard from him yet. Slowly opening my eyes, I force myself to relax and give him a strained smile, and after a few seconds of studying my expression, he moves to join me on the couch and leaves my shirt alone.
"Sorry, it's just—it's so weird to think about it. Not even a year ago, I was dead," I quietly admit the thoughts that had been bouncing around in my head. Zyran slips an arm around me and just quietly sits; he doesn't offer any hollow words of understanding or sympathy. He just listens. "I shouldn't be alive. I have the marks to prove it—but here I am. A hero." The words seem hollow in my mouth, and I heave a rough sigh.
"Yes, Droenix. A hero because you saved me. Because you saved everyone. I can't say that I understand how you feel, but I can say this: I'm glad you're alive," Zyran seriously admits, and I stare down at my hands as I think about it. Slowly, I flex my fingers and revel in the feeling of movement, of life. I am here, I am alive. I can move my fingers, I can taste the remnants of my tea in lingering in my mouth, I can feel the warmth of Zyran's body pressed next to mine.
I am alive. "I am, too," I softly admit as I lean further into his side. Zyran gives me a shy smile, and I can't help but smile back at him. For a few minutes, we just sit in a comfortable silence, but I reluctantly shift to grab my cup off the table. Settling back against the couch, close to Zyran but not leaning on him like before, I slowly sip the cool tea and just enjoy the feeling of sitting here, with my tea and Zyran.
"Your Majesty?" one of the palace workers calls as he knocks on the door, and I jump from my position against Zyran, who also scrambles to stand up and put some distance between us. The servant walks in soon afterwards; upon seeing me in my partially undressed state, the dishevelled quality of my hair, and our flustered embarrassment, his face flushes. "Did I—I'm sorry, King Droenix. I didn't mean to—" the servant stutters, unable to even finish his sentence, and my eyes widen in shock.
Soon, though, I recover and let out a little laugh, once again assuming the elegant air of a ruler that I have grown accustomed to. "No, no, you didn't interrupt," I begin explaining, "because Zyran was just checking on the scars. Due to his unique and intimate knowledge of Corrupt-infected wounds, I decided to consult with him on any steps that could be taken to aid the healing process, and I suppose we just got carried away with reminiscing about our old adventures." Complete with dismissive hand gestures, an easy smile, and the casual fussing with my hair, I completely pass the issue off and (hopefully) prevent any future misconceptions about our relationship.
"Ah, of course," the palace worker sighs in relief before he straightens up and sheepishly smiles. "In any case, Lord Tyzero was wondering if you are dining with him or in your room," he relays the message. Glancing over at Zyran, I decide to forsake earning a slight favor with a noble—who, might I add, already has a portrait of me hanging in his grand entrance hall—for the sake of a personal relationship. Not very kingly of me, yes, but I'm just a temporary stand-in, king until the public's adoration of me wears off.
"No, unfortunately not tonight. Send him word that I have been struck by old wounds and will make it up to him at his earliest convenience," I inform the servant, and he bows before going out. With a sigh, I cross the room and rifle through my closet for a casual shirt.
"Are you sure? I don't mean to be an issue, and I know Lord Tyzero is important among the nobility," Zyran worries, and I wave my hand dismissively. I can sense his remaining stress, though, so I turn and catch his eyes.
"Zyran," I start, "no. First of all, Lord Tyzero already favors me quite a bit, and I'm sure the other kings wouldn't mind me dropping in favor among the people either way." I throw in a joking smile at the end, and Zyran sighs but remains silent on the issue. Satisfied, I turn back to the clothes and pluck out a casual red shirt, and without much of a second thought, I shruff off my current shirt, carefully hang it up, and place it on the rack for worn clothes to be taken out for cleaning.
"Your Majesty? Dinner is ready if you're prepared to take it. The kitchen has also included a pot of tea for you and your guest," a servant calls from outside the door. Hurriedly slipping on the shirt, I call for the food to enter and turn, and I catch sight of a vaguely blushing Zyran as I walk over to pick up the empty cup to give to a servant.
After the food has been set on the table and the cup has been taken, Zyran and I sit down on the couch, knees touching, for our first dinner together in all too long. We make amiable small talk as we put food on our plates, and a comfortable sense of familiarity settles over the scene. Flashbacks of many similar nights, eating together under the stars with only the dying light of the campfire, run through my mind, and from the far-off but pleasant look in his eyes, Zyran is experiencing much the same as me.
"It's odd how close this feels to all those nights in the woods. It's much better food, better everything really, yet I almost prefer being in the wild," I remark, an odd sense of nostalgia settling over me. With a sigh, I pour the tea into a new cup and bring it up to my mouth, but the steam and the heat radiating from the surface makes me pause. Meanwhile, Zyran stares at me with an unreadable expression.
"We should do this more often," he quietly admits, black eyes staring contemplatively down at his almost empty plate. I sigh, my breath rippling the surface of the tea, and set my cup down. The air has grown heavy with emotions, much different than how the night started.
"There are a lot of things I wish I could do more often. I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but sometimes I wish they hadn't chosen me as king," I admit with a heavy sigh before shaking my head and dragging myself out of the hole I threaten to topple into. "But I am. We should, I'll try to make time for it," I weakly promise, and Zyran places his plate on the table. He doesn't say anything, just wraps an arm around my shoulders.
We sit there in that silence for an undetermined amount of time, food almost all eaten and appetites sated, and I find myself yawning as I curl up against Zyran. Somehow, we end up shifting to a more relaxed (and intimate) position so reminiscent of all those nights before.
"I've never properly thanked you," Zyran suddenly states, and I shift to look up at him. "For saving me. No one else would have," he explains, delivering the rather depressing truth with a matter-of-factness that somehow makes it even sadder. Frowning, I push myself up into a sitting position to obtain a more authoritative position.
"I'll always be there to save you," I seriously promise him, adding, "because you are always here to save me. Beside, I enjoy your presence, and I'm not ready to lose someone else I lo—like quite yet." I clear my throat and run a hand through my hair, but Zyran seems too preoccupied wrapping his mind around the first sentence. Breathing out a sigh of relief, I grab the cooled cup off the table and take a sip of the perfectly warm tea.
"I'm supposed to be the one protecting you," Zyran half-jokes, and I laugh a little. Our relationship has gone far past just him protecting me; protecting the other comes as easily and as naturally as saving our own life. It's a bond deeper than blood, something indescribable born only from the type of vulnerability that break someone.
"I think we've gone past that, Zy," I tease. Zyran rolls his eyes at the nickname and stares contemplatively at me. His hand comes up, and his fingers gently run down my cheek. I tense, heart pounding for some unknown reason, and I swallow thickly. My eyes dart over to Zyran; his brows are furrowed in concentration on something before he catches himself. A blush spreads across his face as he realizes what he just did.
"Sorry, I just… sometimes I look at you, and I see your face, pale and lifeless. Blood flecking your cheek, chest torn open. And I have to touch you, just to reassure myself… Kismus, that probably sounds stupid, and I know we were in the middle of an entirely different conversation, but I just," Zyran rambles, the words pouring out of his mouth. He abruptly shuts up, and an uncharacteristic openness emanates from him. Then, I realize what he just admitted, and my heart cries out in sympathy. Setting down my cup, I force him to look at me.
"I am alive, okay? And that's not changing any time soon. You didn't fail in protecting me, Zyran. Look, feel," I softly urge him, wrapping my thin fingers around his thicker, calloused ones. He allows me to guide his hand to my chest and press it against my rapidly beating heart, and he visibly relaxes as he feels my pulse.
With my tea cooling off on the table, I reassure both myself and Zyran that I am, indeed, alive. Living, breathing, loving alive. Heart pounding alive, blood pulsing through my veins. Alive.
"Droenix," Zyran greets, and I give him a warm smile before taking a sip of my tea. Its warmth moves down my throat, into my stomach, and spreads through my entire body. Letting out a content sigh, I settle further back into the couch and look over at Zyran, who sits on the edge of the couch and looks at me expectantly.
"It's always a pleasure to see you, Zyran. Is this a pleasure visit, or is there a reason?" I question, the words feeling too formal for talking to somebody so close to me. The unfortunate side-effect of a year of etiquette class, I suppose—being king has many little nuances and skills to it. With a sigh, I push my hair, which has become overgrown yet again, out of my face and drag myself out of my thoughts to focus on Zyran.
"Well, throughout our journey, you've taught me a lot about emotions and relationships and morality and, well, everything, but you've always danced around the subject of mating—sex, I should say," Zyran awkwardly points out, his black eyes shifting to the side and avoiding my incredulous gaze. Taken off guard, I take another drink of my tea to give myself more time to formulate a response, but nothing really comes to mind. Or, at least, nothing good.
Sex? I've never… how… why does this have to be a thing? Frowning, I scrunch up tighter against the couch and furrow my brows in thought. Eventually, I open my mouth and, slowly and hesitantly, inform, "Well, sex is when two people agree they're mutually physically attracted to each other and want to, uh, fuck." Based off of the confusion on his face, Zyran still doesn't understand, which means I'll have to answer questions. Great.
Honestly, I don't mind his ignorance—it's both understandable and humanizing. Having to teach him the relatively normal parts of life doesn't bother me; it's just that this is such an uncomfortable topic that I don't have any experience in. Feeling guilty about being unable to answer his questions, I anxiously tighten my grip on the still-warm cup, take another sip of calming tea, and peer over at the lost-in-thought humeri sitting on the couch across from me.
"How do you know if you have a physical attraction to somebody?" Zyran finally question, curiosity shining in his gaze. Biting my lip, I drum my fingers against the cup and try to dredge up some of past experience and vague knowledge to answer his question. Nothing comes to mind; guess I'm winging it.
"Well, when you see somebody in a specific state of undress or a particular position—bent over, maybe, or on their knees—do you ever feel the urge to get closer? To touch them? Do you get hot or have some sort of reaction in your lower area?" I ask, giving him questions to think about and hopefully obtain some sort of knowledge from. Judging by the realization dawning on his face, it worked—at least somewhat.
"Can you demonstrate? I mean, can you give me an example of something that would bring about such an attraction?" Zyran blurts out, a faint blush spreading across his pale cheeks. Gulping, I take another drink of my tea and try to keep from dying—a second time, might I add.
"U-uh, I mean, I guess?" I stutter, my voice cracking in the middle. Clearing my throat, I reluctantly unfold myself and set the almost-empty cup down on the table. As I shift to perch on the edge of the couch, I raise my shaking hands to the top of my dress shirt, and my eyes skitter around the room nervously as I begin to fumble with the buttons. About halfway down, my fingers begin shaking too much to really be of any use, and the shivers have spread to wrack pretty much my entire upper body.
Kismus, I can't do this. Swallowing thickly, I prepare myself to give up and apologize to Zyran, but when I refocus back on the large hybrid, he has already moved to kneel in front of me, his eyes full of concern. Wordlessly, he grabs a hold of my hands and gives me a questioning look; hesitantly, I nod.
Slowly, he unbuttons the shirt and reveals my chest in all of its thin, pale, scarred glory. His fingers delicately trace over the pink, raised lines slashing from my shoulder to the top of my hip, and I squeeze my eyes shut at both the memories and the sensations running through my body—a mixture of phantom pains, a ticklish feeling, and the oddly intimate and arousing light touch of a caring lover.
"Are you okay?" Zyran questions; his voice is low and concerned, tinged with an emotion I haven't quite heard from him yet. Slowly opening my eyes, I force myself to relax and give him a strained smile, and after a few seconds of studying my expression, he moves to join me on the couch and leaves my shirt alone.
"Sorry, it's just—it's so weird to think about it. Not even a year ago, I was dead," I quietly admit the thoughts that had been bouncing around in my head. Zyran slips an arm around me and just quietly sits; he doesn't offer any hollow words of understanding or sympathy. He just listens. "I shouldn't be alive. I have the marks to prove it—but here I am. A hero." The words seem hollow in my mouth, and I heave a rough sigh.
"Yes, Droenix. A hero because you saved me. Because you saved everyone. I can't say that I understand how you feel, but I can say this: I'm glad you're alive," Zyran seriously admits, and I stare down at my hands as I think about it. Slowly, I flex my fingers and revel in the feeling of movement, of life. I am here, I am alive. I can move my fingers, I can taste the remnants of my tea in lingering in my mouth, I can feel the warmth of Zyran's body pressed next to mine.
I am alive. "I am, too," I softly admit as I lean further into his side. Zyran gives me a shy smile, and I can't help but smile back at him. For a few minutes, we just sit in a comfortable silence, but I reluctantly shift to grab my cup off the table. Settling back against the couch, close to Zyran but not leaning on him like before, I slowly sip the cool tea and just enjoy the feeling of sitting here, with my tea and Zyran.
"Your Majesty?" one of the palace workers calls as he knocks on the door, and I jump from my position against Zyran, who also scrambles to stand up and put some distance between us. The servant walks in soon afterwards; upon seeing me in my partially undressed state, the dishevelled quality of my hair, and our flustered embarrassment, his face flushes. "Did I—I'm sorry, King Droenix. I didn't mean to—" the servant stutters, unable to even finish his sentence, and my eyes widen in shock.
Soon, though, I recover and let out a little laugh, once again assuming the elegant air of a ruler that I have grown accustomed to. "No, no, you didn't interrupt," I begin explaining, "because Zyran was just checking on the scars. Due to his unique and intimate knowledge of Corrupt-infected wounds, I decided to consult with him on any steps that could be taken to aid the healing process, and I suppose we just got carried away with reminiscing about our old adventures." Complete with dismissive hand gestures, an easy smile, and the casual fussing with my hair, I completely pass the issue off and (hopefully) prevent any future misconceptions about our relationship.
"Ah, of course," the palace worker sighs in relief before he straightens up and sheepishly smiles. "In any case, Lord Tyzero was wondering if you are dining with him or in your room," he relays the message. Glancing over at Zyran, I decide to forsake earning a slight favor with a noble—who, might I add, already has a portrait of me hanging in his grand entrance hall—for the sake of a personal relationship. Not very kingly of me, yes, but I'm just a temporary stand-in, king until the public's adoration of me wears off.
"No, unfortunately not tonight. Send him word that I have been struck by old wounds and will make it up to him at his earliest convenience," I inform the servant, and he bows before going out. With a sigh, I cross the room and rifle through my closet for a casual shirt.
"Are you sure? I don't mean to be an issue, and I know Lord Tyzero is important among the nobility," Zyran worries, and I wave my hand dismissively. I can sense his remaining stress, though, so I turn and catch his eyes.
"Zyran," I start, "no. First of all, Lord Tyzero already favors me quite a bit, and I'm sure the other kings wouldn't mind me dropping in favor among the people either way." I throw in a joking smile at the end, and Zyran sighs but remains silent on the issue. Satisfied, I turn back to the clothes and pluck out a casual red shirt, and without much of a second thought, I shruff off my current shirt, carefully hang it up, and place it on the rack for worn clothes to be taken out for cleaning.
"Your Majesty? Dinner is ready if you're prepared to take it. The kitchen has also included a pot of tea for you and your guest," a servant calls from outside the door. Hurriedly slipping on the shirt, I call for the food to enter and turn, and I catch sight of a vaguely blushing Zyran as I walk over to pick up the empty cup to give to a servant.
After the food has been set on the table and the cup has been taken, Zyran and I sit down on the couch, knees touching, for our first dinner together in all too long. We make amiable small talk as we put food on our plates, and a comfortable sense of familiarity settles over the scene. Flashbacks of many similar nights, eating together under the stars with only the dying light of the campfire, run through my mind, and from the far-off but pleasant look in his eyes, Zyran is experiencing much the same as me.
"It's odd how close this feels to all those nights in the woods. It's much better food, better everything really, yet I almost prefer being in the wild," I remark, an odd sense of nostalgia settling over me. With a sigh, I pour the tea into a new cup and bring it up to my mouth, but the steam and the heat radiating from the surface makes me pause. Meanwhile, Zyran stares at me with an unreadable expression.
"We should do this more often," he quietly admits, black eyes staring contemplatively down at his almost empty plate. I sigh, my breath rippling the surface of the tea, and set my cup down. The air has grown heavy with emotions, much different than how the night started.
"There are a lot of things I wish I could do more often. I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but sometimes I wish they hadn't chosen me as king," I admit with a heavy sigh before shaking my head and dragging myself out of the hole I threaten to topple into. "But I am. We should, I'll try to make time for it," I weakly promise, and Zyran places his plate on the table. He doesn't say anything, just wraps an arm around my shoulders.
We sit there in that silence for an undetermined amount of time, food almost all eaten and appetites sated, and I find myself yawning as I curl up against Zyran. Somehow, we end up shifting to a more relaxed (and intimate) position so reminiscent of all those nights before.
"I've never properly thanked you," Zyran suddenly states, and I shift to look up at him. "For saving me. No one else would have," he explains, delivering the rather depressing truth with a matter-of-factness that somehow makes it even sadder. Frowning, I push myself up into a sitting position to obtain a more authoritative position.
"I'll always be there to save you," I seriously promise him, adding, "because you are always here to save me. Beside, I enjoy your presence, and I'm not ready to lose someone else I lo—like quite yet." I clear my throat and run a hand through my hair, but Zyran seems too preoccupied wrapping his mind around the first sentence. Breathing out a sigh of relief, I grab the cooled cup off the table and take a sip of the perfectly warm tea.
"I'm supposed to be the one protecting you," Zyran half-jokes, and I laugh a little. Our relationship has gone far past just him protecting me; protecting the other comes as easily and as naturally as saving our own life. It's a bond deeper than blood, something indescribable born only from the type of vulnerability that break someone.
"I think we've gone past that, Zy," I tease. Zyran rolls his eyes at the nickname and stares contemplatively at me. His hand comes up, and his fingers gently run down my cheek. I tense, heart pounding for some unknown reason, and I swallow thickly. My eyes dart over to Zyran; his brows are furrowed in concentration on something before he catches himself. A blush spreads across his face as he realizes what he just did.
"Sorry, I just… sometimes I look at you, and I see your face, pale and lifeless. Blood flecking your cheek, chest torn open. And I have to touch you, just to reassure myself… Kismus, that probably sounds stupid, and I know we were in the middle of an entirely different conversation, but I just," Zyran rambles, the words pouring out of his mouth. He abruptly shuts up, and an uncharacteristic openness emanates from him. Then, I realize what he just admitted, and my heart cries out in sympathy. Setting down my cup, I force him to look at me.
"I am alive, okay? And that's not changing any time soon. You didn't fail in protecting me, Zyran. Look, feel," I softly urge him, wrapping my thin fingers around his thicker, calloused ones. He allows me to guide his hand to my chest and press it against my rapidly beating heart, and he visibly relaxes as he feels my pulse.
With my tea cooling off on the table, I reassure both myself and Zyran that I am, indeed, alive. Living, breathing, loving alive. Heart pounding alive, blood pulsing through my veins. Alive.
Deception
'Ey, ya boy just got a computer, so now I can actually type these out instead of having to tap away on my tablet or phone. The privileges of dating a generous lad I suppose. Also yeah I have no idea what this is, but enjoy it either way.
So here's the thing. I'm 100% sure that this is all a lie. I know that sounds crazy and paranoid, but think about it. What proof do we have that any of this exists?
Of course, what proof do i have that none of this does?
It's just so impossible to believe, I don't even know if I quite believe myself either. Maybe this is the final straw, I've finally had the meltdown everyone has been waiting for. Look, I'm not crazy, okay? I just can't explain what I've seen in any other way.
Then again, that's assuming that I did even see it. Maybe I didn't and maybe I just need a vacation like everyone always says. Or maybe I did see it and we're all being lied to by the people we've known and worked with for years. By our brethren. Which thought is worse? That I've finally snapped, or that we're being lied to? I'm not sure, honestly.
Oh, Christ, I don't know anything anymore. I know I said I'm 100% sure, and I am. Part of me is, at least. Part of me is completely convinced that all of this is a lie, and I'm not sure whether this part of me is a result of my paranoia and fatigue or if it comes from my perception and intelligence. Maybe a mixture of both. Maybe this part of me isn't even really me after all.
I haven't even described what started all of this, have I? Forgive me, I'm certainly more than a little frazzled. I'm not even sure that I want to relive that experience, but what would be the point of writing this letter otherwise? Maybe I shouldn't be doing this... no, no. I have to go through with this.
Last week, I had trouble sleeping. About three in the morning, I rose from my bed and decided that maybe a stroll through the hallways would clear my head, or maybe a visit to the recreation room for some early morning reading would be appropriate. I meandered the corridors for a bit, unable to find comfort in the minimalist halls so often decorating these research facilities. I suppose I had wandered a bit too far, out of the habitation halls and into the entrance of the examination hall. Usually, it remains closed until the head of research unlocks it.
That night, it was open.
My first thought had been that maybe I'm not the only one suffering with insomnia, but upon further inspection I noticed the marks on the doors. Deep, gouging marks, like someone--or something--had pried them open. Judging by the direction of the damage, it had come from the inside. Something got out. What, I had no idea, because up until then I had no knowledge of any creature that bestial and dangerous. Our focus was on the possibility of advancing evolution, on providing the right kind of environments and alterations to make a thousand years of adaptations occur in just one.
It goes deeper, though. Of course it goes deeper! We all questioned why the government would put so many valuable scientists on this project, why so many resources went into it, why they went through all the trouble to keep it such a secret, but we were also placated and blinded by their lies. How laughable to think the government would do this just to reverse extinction or whatever lies they fed us!
They're creating a war machine, and it just got out.
Naturally, I had begun to panic. These realizations have slowly set in; all I knew at that moment was that something big, clawed, and probably hungry was roaming the compounds. I set out to the director's cabin immediately, and upon getting there, I found it open. He was nowhere to be found within the room, and it could have only been about four or maybe five in the morning. Frantic, I set out a compound-wide search of someone to tell, or maybe some dead bodies to prove that I hadn't gone insane. I found nothing. By the time I made my way back to the examination entrance, fellow scientists had begun their day's work.
The doors had been fixed. There was no sign of the damage anywhere, and I haven't seen any sign of the beast since. Nor have I heard any stories. Surely something that big can't just disappear... can it?
Maybe if it had never existed in the first place. Maybe it was just a really elaborate dream, except I didn't back to sleep that day. Or at all, really. Has it all just been a dream? Am I still dreaming now? Are we all just dreaming? Do... oh, I apologize. I didn't mean to go off on that tangent, I just don't know anymore.
If you get this, be on the lookout. Don't go out at night. And, more importantly, open your eyes. Open your ears. Be wary of everything and everyone. No one is trustworthy anymore, they're all working together to keep this under wraps. You might even be with them, but I have to take this chance. Whatever you do, don't fall under their trap. Get out while you still can, and don't worry about me.
I'm already gone.
So here's the thing. I'm 100% sure that this is all a lie. I know that sounds crazy and paranoid, but think about it. What proof do we have that any of this exists?
Of course, what proof do i have that none of this does?
It's just so impossible to believe, I don't even know if I quite believe myself either. Maybe this is the final straw, I've finally had the meltdown everyone has been waiting for. Look, I'm not crazy, okay? I just can't explain what I've seen in any other way.
Then again, that's assuming that I did even see it. Maybe I didn't and maybe I just need a vacation like everyone always says. Or maybe I did see it and we're all being lied to by the people we've known and worked with for years. By our brethren. Which thought is worse? That I've finally snapped, or that we're being lied to? I'm not sure, honestly.
Oh, Christ, I don't know anything anymore. I know I said I'm 100% sure, and I am. Part of me is, at least. Part of me is completely convinced that all of this is a lie, and I'm not sure whether this part of me is a result of my paranoia and fatigue or if it comes from my perception and intelligence. Maybe a mixture of both. Maybe this part of me isn't even really me after all.
I haven't even described what started all of this, have I? Forgive me, I'm certainly more than a little frazzled. I'm not even sure that I want to relive that experience, but what would be the point of writing this letter otherwise? Maybe I shouldn't be doing this... no, no. I have to go through with this.
Last week, I had trouble sleeping. About three in the morning, I rose from my bed and decided that maybe a stroll through the hallways would clear my head, or maybe a visit to the recreation room for some early morning reading would be appropriate. I meandered the corridors for a bit, unable to find comfort in the minimalist halls so often decorating these research facilities. I suppose I had wandered a bit too far, out of the habitation halls and into the entrance of the examination hall. Usually, it remains closed until the head of research unlocks it.
That night, it was open.
My first thought had been that maybe I'm not the only one suffering with insomnia, but upon further inspection I noticed the marks on the doors. Deep, gouging marks, like someone--or something--had pried them open. Judging by the direction of the damage, it had come from the inside. Something got out. What, I had no idea, because up until then I had no knowledge of any creature that bestial and dangerous. Our focus was on the possibility of advancing evolution, on providing the right kind of environments and alterations to make a thousand years of adaptations occur in just one.
It goes deeper, though. Of course it goes deeper! We all questioned why the government would put so many valuable scientists on this project, why so many resources went into it, why they went through all the trouble to keep it such a secret, but we were also placated and blinded by their lies. How laughable to think the government would do this just to reverse extinction or whatever lies they fed us!
They're creating a war machine, and it just got out.
Naturally, I had begun to panic. These realizations have slowly set in; all I knew at that moment was that something big, clawed, and probably hungry was roaming the compounds. I set out to the director's cabin immediately, and upon getting there, I found it open. He was nowhere to be found within the room, and it could have only been about four or maybe five in the morning. Frantic, I set out a compound-wide search of someone to tell, or maybe some dead bodies to prove that I hadn't gone insane. I found nothing. By the time I made my way back to the examination entrance, fellow scientists had begun their day's work.
The doors had been fixed. There was no sign of the damage anywhere, and I haven't seen any sign of the beast since. Nor have I heard any stories. Surely something that big can't just disappear... can it?
Maybe if it had never existed in the first place. Maybe it was just a really elaborate dream, except I didn't back to sleep that day. Or at all, really. Has it all just been a dream? Am I still dreaming now? Are we all just dreaming? Do... oh, I apologize. I didn't mean to go off on that tangent, I just don't know anymore.
If you get this, be on the lookout. Don't go out at night. And, more importantly, open your eyes. Open your ears. Be wary of everything and everyone. No one is trustworthy anymore, they're all working together to keep this under wraps. You might even be with them, but I have to take this chance. Whatever you do, don't fall under their trap. Get out while you still can, and don't worry about me.
I'm already gone.
Kill or Die
Sometimes, I look out and see glowing red eyes staring at me from the darkness. Curiosity overtakes me as dread swirls in my stomach and eventually settles down to form a heavy pit. Each step I take comes slower and slower; time itself seems to come to a painful crawl. I become overly aware of the noises around me--the rustling of the wind through the trees, the distant hum of the road as cars pass, a breathing in the shadows around me. I turn to find my way back, but the forest has swallowed me whole and will not let me leave alive. Panic threatens to overwhelm me; trembles spread through my body; I can't think, can't breathe, can't see. My vision blurs, fractures, darkens, swirls--I can see nothing but everything all at once. I can see myself, quaking in fear, standing in the clearing and I can see my own eyes, glowing with hunger, peer through the shadows. I have become both predator and prey, and I must choose which I would rather do. Kill or die?
Finished writing, I unclench my trembling fingers from the pen, and it clatters to the surface of the table. It rolls, once, twice, three times before it loses too much momentum and comes to a rest, and I absently flick the black plastic tube with a finger to watch it roll down again. The simple action gives me something physical to ground myself to; breathing deeply, I force myself to calm down and push my damp hair back from my forehead. Humid and hot, the suffocating heat of summer bears down full force on me even within the safety of my house, and I find myself attributing some of my currently flustered and unstable state to overheating in a desperate attempt to discover some sort of cause.
It proves futile, but what else can I do? Swallowing thickly, I stash the ink- and sweat-stained paper away in some random drawer before pushing out from the desk. The legs of my chair scrape uncomfortably against the tile, and I remind myself to get some sort of padding for the bottom--either those sticker things or maybe a rug. A rug would look good, wouldn't it? It'd certainly make the currently detached room seem more like home.
Then again, I shouldn't be so eager to delude myself into thinking that this place is my home. Letting out a cynical scoff, I stand up and stretch, back muscles protesting and bones popping, and, grimacing, I also remind myself to stop falling asleep at my desk. Trying to ease some of the pain, I stretch back to rub away some of the tension as my eyes absently take in the room around me. Gleaming white tiles, to remind me of my unexpected presence, large dark wood desk haphazardly shoved into a corner, to make me feel more at home, pathetic foldable chair placed in front of the desk, as a courtesy... no, this place can never become my home.
I don't belong here. This used to be an art studio! Why am I here? How did this become my room? Not that the bed, tucked in the farthest corner between the wall and my shelf, makes this a room. Nor do the clothes strewn around the room, the ones hanging up in the wide-open closet, the mess of papers about my desk--all the marks of habitation with none of the familiarity and warmth of home. This mess comes from a place of panic, of fear, of desperation, not the carelessness of occupying your own space.
Here, I am both prisoner and jailer. Just as I confine myself to within these walls, I am confined. Just as I lurk to pounce upon myself, I tremble, awaiting the coming attack. The air becomes heavy, a tangible thing, and forces itself down my throat; it expands. I choke, unable to breathe for a few seconds, but as I cough, the illusion dispels. Shaking my head, I dispel any further thoughts and stumble across the room to collapse upon my bed, with its blankets strewn about from a sleepless night of tossing and turning. As I sit, slumped over on my bed in the perfect picture of despair, it feels as though times hangs in the air, motionless, breathlessly awaiting some sort of sign. Maybe it, too, has stopped to wait and see whether I will choose beast or prey, and I spend the expanse of an eternity just sitting on that bed, contemplating nothing yet everything.
Quite possibly, I would have remained there, hovering in some pocket dimension where time plays all sorts of tricks, but a sharp knock on the pale door knocks me out of my own world and into reality once again. Blinking sluggishly, like one who has just awoken from the type of deep sleep that somehow incites a change of perspective in life, I reluctantly drag myself up and toward the door. Before my hand reaches out to turn the polished brass door knob, the door swings open to reveal the beaming face of the one who took it upon herself to take me here in the first place. She claimed it would prove helpful for my "condition" to be amongst those "of my kind," as if I have some serious illness that makes the companionship of other humans unsuitable.
Then again, depending on how one views it, this curse--or gift, as some refer to it--could loosely be described as an illness. Not quite, though. For one, no cure has proven effective, but more importantly, it has not shown itself to be contagious. At least, as far as I know, it cannot spread to others. Ideas for another time; with some effort, I pull myself down from my lofty thoughts and focus my blank, hollow gaze on the female standing in front of me.
"So what do you say?" she asks expectantly, and I blink, slowly, as I try to remember what I am supposed to be responding to. Upon seeing my obvious inability to recall any of her previous words, she cheerily re-explains herself, probably just as perkily as the first time, and I find myself both repelled and drawn in by her natural energy. Recoiling slightly, I hide once again in the safety of the closest thing to a home I have right now and mull over her proposition in my mind.
Do I want to meet anyone else? All I have done since I got here has been stay in my room. The red eyes gaze mockingly at me from over her shoulder, though, and my stomach turns at the thought of interacting with anyone else in my current state. Like a frightened turtle, I will continue to hide in my shell until the danger passes enough to cautiously poke my head out and look about, whereupon which I will inexplicably find some new threat and retreat once again. So, mumbling some half-fabrication about a bout of nausea, I close the door firmly with a resounding click and settle myself into the familiar roles once again.
At least here, I have come to know what to expect of myself. Here, I have painstakingly written out the rules in blood, sweat, and tears. Out there, I can no longer rely upon the me I used to know; my role has changed. I totter still on this existential question of predator or prey, death or murder, and this void of knowledge, this inability to lay any singular claim to my name, has rendered me an unsure, scared child without any parents.
Truthfully, I have yet to determine which is the bigger threat: me or them? Should I worry about my lashing out or theirs? Should I take caution to restrain or protect myself? Do I isolate or hide behind the safety of others? Some nights, I gnash at the bit, rear up, buck against the things trying to break me in and ride me about like an exorbitant show pony, a mere object to show their power, their control, their wealth. I feel like a caged beast, and like one, I see all as my enemy. A helpful hand becomes indistinguishable from a harmful one; scared and running on pure animal instinct, I know I will lash out at anyone who comes too close.
However, other nights, glowing predatory eyes size me up from the darkness, and I cower within my meager circle of protection and simply await the inevitable death. The beasts, cunning and more sadistic than hungry, circle my petrified form and no longer care to silence their footsteps, to quiet their breathing, to stay out of the light; a growl right behind me, the flash of claws in the light, a paw coming down right next to me, every movement and sound draws my muscles tighter together in a suspenseful panic that leaves me breathless and half-insane at the end of it.
So what am I? Predator or prey? Jailer or prisoner? Do I rightfully confine myself here for the safety of others, or do I find myself confined by own fear for my own safety? Will I be the one to attack, or will I be attacked? Such essential questions, yet no answers. With a weary sigh, I resign myself to yet another long, sleepless night and drag myself through the humid air to sit at my chair once again. The legs scrape against the tile, and I uselessly remind myself to get something from an outside world I'll likely never visit again. Picking up my pen, I press the tip to one of the many pristine sheets of paper waiting for its purity to be stained by my desperate attempts to understand, and I pour my mind out through the pen, ink flowing as readily as blood, in one of many attempts to answer the ever-important question of my new existence: kill or die?
Finished writing, I unclench my trembling fingers from the pen, and it clatters to the surface of the table. It rolls, once, twice, three times before it loses too much momentum and comes to a rest, and I absently flick the black plastic tube with a finger to watch it roll down again. The simple action gives me something physical to ground myself to; breathing deeply, I force myself to calm down and push my damp hair back from my forehead. Humid and hot, the suffocating heat of summer bears down full force on me even within the safety of my house, and I find myself attributing some of my currently flustered and unstable state to overheating in a desperate attempt to discover some sort of cause.
It proves futile, but what else can I do? Swallowing thickly, I stash the ink- and sweat-stained paper away in some random drawer before pushing out from the desk. The legs of my chair scrape uncomfortably against the tile, and I remind myself to get some sort of padding for the bottom--either those sticker things or maybe a rug. A rug would look good, wouldn't it? It'd certainly make the currently detached room seem more like home.
Then again, I shouldn't be so eager to delude myself into thinking that this place is my home. Letting out a cynical scoff, I stand up and stretch, back muscles protesting and bones popping, and, grimacing, I also remind myself to stop falling asleep at my desk. Trying to ease some of the pain, I stretch back to rub away some of the tension as my eyes absently take in the room around me. Gleaming white tiles, to remind me of my unexpected presence, large dark wood desk haphazardly shoved into a corner, to make me feel more at home, pathetic foldable chair placed in front of the desk, as a courtesy... no, this place can never become my home.
I don't belong here. This used to be an art studio! Why am I here? How did this become my room? Not that the bed, tucked in the farthest corner between the wall and my shelf, makes this a room. Nor do the clothes strewn around the room, the ones hanging up in the wide-open closet, the mess of papers about my desk--all the marks of habitation with none of the familiarity and warmth of home. This mess comes from a place of panic, of fear, of desperation, not the carelessness of occupying your own space.
Here, I am both prisoner and jailer. Just as I confine myself to within these walls, I am confined. Just as I lurk to pounce upon myself, I tremble, awaiting the coming attack. The air becomes heavy, a tangible thing, and forces itself down my throat; it expands. I choke, unable to breathe for a few seconds, but as I cough, the illusion dispels. Shaking my head, I dispel any further thoughts and stumble across the room to collapse upon my bed, with its blankets strewn about from a sleepless night of tossing and turning. As I sit, slumped over on my bed in the perfect picture of despair, it feels as though times hangs in the air, motionless, breathlessly awaiting some sort of sign. Maybe it, too, has stopped to wait and see whether I will choose beast or prey, and I spend the expanse of an eternity just sitting on that bed, contemplating nothing yet everything.
Quite possibly, I would have remained there, hovering in some pocket dimension where time plays all sorts of tricks, but a sharp knock on the pale door knocks me out of my own world and into reality once again. Blinking sluggishly, like one who has just awoken from the type of deep sleep that somehow incites a change of perspective in life, I reluctantly drag myself up and toward the door. Before my hand reaches out to turn the polished brass door knob, the door swings open to reveal the beaming face of the one who took it upon herself to take me here in the first place. She claimed it would prove helpful for my "condition" to be amongst those "of my kind," as if I have some serious illness that makes the companionship of other humans unsuitable.
Then again, depending on how one views it, this curse--or gift, as some refer to it--could loosely be described as an illness. Not quite, though. For one, no cure has proven effective, but more importantly, it has not shown itself to be contagious. At least, as far as I know, it cannot spread to others. Ideas for another time; with some effort, I pull myself down from my lofty thoughts and focus my blank, hollow gaze on the female standing in front of me.
"So what do you say?" she asks expectantly, and I blink, slowly, as I try to remember what I am supposed to be responding to. Upon seeing my obvious inability to recall any of her previous words, she cheerily re-explains herself, probably just as perkily as the first time, and I find myself both repelled and drawn in by her natural energy. Recoiling slightly, I hide once again in the safety of the closest thing to a home I have right now and mull over her proposition in my mind.
Do I want to meet anyone else? All I have done since I got here has been stay in my room. The red eyes gaze mockingly at me from over her shoulder, though, and my stomach turns at the thought of interacting with anyone else in my current state. Like a frightened turtle, I will continue to hide in my shell until the danger passes enough to cautiously poke my head out and look about, whereupon which I will inexplicably find some new threat and retreat once again. So, mumbling some half-fabrication about a bout of nausea, I close the door firmly with a resounding click and settle myself into the familiar roles once again.
At least here, I have come to know what to expect of myself. Here, I have painstakingly written out the rules in blood, sweat, and tears. Out there, I can no longer rely upon the me I used to know; my role has changed. I totter still on this existential question of predator or prey, death or murder, and this void of knowledge, this inability to lay any singular claim to my name, has rendered me an unsure, scared child without any parents.
Truthfully, I have yet to determine which is the bigger threat: me or them? Should I worry about my lashing out or theirs? Should I take caution to restrain or protect myself? Do I isolate or hide behind the safety of others? Some nights, I gnash at the bit, rear up, buck against the things trying to break me in and ride me about like an exorbitant show pony, a mere object to show their power, their control, their wealth. I feel like a caged beast, and like one, I see all as my enemy. A helpful hand becomes indistinguishable from a harmful one; scared and running on pure animal instinct, I know I will lash out at anyone who comes too close.
However, other nights, glowing predatory eyes size me up from the darkness, and I cower within my meager circle of protection and simply await the inevitable death. The beasts, cunning and more sadistic than hungry, circle my petrified form and no longer care to silence their footsteps, to quiet their breathing, to stay out of the light; a growl right behind me, the flash of claws in the light, a paw coming down right next to me, every movement and sound draws my muscles tighter together in a suspenseful panic that leaves me breathless and half-insane at the end of it.
So what am I? Predator or prey? Jailer or prisoner? Do I rightfully confine myself here for the safety of others, or do I find myself confined by own fear for my own safety? Will I be the one to attack, or will I be attacked? Such essential questions, yet no answers. With a weary sigh, I resign myself to yet another long, sleepless night and drag myself through the humid air to sit at my chair once again. The legs scrape against the tile, and I uselessly remind myself to get something from an outside world I'll likely never visit again. Picking up my pen, I press the tip to one of the many pristine sheets of paper waiting for its purity to be stained by my desperate attempts to understand, and I pour my mind out through the pen, ink flowing as readily as blood, in one of many attempts to answer the ever-important question of my new existence: kill or die?
Re: A Myriad of Stories
He had a name, long ago. Sometimes, he lays awake at night, stares at the slowly-dying stars above him, and tries to remember his previous life. Only shadows come to him, tricks of his mind, memories that could exist but likely never happened. A glimpse of a woman's smiling face, though her features change every time, a crying babe in a crib in a featureless room, a whisper of a name on the wind... memories that he has heard from everyone else a thousand times, so much they have become his own.
At least someone lives to remember them. He scoffs at the irony, that he should remember everyone's life but his own, and closes his eyes to shut out the night. Tomorrow promises a full day of something, whether he fights in yet another battle or ravages some village or deals with some sort of issue among his own. A never ending torrent of issues--at least he knows what his life currently is. Assuming, of course, he ever led a peaceful existence.
Maybe he always lived in such chaos. It would explain why the Phoenix chose him to be her second-in-command. Of course, he can only guess at the reasons why she picked him out of many others, others probably more war-hardened than he. At least, at the time, more war-hardened, but by now, he doubts that many others have lived through as many battles as he has. He can't even begin to count as many, but under the stars, he counts his battles like sheep to hopefully drift off into a semi-restful sleep before yet another tiring day.
One... the first of many. That initial, shocking taste of death still lingers at the back of his throat, one of the few memories that never fades. He remembers that he had fought against the Phoenix at that point, and he also remembers that this battle is when she recruited him. She had picked him up from amongst the ashes of his comrades, the scent of charred flesh so embedded on his skin that it took him months to wash it off, and she gave him a new life, unburdened from his old one.
Two... the second time he died. The second of many, really. He's shed so many lives at this point that dying has become meaningless, yet he still remembers vividly his second death. The first time, it had gone so fast; he had fought, then he fell. As simple as that. This time, though, he led his men into the fray, into a battle he didn't see winnable. Still, the Phoenix commanded he fight, so fight he did. Around him his men fell like flies, his name their dying cry--some in desperation, some in apology, most in accusation. Trying to protect at least one man, he fought next to one the whole time, a young boy whose bloody face he sees mirrors in every battle. Vividly, he remembers the boy's cry, piercing and heart-shattering, he remembers turning to at least avenge him, he remembers the blade piercing his side--running between the ribs and nesting itself solidly into his torso. The blade was ripped out with a grunt; his blood poured out faster than he really thought possible. His life left him, and all he knew was the cold darkness once again. Then she saved him.
Three... the first time he won. They say third time's the charm, and he supposes there lies some merit behind the common saying. The third time, you have enough knowledge and wisdom to fix your mistakes, and you proceed with the caution you had missed previously. His third battle, he certainly had more caution, and he waited until dark to attack. It was also the first time the Phoenix gained her name; he had alit the fields where the soldiers slept with fire. Then, as they all panicked, his men leapt through the fire and attacked. Armored with more fire-resistant materials and having drilled with this tactic numerous times before, few of his men fell to the flames. Nothing of the opposition remained but the overpowering scent of death and burning flesh.
Four... five... six... ten... twenty-five... fifty... his mind passes through each of the battles, the only real markers of his life. He lives to fight; the Phoenix doesn't keep reviving him for nothing. As long as he continues to illicit terror in her enemies and bring victory, she will keep him alive. As soon as he loses sight of that, he dies, and someone else takes his place. Not that he should be seen in any sort of heroic light; he has slaughtered thousands in their sleep, killed unknown amounts of innocents, burned entire villages to the ground for little reason other than the Phoenix told him to.
He doesn't need any other reason. He can't have any other reason. Sometimes he wonders how much of him the Phoenix really revives; does she keep all of him? Or only the parts she likes? Does he really have the capability to disobey now? Did she leave his memories behind that first death? Or has time just naturally worn them away? So many questions, he can feel his mind starting to hum anew with all the thoughts buzzing around his head. With a sigh, he opens his eyes and studies the movement of the stars.
How many eyes can he see staring back at him? For a moment, he entertains the idea that the stars are the souls of the dead, more to pass the time than anything. Taking a deep breath, his savors the cool, crisp autumn air--really, only such bitingly cold air that it hurts his throat eases him of the hot, heavy stench of burning flesh and death that always lingers--and allows his eyes to roam the equally-cold stars.
Maybe all the stars he sees are the past versions of himself. He chuckles a bit at the thought and sets his eyes on the faintest one. That, he imagines, has to be his first life--it shines so faintly, so distantly and dying. Soon, he might not be able to see it at all, and as the seasons change, most of these will make their way to another part of the world. He may follow, if the Phoenix wishes. He may not. His life is her life, really.
All lives are hers. Some nights, he lays awake and tries to wrap his head around the Phoenix's end goal; she speaks of it rarely, especially not to him. Should he ever (somehow) get captured, his ignorance would prove more useful than his knowledge--at least, he chooses to believe that. The other truth lingers at the edges of his brain, one he tries not to consider. On such dark, drawn-out nights, though, he can't help but to come back to it, so he heaves a sigh and considers the unspeakable truth.
She hasn't told him because the end goal would guarantee his refusal to fight. Something immoral, something horrible, something any person would stand against. Not that he really considers himself a person--someone so touched by death as him must be more parts spirit than human. Still, he supposes there might remain a few things he would not follow. Or, at least, he hopes. In actuality, he recognizes the even more unspeakable truth: even if she planned to wipe out every human on the planet, he would still follow her to his final end.
What else can he do? Beyond anything else, he cannot return to any semblance of a normal life, and, more importantly, he cannot just lie down and accept the final cold embrace of death, not after being so adoringly clasped in the warm arms of life for so long. Facing death so much hasn't done anything to lessen his fear; if anything, it has only increased it. Imagine being so strong and favored, outwitting death thousands of times--then, suddenly, you fall. You die. There is no getting back up this time, no redemption, no anything. Just nothing. Cold, black nothing.
A shudder rips through his body, and he grits his teeth. With one last glance up at the fading stars (at his fading lives), he rises to his feet and awakens his men. Barking out orders, he pushes them to destroy camp quickly and continue marching on, and with a grim glance at the fiery sunrise, he silently vows to burn the first village he comes across in the name of the Phoenix--in the name of himself, whoever he is. After all, life has nothing else for him, and death--well, death can just wait. It's already waited hundreds of years, what's another few centuries?
With a secretive grin, he mounts his horse and rides; behind him, the sky sets on fire as, slowly, the sun rises over yet another day in the Era of the Phoenix.
At least someone lives to remember them. He scoffs at the irony, that he should remember everyone's life but his own, and closes his eyes to shut out the night. Tomorrow promises a full day of something, whether he fights in yet another battle or ravages some village or deals with some sort of issue among his own. A never ending torrent of issues--at least he knows what his life currently is. Assuming, of course, he ever led a peaceful existence.
Maybe he always lived in such chaos. It would explain why the Phoenix chose him to be her second-in-command. Of course, he can only guess at the reasons why she picked him out of many others, others probably more war-hardened than he. At least, at the time, more war-hardened, but by now, he doubts that many others have lived through as many battles as he has. He can't even begin to count as many, but under the stars, he counts his battles like sheep to hopefully drift off into a semi-restful sleep before yet another tiring day.
One... the first of many. That initial, shocking taste of death still lingers at the back of his throat, one of the few memories that never fades. He remembers that he had fought against the Phoenix at that point, and he also remembers that this battle is when she recruited him. She had picked him up from amongst the ashes of his comrades, the scent of charred flesh so embedded on his skin that it took him months to wash it off, and she gave him a new life, unburdened from his old one.
Two... the second time he died. The second of many, really. He's shed so many lives at this point that dying has become meaningless, yet he still remembers vividly his second death. The first time, it had gone so fast; he had fought, then he fell. As simple as that. This time, though, he led his men into the fray, into a battle he didn't see winnable. Still, the Phoenix commanded he fight, so fight he did. Around him his men fell like flies, his name their dying cry--some in desperation, some in apology, most in accusation. Trying to protect at least one man, he fought next to one the whole time, a young boy whose bloody face he sees mirrors in every battle. Vividly, he remembers the boy's cry, piercing and heart-shattering, he remembers turning to at least avenge him, he remembers the blade piercing his side--running between the ribs and nesting itself solidly into his torso. The blade was ripped out with a grunt; his blood poured out faster than he really thought possible. His life left him, and all he knew was the cold darkness once again. Then she saved him.
Three... the first time he won. They say third time's the charm, and he supposes there lies some merit behind the common saying. The third time, you have enough knowledge and wisdom to fix your mistakes, and you proceed with the caution you had missed previously. His third battle, he certainly had more caution, and he waited until dark to attack. It was also the first time the Phoenix gained her name; he had alit the fields where the soldiers slept with fire. Then, as they all panicked, his men leapt through the fire and attacked. Armored with more fire-resistant materials and having drilled with this tactic numerous times before, few of his men fell to the flames. Nothing of the opposition remained but the overpowering scent of death and burning flesh.
Four... five... six... ten... twenty-five... fifty... his mind passes through each of the battles, the only real markers of his life. He lives to fight; the Phoenix doesn't keep reviving him for nothing. As long as he continues to illicit terror in her enemies and bring victory, she will keep him alive. As soon as he loses sight of that, he dies, and someone else takes his place. Not that he should be seen in any sort of heroic light; he has slaughtered thousands in their sleep, killed unknown amounts of innocents, burned entire villages to the ground for little reason other than the Phoenix told him to.
He doesn't need any other reason. He can't have any other reason. Sometimes he wonders how much of him the Phoenix really revives; does she keep all of him? Or only the parts she likes? Does he really have the capability to disobey now? Did she leave his memories behind that first death? Or has time just naturally worn them away? So many questions, he can feel his mind starting to hum anew with all the thoughts buzzing around his head. With a sigh, he opens his eyes and studies the movement of the stars.
How many eyes can he see staring back at him? For a moment, he entertains the idea that the stars are the souls of the dead, more to pass the time than anything. Taking a deep breath, his savors the cool, crisp autumn air--really, only such bitingly cold air that it hurts his throat eases him of the hot, heavy stench of burning flesh and death that always lingers--and allows his eyes to roam the equally-cold stars.
Maybe all the stars he sees are the past versions of himself. He chuckles a bit at the thought and sets his eyes on the faintest one. That, he imagines, has to be his first life--it shines so faintly, so distantly and dying. Soon, he might not be able to see it at all, and as the seasons change, most of these will make their way to another part of the world. He may follow, if the Phoenix wishes. He may not. His life is her life, really.
All lives are hers. Some nights, he lays awake and tries to wrap his head around the Phoenix's end goal; she speaks of it rarely, especially not to him. Should he ever (somehow) get captured, his ignorance would prove more useful than his knowledge--at least, he chooses to believe that. The other truth lingers at the edges of his brain, one he tries not to consider. On such dark, drawn-out nights, though, he can't help but to come back to it, so he heaves a sigh and considers the unspeakable truth.
She hasn't told him because the end goal would guarantee his refusal to fight. Something immoral, something horrible, something any person would stand against. Not that he really considers himself a person--someone so touched by death as him must be more parts spirit than human. Still, he supposes there might remain a few things he would not follow. Or, at least, he hopes. In actuality, he recognizes the even more unspeakable truth: even if she planned to wipe out every human on the planet, he would still follow her to his final end.
What else can he do? Beyond anything else, he cannot return to any semblance of a normal life, and, more importantly, he cannot just lie down and accept the final cold embrace of death, not after being so adoringly clasped in the warm arms of life for so long. Facing death so much hasn't done anything to lessen his fear; if anything, it has only increased it. Imagine being so strong and favored, outwitting death thousands of times--then, suddenly, you fall. You die. There is no getting back up this time, no redemption, no anything. Just nothing. Cold, black nothing.
A shudder rips through his body, and he grits his teeth. With one last glance up at the fading stars (at his fading lives), he rises to his feet and awakens his men. Barking out orders, he pushes them to destroy camp quickly and continue marching on, and with a grim glance at the fiery sunrise, he silently vows to burn the first village he comes across in the name of the Phoenix--in the name of himself, whoever he is. After all, life has nothing else for him, and death--well, death can just wait. It's already waited hundreds of years, what's another few centuries?
With a secretive grin, he mounts his horse and rides; behind him, the sky sets on fire as, slowly, the sun rises over yet another day in the Era of the Phoenix.
He Came
A scream builds up in his chest, but he bites down on his tongue and chokes it down. His entire body trembles with rage, panic, and pain as he crouches in the corner, hair falling into his ink-black eyes. Taking a deep breath, he tries to calm down and return to some sort of humanity before he completely loses his mind to the Corruption once again; he can't let Erinio win. Not this time. Not when Droenix is the prize.
Just thinking about Erinio's plans for the innocent elf hybrid makes his blood boil with a rage that goes far beyond the influence of the Corruption. This fury comes from his desire to protect Droenix--the need to keep him safe and even happy. Not that he really does the latter of those two jobs, everything he does or says seems to just bring pain or frustration. Maybe Droenix is better off with him rotting in this dungeon after all... no. No. He can't consider that.
But what if? He sags against the wall and huddles in a position of despair as he considers the idea. Maybe Droenix won't even come for him; what if the hybrid hates him? He did, after all, kill Droenix's father and ruined so many things for him as a result. Why should Droenix come after him?
Because he would save Droenix. The thought shouldn't come as a surprise, not after so long of watching over and protecting the hybrid, but the idea that he wishes to save someone instead of killing him still feel so... astounding. New. Droenix has shown him a different type of violence, a new way of life--he is a new beginning. And Zyran would do anything to protect that, not just because he needs Droenix but because the world needs him. If only the hybrid could see how special he is... he has to come.
Will he come? Never before has Zyran wished so much for the appearance of one person, especially not being thrown in the dungeons like this. Yes, this isn't his first round trapped in this black stone room; if anything, he has gotten off rather easy compared to previous times. He still remembers the month (or was it a year?) of being thrown into the Yrsil. a confusing labyrinth of darkness and horrendous, bloodthirsty creatures far beyond the imagination; compared to that, this should be a breeze.
Then again, he didn't have Droenix to worry about. Now, he spends every agonizing second wondering when or if Droenix will come, and more importantly what Erinio plans to do. He can't let that bastard sink his claws into Droenix, not again. He failed one time; he won't accept another failure. With a growl, Zyran forces his weal, trembling body into a standing position and takes a few shaky steps across the room. Satisfied with his ability to walk, he slowly paces around the small room and works some life into his body. Black blood slowly leaks out of still-sore wounds, and his movements strain the crust that has formed on some of his older wounds.
Still, he presses on. Pain fades to the back of his mind as he settles into the familiar, sharp mindset of a predator. This time, though, he feels more like the leader of a pack, ready to defend one of his members, and less like a hunter of the weak and helpless. He knows he will come up against other predators with skills like his own, but he also knows that he is stronger because he has to be. Simple as that.
If Droenix comes. That thought pounds at the back of his head. If the hybrid comes. Does he want him to come? Yes, so desperately, but also no. He wants to know that the hybrid cares, yet the more he thinks about it, the more he knows that Droenix will be safer far, far away from this black realm. His wish for Droenix's presence comes from a completely selfish place within him, but Zyran is a rather selfish person when it comes down to it, really. So, feeling only a slight bit ashamed of his selfishness, Zyran leans against the wall, closes his eyes, and settles down to wait.
While he waits, he descends to a level of semi-consciousness, filtering out everything but only the most important. Gone is the pain, the panic, the hunger--everything but the sounds around him. The stale, dank water dripping from some unknown place, the scurrying of horribly mutated and Corrupted rodents, the wailing of other prisoners all flit through his mind, enough of a thought to identify it and then disappear. Breathing slowly, he listens for Droenix and waits, forcefully keeping himself calm and out of the black claws of that animalistic rage and panic which writhes within.
Don't think, he reminds himself. Breathe, listen--don't think.
What was that? Soft footsteps reach his ears, audible only because of the nature of the floor. Zyran carefully opens his eyes and fixes them upon the door; crouching low, he settles himself into an attack-ready position. The possibility of the footsteps belonging to Droenix crosses his mind, but he focuses on the most logical situation. Some lone wolf has decided to come down by himself in secret and deal with him alone. A smirk spreads across his face before he forces an apathetic expression; any display of emotion can give the enemy the upper hand.
Closer, now. Definitely heading for his cell. Slowly, shifting more than stepping, he slips into the corner without any noise and melts into the shadows. Never before has he been so grateful of his black eyes as now, when being as black as the shadows cloaking him will give him the advantage. Finally, the footsteps stop just outside of the door; he coils tighter together, muscles prepared for the attack. A soft voice mutters a spell in Ancient, but before Zyran can place the familiar voice, the stone door shatters into pieces. A cloud of dust masks the appearance of the person, and Zyran hesitates.
Droenix? He allows himself a shed of hope as the tall, lanky figure cautiously steps into the room, and Zyran feels his heart stop at the sight of those pale green eyes and silvery brown hair, now overgrown and dusty. Droenix. The doorway lets in bright light from the hall, probably a light spell casted by the hybrid, and it wraps Droenix up in a soft glow that makes him seem... beyond mortal. Godly, almost.
Either way, the hybrid takes his breath away, and he gathers his emotions before stepping out of the shadows and meeting worried green eyes. "You came," Zyran states, his voice devoid of all emotion but the slightest hint of relief. Still, Droenix manages to pick up on his emotions and offers a small smile and his hand. His worried eyes roam Zyran's bare, wounded, bloodied body, and Zyran watches in fascination as determined anger settles into those pale green eyes.
"Yeah, I came. You're always rescuing me, so I figured it was about time I rescued you," Droenix casually explains, and Zyran savors the soft, whimsical sound of Droenix's voice with a new vigor. Hesitating for reasons unknown to him, he places his hand in Droenix's and allows the hybrid to lead him out into the hall. At that moment, all other worries fade into the background, and only one thing matters,
Droenix came for him.
Just thinking about Erinio's plans for the innocent elf hybrid makes his blood boil with a rage that goes far beyond the influence of the Corruption. This fury comes from his desire to protect Droenix--the need to keep him safe and even happy. Not that he really does the latter of those two jobs, everything he does or says seems to just bring pain or frustration. Maybe Droenix is better off with him rotting in this dungeon after all... no. No. He can't consider that.
But what if? He sags against the wall and huddles in a position of despair as he considers the idea. Maybe Droenix won't even come for him; what if the hybrid hates him? He did, after all, kill Droenix's father and ruined so many things for him as a result. Why should Droenix come after him?
Because he would save Droenix. The thought shouldn't come as a surprise, not after so long of watching over and protecting the hybrid, but the idea that he wishes to save someone instead of killing him still feel so... astounding. New. Droenix has shown him a different type of violence, a new way of life--he is a new beginning. And Zyran would do anything to protect that, not just because he needs Droenix but because the world needs him. If only the hybrid could see how special he is... he has to come.
Will he come? Never before has Zyran wished so much for the appearance of one person, especially not being thrown in the dungeons like this. Yes, this isn't his first round trapped in this black stone room; if anything, he has gotten off rather easy compared to previous times. He still remembers the month (or was it a year?) of being thrown into the Yrsil. a confusing labyrinth of darkness and horrendous, bloodthirsty creatures far beyond the imagination; compared to that, this should be a breeze.
Then again, he didn't have Droenix to worry about. Now, he spends every agonizing second wondering when or if Droenix will come, and more importantly what Erinio plans to do. He can't let that bastard sink his claws into Droenix, not again. He failed one time; he won't accept another failure. With a growl, Zyran forces his weal, trembling body into a standing position and takes a few shaky steps across the room. Satisfied with his ability to walk, he slowly paces around the small room and works some life into his body. Black blood slowly leaks out of still-sore wounds, and his movements strain the crust that has formed on some of his older wounds.
Still, he presses on. Pain fades to the back of his mind as he settles into the familiar, sharp mindset of a predator. This time, though, he feels more like the leader of a pack, ready to defend one of his members, and less like a hunter of the weak and helpless. He knows he will come up against other predators with skills like his own, but he also knows that he is stronger because he has to be. Simple as that.
If Droenix comes. That thought pounds at the back of his head. If the hybrid comes. Does he want him to come? Yes, so desperately, but also no. He wants to know that the hybrid cares, yet the more he thinks about it, the more he knows that Droenix will be safer far, far away from this black realm. His wish for Droenix's presence comes from a completely selfish place within him, but Zyran is a rather selfish person when it comes down to it, really. So, feeling only a slight bit ashamed of his selfishness, Zyran leans against the wall, closes his eyes, and settles down to wait.
While he waits, he descends to a level of semi-consciousness, filtering out everything but only the most important. Gone is the pain, the panic, the hunger--everything but the sounds around him. The stale, dank water dripping from some unknown place, the scurrying of horribly mutated and Corrupted rodents, the wailing of other prisoners all flit through his mind, enough of a thought to identify it and then disappear. Breathing slowly, he listens for Droenix and waits, forcefully keeping himself calm and out of the black claws of that animalistic rage and panic which writhes within.
Don't think, he reminds himself. Breathe, listen--don't think.
What was that? Soft footsteps reach his ears, audible only because of the nature of the floor. Zyran carefully opens his eyes and fixes them upon the door; crouching low, he settles himself into an attack-ready position. The possibility of the footsteps belonging to Droenix crosses his mind, but he focuses on the most logical situation. Some lone wolf has decided to come down by himself in secret and deal with him alone. A smirk spreads across his face before he forces an apathetic expression; any display of emotion can give the enemy the upper hand.
Closer, now. Definitely heading for his cell. Slowly, shifting more than stepping, he slips into the corner without any noise and melts into the shadows. Never before has he been so grateful of his black eyes as now, when being as black as the shadows cloaking him will give him the advantage. Finally, the footsteps stop just outside of the door; he coils tighter together, muscles prepared for the attack. A soft voice mutters a spell in Ancient, but before Zyran can place the familiar voice, the stone door shatters into pieces. A cloud of dust masks the appearance of the person, and Zyran hesitates.
Droenix? He allows himself a shed of hope as the tall, lanky figure cautiously steps into the room, and Zyran feels his heart stop at the sight of those pale green eyes and silvery brown hair, now overgrown and dusty. Droenix. The doorway lets in bright light from the hall, probably a light spell casted by the hybrid, and it wraps Droenix up in a soft glow that makes him seem... beyond mortal. Godly, almost.
Either way, the hybrid takes his breath away, and he gathers his emotions before stepping out of the shadows and meeting worried green eyes. "You came," Zyran states, his voice devoid of all emotion but the slightest hint of relief. Still, Droenix manages to pick up on his emotions and offers a small smile and his hand. His worried eyes roam Zyran's bare, wounded, bloodied body, and Zyran watches in fascination as determined anger settles into those pale green eyes.
"Yeah, I came. You're always rescuing me, so I figured it was about time I rescued you," Droenix casually explains, and Zyran savors the soft, whimsical sound of Droenix's voice with a new vigor. Hesitating for reasons unknown to him, he places his hand in Droenix's and allows the hybrid to lead him out into the hall. At that moment, all other worries fade into the background, and only one thing matters,
Droenix came for him.
Nothing Wrong
So it's two in the morning, but I've been hit with a strong bought of "ah I can't do anything" and find that sleep currently escapes me. As a result, have this. Maybe this'll help it past.
There's nothing wrong with him. Everyone is just overreacting; what do they mean by his "bad childhood" and "unhealthy coping mechanisms" anyway? Nothing! Because he didn't have a bad childhood, and his coping mechanisms aren't that unhealthy. Not clinically so, at least.
Now, he knows they're just trying to help, but don't they see just how confusing they make it for him? Without their voices, his life is simple. He goes through the day and does what he needs to do--so what if that includes some sex? Everyone does it. As for the other things, well, he can't say that everyone does those, but what's so bad about it?
Yes, for other people, it's dangerous and bad and all that, but he's different. Different situation. He does it for different reasons, and, in any case, he's in control. When they speak, though, they just muddy the entire thing. He doesn't need to waste any more time arguing with himself (or anyone else) about whether or not his parents ignored him as a child or whatever, and he certainly doesn't need them trying to act like he's about to jump off of a building or something.
He is fine. So many other people have suffered worse than him--why make a big fuss about some overreactive kid that's really not in any danger at all? And besides, assuming that he might not be quite as fine as he would prefer, what could he do about it? Go to a doctor, get some pills, get told the same things that everyone else tells him. What's the use?
At least, those are the lies he tries to convince himself of as he lays awake at night, unable to sleep because of the demons in his head. He sighs, puts his ear buds in, and turns the music up until he can't hear himself think anymore. Hello, hearing loss; goodbye, obsessive thoughts. Still, he doesn't manage to drift off until around four in the morning, and even then he tosses and turns, waking up every hour with some new thought branded in his mind.
Usually, the nights don't pose as much of an issue, but recently it's been harder and harder to distract himself. Nothing works anymore, not like it used to. Well, except for one thing, but... but what? Why... no, no, don't go there. You know why, he reminds himself. You know why.
It doesn't really help that no one seems willing to let him forget about his issues. It's all they can talk about nowadays, it seems. Or maybe it's just all he pays attention to--admittedly, he has been zoning out more than usual lately. Tired, that's all. So unbelievably tired.
He needs new friends. A new boyfriend. A new life. These thoughts blankly cross his mind as he numbly stares at his disheveled appearance in the mirror, and he chuckles hollowly to himself at the thoughts. What he really needs is a new him, but the other things would be much easier to get. With a sigh, he tries to fix himself up as much as possible to prevent the future bombardment of questions about his health; at the end of it, he looks only half-dead, a remarkable improvement from the zombie-like appearance of before.
Not enough to fly under the radar, but nothing is, not anymore. Reluctantly, he exits his bathroom and blankly sits down at the kitchen table. So damn tired, he just wants to sleep for a week. A year. A lifetime, even. Instead, he has to face an entire day of his friends and family, and more importantly an entire day of their questions.
Their concern touches him. Really, it does. He just doesn't want to think about it all anymore than he has to, and they just won't let him forget. They won't let him pretend for even a few seconds that there's nothing wrong with him; what is he supposed to do? What can he say?
It doesn't help that he knows they don't really want to know the truth. They want to hear that he's getting better, that their concern is just doing wonders, that he's miraculously moving past it all, but that truth is that he's worse than ever, in some circumstances. There's no way he can tell them about his self-destructive fantasies, or his existential dread, or that he lays awake at night and just replays the day over and over and over in his head, going over everything he did wrong and reminding himself of how he'll never amount to anything but a failure.
The worst part? He's trying. He truly, honestly is trying to do everything he can to just stop being him, just like they want, but it doesn't work. Not when they won't let him slip into his little safe place--it's not an unhealthy coping mechanism, he just needs a break from reality. Everyone does!
Right? Well, whatever, even if it is unhealthy, what else can he do? Just magically develop a healthier one in a split second? He just needs break, let him have a break. Let him pretend that everything about his life is absolutely magical opposed to keeping him shoved in the black room that is his hopeless situation.
Or, better yet, offer a solution! There's a new idea. But he shouldn't be so frustrated at them; they just want to help. He knows that, and he knows that they don't want to face the true depth of his lack of wellness. That's also okay, it's not their job, but Christ he wishes they would just back off. Maybe he'll tell them that, and maybe they won't make him feel horrendously guilty about just being honest.
Maybe he should take a vacation. Just take a weekend off to himself, go off, and not spare a thought to anything but how he feels and what he wants in that moment. He nods, and as he sits in the kitchen, he makes plans for his weekend vacation to just forget about how fine he isn't. For at least a couple of days, he can pretend that there's nothing wrong with him, and he can just take a well-deserved break. It's normal, right?
There's nothing wrong with him. Everyone is just overreacting; what do they mean by his "bad childhood" and "unhealthy coping mechanisms" anyway? Nothing! Because he didn't have a bad childhood, and his coping mechanisms aren't that unhealthy. Not clinically so, at least.
Now, he knows they're just trying to help, but don't they see just how confusing they make it for him? Without their voices, his life is simple. He goes through the day and does what he needs to do--so what if that includes some sex? Everyone does it. As for the other things, well, he can't say that everyone does those, but what's so bad about it?
Yes, for other people, it's dangerous and bad and all that, but he's different. Different situation. He does it for different reasons, and, in any case, he's in control. When they speak, though, they just muddy the entire thing. He doesn't need to waste any more time arguing with himself (or anyone else) about whether or not his parents ignored him as a child or whatever, and he certainly doesn't need them trying to act like he's about to jump off of a building or something.
He is fine. So many other people have suffered worse than him--why make a big fuss about some overreactive kid that's really not in any danger at all? And besides, assuming that he might not be quite as fine as he would prefer, what could he do about it? Go to a doctor, get some pills, get told the same things that everyone else tells him. What's the use?
At least, those are the lies he tries to convince himself of as he lays awake at night, unable to sleep because of the demons in his head. He sighs, puts his ear buds in, and turns the music up until he can't hear himself think anymore. Hello, hearing loss; goodbye, obsessive thoughts. Still, he doesn't manage to drift off until around four in the morning, and even then he tosses and turns, waking up every hour with some new thought branded in his mind.
Usually, the nights don't pose as much of an issue, but recently it's been harder and harder to distract himself. Nothing works anymore, not like it used to. Well, except for one thing, but... but what? Why... no, no, don't go there. You know why, he reminds himself. You know why.
It doesn't really help that no one seems willing to let him forget about his issues. It's all they can talk about nowadays, it seems. Or maybe it's just all he pays attention to--admittedly, he has been zoning out more than usual lately. Tired, that's all. So unbelievably tired.
He needs new friends. A new boyfriend. A new life. These thoughts blankly cross his mind as he numbly stares at his disheveled appearance in the mirror, and he chuckles hollowly to himself at the thoughts. What he really needs is a new him, but the other things would be much easier to get. With a sigh, he tries to fix himself up as much as possible to prevent the future bombardment of questions about his health; at the end of it, he looks only half-dead, a remarkable improvement from the zombie-like appearance of before.
Not enough to fly under the radar, but nothing is, not anymore. Reluctantly, he exits his bathroom and blankly sits down at the kitchen table. So damn tired, he just wants to sleep for a week. A year. A lifetime, even. Instead, he has to face an entire day of his friends and family, and more importantly an entire day of their questions.
Their concern touches him. Really, it does. He just doesn't want to think about it all anymore than he has to, and they just won't let him forget. They won't let him pretend for even a few seconds that there's nothing wrong with him; what is he supposed to do? What can he say?
It doesn't help that he knows they don't really want to know the truth. They want to hear that he's getting better, that their concern is just doing wonders, that he's miraculously moving past it all, but that truth is that he's worse than ever, in some circumstances. There's no way he can tell them about his self-destructive fantasies, or his existential dread, or that he lays awake at night and just replays the day over and over and over in his head, going over everything he did wrong and reminding himself of how he'll never amount to anything but a failure.
The worst part? He's trying. He truly, honestly is trying to do everything he can to just stop being him, just like they want, but it doesn't work. Not when they won't let him slip into his little safe place--it's not an unhealthy coping mechanism, he just needs a break from reality. Everyone does!
Right? Well, whatever, even if it is unhealthy, what else can he do? Just magically develop a healthier one in a split second? He just needs break, let him have a break. Let him pretend that everything about his life is absolutely magical opposed to keeping him shoved in the black room that is his hopeless situation.
Or, better yet, offer a solution! There's a new idea. But he shouldn't be so frustrated at them; they just want to help. He knows that, and he knows that they don't want to face the true depth of his lack of wellness. That's also okay, it's not their job, but Christ he wishes they would just back off. Maybe he'll tell them that, and maybe they won't make him feel horrendously guilty about just being honest.
Maybe he should take a vacation. Just take a weekend off to himself, go off, and not spare a thought to anything but how he feels and what he wants in that moment. He nods, and as he sits in the kitchen, he makes plans for his weekend vacation to just forget about how fine he isn't. For at least a couple of days, he can pretend that there's nothing wrong with him, and he can just take a well-deserved break. It's normal, right?
Lost
Pulsing lights, deafening music, grinding bodies. Is he in Heaven or Hell?
He doesn't know how it all started. One day, he's the golden boy, the epitome of responsible, the teacher's favorite pet, so on and so forth. The next, he's the delinquent at the club, the epitome of a teenage waste, the whore's favorite lay, so on and so forth. Not that many people know; so far, he has managed to keep the two worlds from colliding. It won't last, he knows that, but for now, he forces himself to pretend like he isn't spiraling down into the depths of something dangerous--but so impossibly addictive.
Honestly, he doesn't even know who he is anymore, but that's okay. He doesn't need to, not to have a good time. Besides, isn't that why he does all of this? To forget? To forget what, he doesn't remember. At least, not right now, not when the world spins deliriously around him and all he can do is hold on for a good time. Tomorrow, when he wakes up back in his bed to start another horrible day, he'll remember. Just not right now.
Pounding pain, sickening emptiness, deceiving words. Does Heaven even exist?
As always, he starts the morning by remembering. First, he recalls the adventures of last night thanks to the pain in his head. Then, the realization of schools hits him and jolts him awake. Finally, as he stares into the mirror to freshen up, everything else comes rushing back--especially how much he hates himself. Nausea descends upon him; as he heaves up what little food remains in his stomach, he feels tears streaming down his cheeks at what he's become.
Has he really let himself turn into this? Whatever this even is. Why does he even exist? All he's ever done is fail--when has he made his parents proud? Thoughts swarm his mind as he numbly brushes his teeth, and he just stares into the hollow-eyed shell of a human in the mirror. The abyss stares back at him; he can hear it call his name. Or maybe he's just losing his mind from all the lack of sleep. Shaking his head, he sighs and pushes everything away to get ready for another day of lying to himself and everyone else.
Whispering people, lingering glances, spiraling thoughts. Will this ever end?
At school, they stare at him and whisper to themselves about how tired he looks. Not all of them, of course, but enough. Teachers continue to glance his way through class, concern apparent in their eyes; he wants to scream at them to stop pretending like they care and leave him alone. He can't stand the way they care, all it does is remind him that he doesn't deserve it, doesn't deserve anything. Look at what he's doing! He's drowning his sorrows in anything he can get his hands on--pain, sex, alcohol, even drugs.
Pathetic. He's pathetic. Why is he here, again? Why does he waste everyone's time? Why does he keep up this lie? Why can't he just stop and go back to the way it was before? Because, as much as he hates himself, this is better. Now he can breathe and think without wanting to curl up and breakdown, and he can actually function. Either way, he hates himself and he's a waste of space, so he may as well enjoy himself while he's at it. He needs something--now.
Biting pain, numbing alcohol, burning pleasure. Why can't he just be normal?
Once upon a time, there was a young boy with a beaming smile and innocent eyes. Then his father had a tragic accident and lost the boy's brother and uncle coming back from a football game; the father committed suicide a couple of weeks after learning he would never walk again. The boy's mother sunk into depression, received help, and, with support, climbed out of it to help her child, but she was never the same. Now she buries herself in her work, never allows her son to do anything lest she lose him as well, and holds her son up to realistic standards in the hopes that he will fulfill the promising future of his older brother.
He will never be his brother. He will never be anything more than him, and he just isn't good enough. He's so tired of trying to be more than what he is, and he's so tired of feeling empty and alone. Most nights, he sits by himself at a dinner table meant to sit four people and stares down at whatever food his mom had made, and all he can do is cry and ache for what he lost. Not just his family but himself.
Failing everyone, losing hope, plummeting down. Is there anything left for him?
He doesn't know how it all started. One day, he's the golden boy, the epitome of responsible, the teacher's favorite pet, so on and so forth. The next, he's the delinquent at the club, the epitome of a teenage waste, the whore's favorite lay, so on and so forth. Not that many people know; so far, he has managed to keep the two worlds from colliding. It won't last, he knows that, but for now, he forces himself to pretend like he isn't spiraling down into the depths of something dangerous--but so impossibly addictive.
Honestly, he doesn't even know who he is anymore, but that's okay. He doesn't need to, not to have a good time. Besides, isn't that why he does all of this? To forget? To forget what, he doesn't remember. At least, not right now, not when the world spins deliriously around him and all he can do is hold on for a good time. Tomorrow, when he wakes up back in his bed to start another horrible day, he'll remember. Just not right now.
Pounding pain, sickening emptiness, deceiving words. Does Heaven even exist?
As always, he starts the morning by remembering. First, he recalls the adventures of last night thanks to the pain in his head. Then, the realization of schools hits him and jolts him awake. Finally, as he stares into the mirror to freshen up, everything else comes rushing back--especially how much he hates himself. Nausea descends upon him; as he heaves up what little food remains in his stomach, he feels tears streaming down his cheeks at what he's become.
Has he really let himself turn into this? Whatever this even is. Why does he even exist? All he's ever done is fail--when has he made his parents proud? Thoughts swarm his mind as he numbly brushes his teeth, and he just stares into the hollow-eyed shell of a human in the mirror. The abyss stares back at him; he can hear it call his name. Or maybe he's just losing his mind from all the lack of sleep. Shaking his head, he sighs and pushes everything away to get ready for another day of lying to himself and everyone else.
Whispering people, lingering glances, spiraling thoughts. Will this ever end?
At school, they stare at him and whisper to themselves about how tired he looks. Not all of them, of course, but enough. Teachers continue to glance his way through class, concern apparent in their eyes; he wants to scream at them to stop pretending like they care and leave him alone. He can't stand the way they care, all it does is remind him that he doesn't deserve it, doesn't deserve anything. Look at what he's doing! He's drowning his sorrows in anything he can get his hands on--pain, sex, alcohol, even drugs.
Pathetic. He's pathetic. Why is he here, again? Why does he waste everyone's time? Why does he keep up this lie? Why can't he just stop and go back to the way it was before? Because, as much as he hates himself, this is better. Now he can breathe and think without wanting to curl up and breakdown, and he can actually function. Either way, he hates himself and he's a waste of space, so he may as well enjoy himself while he's at it. He needs something--now.
Biting pain, numbing alcohol, burning pleasure. Why can't he just be normal?
Once upon a time, there was a young boy with a beaming smile and innocent eyes. Then his father had a tragic accident and lost the boy's brother and uncle coming back from a football game; the father committed suicide a couple of weeks after learning he would never walk again. The boy's mother sunk into depression, received help, and, with support, climbed out of it to help her child, but she was never the same. Now she buries herself in her work, never allows her son to do anything lest she lose him as well, and holds her son up to realistic standards in the hopes that he will fulfill the promising future of his older brother.
He will never be his brother. He will never be anything more than him, and he just isn't good enough. He's so tired of trying to be more than what he is, and he's so tired of feeling empty and alone. Most nights, he sits by himself at a dinner table meant to sit four people and stares down at whatever food his mom had made, and all he can do is cry and ache for what he lost. Not just his family but himself.
Failing everyone, losing hope, plummeting down. Is there anything left for him?