(Inspiration came from "Hum Along" by Ludo. Just a fun fact, I guess.)
I lay awake and stare at the ceiling, imagining a thousand different scenarios. Outside, the moon travels slowly across the sky, and in their homes, people sleep peacefully. However, I cannot join the living dead because someone occupies my mind and renders sleep impossible.
She gets lost--somehow. Her phone dies, she's out shopping in a different part of town, and she doesn't know how to get back. She stops at a cozy little bookstore--maybe they'll have a map, she thinks. She walks in; her eyes fall on me, sitting at the counter. Love at first sight. She walks up, introduces herself, politely asks for a map, and I sweep her off her feet with casual flirting. Smitten, she gives her number.
I don't even really know her name. I think that it's Roxie, or Roxanne, but I'm not sure. What I am sure of, though, is that I want--no, need to get to know her. At least to see if there could at least be something there. We briefly met at a friend's wedding, and maybe it was just the romantic atmosphere or my own insurmountable loneliness--but I felt something there. For the few minutes we talked, I felt like she could be someone special.
Or maybe Julia and Alex throw a party. She's their friend, what if she shows up? Parties aren't my thing, but I'd go--for her. She walks in, fashionably late, and goes to find the hosts, but somehow she bumps into me. She recognizes me, "Hey, you were at the wedding, right?" I laugh and say that yes, I was; we share names again because honestly names are so difficult to remember. I offer to escort her to the hosts, we laugh and talk and have fun along the way, and we exchange numbers.
Am I creepy? Is this weird? Probably. Get a hold of yourself, Leo! With a sigh, I roll over on my side and close my eyes. This is pathetic; how can I be so infatuated with someone I don't know? Maybe that's the issue, that I don't know her. All I have are these imagined scenarios with some fictitious woman in my head. Sure, her exterior exists, but honestly who would act like to me? There's a reason I'm alone.
She gets lost--somehow. Her phone dies, she's out shopping in a different part of town, and she doesn't know how to get back. She stops at a cramped book store--they better have a map, she grumbles. She trudges in; her eyes fall on me, awkwardly hunched at the counter and trying to avoid social contact with the beautiful woman who just walked in. What a weirdo, she thinks, but I'm the only one there so she reluctantly approaches me and quickly demands a map. I repel her with awkward stuttering and stumbling, and, map in hand, she hurriedly escapes me, and I'm left to just stare at her and wish I could be different.
This is a new low. I can't sleep because of someone whose name I'm not even sure about, and the probability that she would ever like me probably estimates about zero. I'm just too me. I can barely interact properly with normal bookstore customers that I've seen for about six months now, how could I have ever fooled myself that I could sweep her off her feet? Or anyone, for that matter. Hell, the only way I survived the wedding was by hiding behind Travis the entire time! She's probably into Travis; maybe that's what I felt.
Or maybe Julia and Alex throw another party. She's their friend, she'll probably show up--seems to be the type who enjoys such things, at least. Parties aren't my thing, but I'm forced to go because Julia pulls the stupid guilt trip card, same reason I went to the wedding. I hide in a corner; the only way she finds me is by skirting the edges of the crowd to find someone in particular. Noticing me, recognition floods her face, and hope briefly fills my heart. She approaches, "Hey, you know Travis, right? Can you tell me where he is?" My hope shrivels up and dies in a little ball, and I stutter out that he's in the kitchen with a broken heart. Thanking me, she quickly goes to find him; I stare after her for a few seconds before standing up and leaving. Every step, my heart breaks a little more.
So pathetic. Get a grip, I tell myself with a frustrated groan. Rolling over for the hundredth time, I bite back a primal scream and try to shove all thoughts of Roxie out of my head; it doens't work. No matter what I do, my mind drifts back to her and all the ways we could get together, just to follow them up with how I'd mess it up. Giving up, I finally flick my lights on and drown my sorrows in music; at least it won't ever leave me. So, with thoughts of a real woman with an imagined personality still dancing at the back of my mind, I bury myself in music until I finally pass out from exhaustion.
A Myriad of Stories
Moderator: Tea House Moderators
Star Gazing
51st post--woo. A bit short, like the last one, but hey. Size doesn't matter.
A soft sigh escapes the teenaged hybrid as he slips out the door of the male dorms. Although curfew has already passed, he has found he can typically just walk out so long as he has one of his bonded summons next to him; the dorm-heads don't want a mess in the rooms, after all. With his waist-high ridaen padding by his side, he walks out into the dark night.
"I wonder what sort of stars we'll see from Lisikos," the boy wonders quietly as his pale green eyes stare curiously up at the starry sky. A cold winter's breeze blows past and shifts the tall, decorated wizard's hat perched on his head, and he absently shifts it back into place as he enters the trees. Side by side, boy and beast weave through the forest until they reach their favorite clearing.
Of course, with graduation coming up in less than a month, this may prove one of the last times they see the sky from this particular spot. The thought makes the human-elf hybrid sigh a little out of a mixture of relief and sadness. His ridaen nuzzles against his hip and lets out a soft chitter in reassurance; the boy smiles softly and gently combs through the fire-colored feathers on the beast's head.
"I'm fine, Iraemith," the boy soothes as he slowly eases himself down to the ground. Pain flares up in his back from old wounds, and despite his best efforts, he can't keep a grimace off of his face. Iraemith gives a low, worried growl in response, and his wings curl protectively against the hybrid as they lay together under the stars.
All those realms, all those possibilities. Other beings, living their lives like him--how many others stare up at the sky like him? From those realms, how many stare right back at him? For a few seconds, he almost feels like he can sense someone staring at him from the darkness, but the feeling fades quickly under the return of logic. No one could be there--who could get here? It's secure, he reminds himself, and relaxes against Iraemith once again. The watching eyes from before drift back into his mind, and he frowns as he considers whether the gods watch them or not.
"Do you think the gods care about their creations?" he asks out loud, turning his head to meet the intense yellow gaze of Iraemith. The beast lets out a small huff and yawns; the hybrid chuckles a bit and affectionately pets the beast's head. "Is that a no?" he playfully teases and turns his attention back up to the stars.
No, he decides, they don't. He wouldn't--what could be so interesting about them? They take years to progress, and right now, they've lived in peace for over a thousand years. No reason for any sort of interest, given belief doesn't drop, so he can't blame them for the lack of miracles as of late--not that they need any. Still, with the realization comes a sense of abandonment, and he turns his thoughts to another, less philosophical topic.
Where is Lisikos? The thought crosses the boy's mind, and his eyes search fervently for the shining star that marks the realm of elves. While he hasn't taken classes on the intricacies of astrology and the positioning of the realms in the sky, he knows what the Seven Allianced Realms look like, especially from this clearing. Soon, he settles on a brightly glowing, faintly green-tinged dot in the sky--just a dot.
All his dreams rest on a dot in the sky. The thought brings a familiar sense of dread to his mind, the reminder how impossible his task may prove. How many elves reside in Lisikos? What's the chances that he'll find the one he's searching for? Who's to say that--no, Droenix. "You can't go there," he fiercely whispers to himself.
No matter what, he can't imagine that possibility. Pushing the thought as far out of his mind as possible, he pets the orange fur of Iraemith and lazily traces the outlines of the dark stripes, and the two relax under the clearing in relative silence. Both savor the peaceful moment and gaze up at the so familiar night sky for possibly the last time.
A soft sigh escapes the teenaged hybrid as he slips out the door of the male dorms. Although curfew has already passed, he has found he can typically just walk out so long as he has one of his bonded summons next to him; the dorm-heads don't want a mess in the rooms, after all. With his waist-high ridaen padding by his side, he walks out into the dark night.
"I wonder what sort of stars we'll see from Lisikos," the boy wonders quietly as his pale green eyes stare curiously up at the starry sky. A cold winter's breeze blows past and shifts the tall, decorated wizard's hat perched on his head, and he absently shifts it back into place as he enters the trees. Side by side, boy and beast weave through the forest until they reach their favorite clearing.
Of course, with graduation coming up in less than a month, this may prove one of the last times they see the sky from this particular spot. The thought makes the human-elf hybrid sigh a little out of a mixture of relief and sadness. His ridaen nuzzles against his hip and lets out a soft chitter in reassurance; the boy smiles softly and gently combs through the fire-colored feathers on the beast's head.
"I'm fine, Iraemith," the boy soothes as he slowly eases himself down to the ground. Pain flares up in his back from old wounds, and despite his best efforts, he can't keep a grimace off of his face. Iraemith gives a low, worried growl in response, and his wings curl protectively against the hybrid as they lay together under the stars.
All those realms, all those possibilities. Other beings, living their lives like him--how many others stare up at the sky like him? From those realms, how many stare right back at him? For a few seconds, he almost feels like he can sense someone staring at him from the darkness, but the feeling fades quickly under the return of logic. No one could be there--who could get here? It's secure, he reminds himself, and relaxes against Iraemith once again. The watching eyes from before drift back into his mind, and he frowns as he considers whether the gods watch them or not.
"Do you think the gods care about their creations?" he asks out loud, turning his head to meet the intense yellow gaze of Iraemith. The beast lets out a small huff and yawns; the hybrid chuckles a bit and affectionately pets the beast's head. "Is that a no?" he playfully teases and turns his attention back up to the stars.
No, he decides, they don't. He wouldn't--what could be so interesting about them? They take years to progress, and right now, they've lived in peace for over a thousand years. No reason for any sort of interest, given belief doesn't drop, so he can't blame them for the lack of miracles as of late--not that they need any. Still, with the realization comes a sense of abandonment, and he turns his thoughts to another, less philosophical topic.
Where is Lisikos? The thought crosses the boy's mind, and his eyes search fervently for the shining star that marks the realm of elves. While he hasn't taken classes on the intricacies of astrology and the positioning of the realms in the sky, he knows what the Seven Allianced Realms look like, especially from this clearing. Soon, he settles on a brightly glowing, faintly green-tinged dot in the sky--just a dot.
All his dreams rest on a dot in the sky. The thought brings a familiar sense of dread to his mind, the reminder how impossible his task may prove. How many elves reside in Lisikos? What's the chances that he'll find the one he's searching for? Who's to say that--no, Droenix. "You can't go there," he fiercely whispers to himself.
No matter what, he can't imagine that possibility. Pushing the thought as far out of his mind as possible, he pets the orange fur of Iraemith and lazily traces the outlines of the dark stripes, and the two relax under the clearing in relative silence. Both savor the peaceful moment and gaze up at the so familiar night sky for possibly the last time.
It Begs
There's a light at the end of the tunnel, but with every step I take, it just gets further and further away. Slowly, tendrils of darkness creep their way up my body; every step drains more and more of my energy. Still, I struggle on towards the light, even as my lungs burn and my legs ache and everything screams in agony.
Gasping, I abruptly awake. It takes me a few seconds to orient myself, and by the time I've fully awoken, the only memory that remains of my dream is a faint burn in my chest. Weird. Frowning, I rub my chest as I stand up, and as I go about my daily routine, the burn persists.
Guess it's staying. Fun. With a sigh, I quickly run a hand through my messy hair in a half-hearted attempt to tame it; whatever, looks good enough. My hand absently rubs at my chest, even as I sling my backpack onto my shoulders. Before I leave, though, I hesitate in front of a closed door, light faintly shining at the bottom. After a few seconds of thought, I raise my hand to knock—what am I doing?
I turn and walk out my front door without a word.
Black tendrils wrapping around me slowly, creeping up and up and up, a gentle caress.
Every step I take seems heavy, somehow. As if something's holding me back, but that's ridiculous. Maybe it's just my backpack—probably, those things get miraculously heavy overnight. Running my hand through my hair again, I push away whatever ridiculous doubts and theories lurk in the back of my head and focus on the path in front of me.
Same empty road as always. Pine trees line the sides, always covering the ground with dead needles, but something has changed. There's a puppy sitting at the top of a small dirt hill; I've seen him a few times before, mainly just glimpses as I walk to or from school. This is the first time it's been so close, and I slowly come to a stop before it. He looks up at me hopefully, his big brown eyes pitiful and begging, and as I begin to walk away, he lets out a little whine that pulls at my heartstrings.
Ultimately, though, I continue walking on without looking back at him.
Black wrapping around my wrists, pulling me back insistently, squeezing my throat dangerously, trying to persuade me.
Something pulls me back, a force that takes my breath away and leaves me struggling to breathe in the middle of the empty field. I shake my head and force myself to continue on; I've wasted enough time, I can't be late. A yip faintly reaches my ears as I step onto the sidewalk of the school, and I twist my head to look behind me at the puppy still sitting on the dirt hill, just looking at me.
Somehow, I can tell that it'll be waiting there until after school, and guilt wraps me up in its lethal embrace. I frown and slowly continue walking. On a brick of the school's wall, the word “dick” is boldly scrawled in white, a piece of partially pulled off gum dotting the “i”, and I gaze at its untouched surface for a few moments. How could something so uncouth stain such a pure-seeming place? Maybe not so pure on the inside, but at first glance, it seems proper, risen above the indignities and black smudges of today.
After a few seconds, though, I keep walking; don't we all show a sign of our inner demons somewhere?
Eventually, the black tendrils slip away, leaving burning, rotting marks in their place.
Finally, I slip into the school. It feels weird to be relieved to be walking down the large but still too small halls, yet there's a comfortable sense of familiarity and a reassuring lack of oddities that has me breathing out a sigh of relief. Wrapping a hand around the strap of my bag, I join the stream of students making their way down the halls. Bodies press tightly together, a stream of fish, minds full only of sex and the next high and feeling good, and, like a disease, some of their grinning faces and glossy eyes rub off on me, lightening the weight on my chest and forcefully pumping energy into my weary body.
Like always, I find myself getting caught up in the mad storm that is high school, in all the crazy highs of being a teenager and having the entire world at your hands but no responsibility, and a feverish need for freedom blossoms suddenly. As I scurry into my first class of the day and take a seat, my fingers drum out a random, fast-paced beat while my foot erratically taps out an entire song of its own; the need to do something, anything, bubbles up in my chest and interweaves itself among the guilt nesting there. The combined pressure of the two threatens to turn me into a human bomb, an explosion of blood, organs, and bone that covers everything around me.
Unfortunately, though, the pain can't end that quickly.
Black tendrils slip into my body through various cracks and crevices; a cut is an open door, complete with a welcome mat.
The rest of the day flies by in that same frantic daze; my mind hovers between a thousand different thoughts, flitting to one but jumping to another before it reaches its destination. There's a sense of desperation underlying my frantic need for movement, for freedom, as if I'm trying to outrun the inevitable crash. As the final bell rings and I join the mad dash out the doors, I find myself thinking about the puppy on the hill. Maybe I don't have to go home right away. He seems like he could use a friend.
Wait, what am I thinking? I pause outside, right by the bold display of impurity on the wall, and lean back against the wall. That's a strange dog; what if it has rabies? A disease? There's no telling what could be going on with it. Strange dogs are dangerous, and I'm not even a dog person. Still, I find myself tempted by the thought, and as I think of the pathetic whine, guilt writhes in my chest once again. Like a ravenous snake, it swallows my previous energy whole and leaves me whirling on the edge of something horrible.
I'd do anything to keep from falling off the edge, so, desperate and terrified, I unsteadily walk towards the puppy.
Once inside, they nest in my chest and thrive off of my emotions. Like parasites, they grow in my body, and once they're ready, they will burst forth into the world and start the process anew.
My breath quickens, and a tremble makes its way up my fingers as I approach. As soon as I am close enough, the puppy slowly rises to his feet and stares at me pathetically, and this close, I can see the ribs sticking out. Guilt sinks its fangs into my heart, and I pull the rest of my lunch out of bag. At the sight of my food, the puppy's eyes brighten; in response, I feel some hidden force within me rise and grow.
What am I doing? I almost go to put the food up, but the wanting, longing look in the puppy's eyes keeps me hovering between feeding him and walking away. Shuffling closer, he lets out a pathetic whine, and without a second thought, I give him the rest of my food. He devours it quickly.
While he's distracted, I walk away, heart pounding and an oddly free feeling bubbling up in my chest, right alongside all the other emotions.
Like worms, they writhe around and chew at my insides to create room for their ever-growing bodies, and as they create tunnels and caverns within me, I grow emptier and emptier.
Breathing erratically, I stumble into my room; my backpack falls off on the floor with a low thump. I can't see clearly through the tears that cloud my vision, and I slam my door shut in my franticness. What did I just do? I--oh, God, why? Gulping down deep breaths of air, I force myself to swim past the ocean of guilt and think rationally.
What did I do? I fed a dog my lunch--so what? What's so bad about that? You wasted food, I remind myself, but I push that thought away. My food, my choice, right? Still feeling uncertain, I think back on the feeling after the feeding dog, close my eyes, and sigh.
I want to do it again--and again and again and again.
I can feel them wriggling around, their tiny mouths scraping at my tender flesh, but I don't care--why should I?
The next day, the puppy bounds down to reach me at the bottom of the hill, and I briefly consider skipping school to spend the day with him. What's wrong with me? I shake my head and run a hand through my hair; I didn't get much sleep last night, that must be it. Not that I ever get enough sleep, but today I can feel the fatigue pressing down on my shoulders and threatening to force me to my knees. Today's a bad day, I decide, but a glance at the puppy makes me consider something.
Does it have to be a bad day? Hesitating, I think back to yesterday, to the euphoria after feeding him, and hurriedly dig into my backpack. The puppy eagerly sits at my feet with shining eyes and his mouth partially open; I find myself wondering at his sharp teeth before I take out my lunch. Opening it, I feed him about half and linger to watch as he devours it, sharp teeth eagerly tearing into the flesh, and I find the pressure lifted off my shoulders.
Hesitantly, reluctantly, I drag myself away from the puppy, past the vulgarity, and into the not-so-comforting hallways of the school.
Despite infecting me once already, the blackness still stalks around my prone body and taunts me; it makes jabs for me, wraps around my arms for a few seconds, and disappears back into nothing.
Replaying the memory of the puppy in my head, I sit in class and half-pay attention to the teacher as my foot taps out a rapid beat in the ground. With a sigh, I scribble down some semi-important notes and wonder what the point of all this really is--not just school but living. Why breathe? Why anything? Frowning, I run a hand through my hair and feel as everything slowly drains out of my body in a slow, agonizing bleed that leaves me empty--and I don't mind.
Feeling empty isn't that bad, is it? Compared to everything else. Blinking, I turn my attention back to the teacher and continue to scribble down notes, not that it matters. My stomach growls, and I frown, thinking back to feeding the puppy. I'm hungrier than usual, I don't have that much food--but it doesn't matter, does it?
Sighing, I push down the hunger and numbly decide to feed the puppy the rest of my food after school, maybe even bring him home--why not if it doesn't matter?
Tortured, emptied, and weakened, I give myself over to the darkness with a breathy sigh and close my eyes as I am dragged into its dark embrace.
Excitement buzzes dully in my veins as I slip out of school; the closer I get to the puppy, the more my excitement grows. Tightening my grip on my backpack strap, I bite my lip and glance around in a sudden bout of paranoia--no one will see, right? The puppy whining distracts me from my irrational fears, and I shake my head as I dig up the rest of my lunch out of my bag. Watching the puppy ravenously descend upon the food, I let out a deep breath as, once again, I feel free--freer than ever.
Everything else has left, all the burning guilt, the frenzied excitement, the sickening uncertainty, and I revel in the emptiness as I stand before the puppy. Taking a deep breath, I absently scratch my wrist and ignore the biting hunger in my stomach. It's worth it for this, I tell myself, shoving down the part of me that doesn't agree. The puppy finishes feasting and nudges my leg with a whine; he looks up at me with the same shining eyes. Not even hesitating, I smile and lead him home, and he follows.
When I walk into my house, I go to my room, stop, and glance at the door next to it--light shines under the bottom, signalling life--but a whine from the puppy shoves those thoughts out of my head and turns my attention to it.
Blackness, everywhere. The light has disappeared, but I don't even care. Lifelessly, I simply lay in the darkness and accept the emptiness with arms wide open. What's the point of struggling? As I lay here, though, I can still feel the worms feasting upon me and slowly devouring me whole.
Gasping, I abruptly awake. It takes me a few seconds to orient myself, and by the time I've fully awoken, the only memory that remains of my dream is a faint burn in my chest. Weird. Frowning, I rub my chest as I stand up, and as I go about my daily routine, the burn persists.
Guess it's staying. Fun. With a sigh, I quickly run a hand through my messy hair in a half-hearted attempt to tame it; whatever, looks good enough. My hand absently rubs at my chest, even as I sling my backpack onto my shoulders. Before I leave, though, I hesitate in front of a closed door, light faintly shining at the bottom. After a few seconds of thought, I raise my hand to knock—what am I doing?
I turn and walk out my front door without a word.
Black tendrils wrapping around me slowly, creeping up and up and up, a gentle caress.
Every step I take seems heavy, somehow. As if something's holding me back, but that's ridiculous. Maybe it's just my backpack—probably, those things get miraculously heavy overnight. Running my hand through my hair again, I push away whatever ridiculous doubts and theories lurk in the back of my head and focus on the path in front of me.
Same empty road as always. Pine trees line the sides, always covering the ground with dead needles, but something has changed. There's a puppy sitting at the top of a small dirt hill; I've seen him a few times before, mainly just glimpses as I walk to or from school. This is the first time it's been so close, and I slowly come to a stop before it. He looks up at me hopefully, his big brown eyes pitiful and begging, and as I begin to walk away, he lets out a little whine that pulls at my heartstrings.
Ultimately, though, I continue walking on without looking back at him.
Black wrapping around my wrists, pulling me back insistently, squeezing my throat dangerously, trying to persuade me.
Something pulls me back, a force that takes my breath away and leaves me struggling to breathe in the middle of the empty field. I shake my head and force myself to continue on; I've wasted enough time, I can't be late. A yip faintly reaches my ears as I step onto the sidewalk of the school, and I twist my head to look behind me at the puppy still sitting on the dirt hill, just looking at me.
Somehow, I can tell that it'll be waiting there until after school, and guilt wraps me up in its lethal embrace. I frown and slowly continue walking. On a brick of the school's wall, the word “dick” is boldly scrawled in white, a piece of partially pulled off gum dotting the “i”, and I gaze at its untouched surface for a few moments. How could something so uncouth stain such a pure-seeming place? Maybe not so pure on the inside, but at first glance, it seems proper, risen above the indignities and black smudges of today.
After a few seconds, though, I keep walking; don't we all show a sign of our inner demons somewhere?
Eventually, the black tendrils slip away, leaving burning, rotting marks in their place.
Finally, I slip into the school. It feels weird to be relieved to be walking down the large but still too small halls, yet there's a comfortable sense of familiarity and a reassuring lack of oddities that has me breathing out a sigh of relief. Wrapping a hand around the strap of my bag, I join the stream of students making their way down the halls. Bodies press tightly together, a stream of fish, minds full only of sex and the next high and feeling good, and, like a disease, some of their grinning faces and glossy eyes rub off on me, lightening the weight on my chest and forcefully pumping energy into my weary body.
Like always, I find myself getting caught up in the mad storm that is high school, in all the crazy highs of being a teenager and having the entire world at your hands but no responsibility, and a feverish need for freedom blossoms suddenly. As I scurry into my first class of the day and take a seat, my fingers drum out a random, fast-paced beat while my foot erratically taps out an entire song of its own; the need to do something, anything, bubbles up in my chest and interweaves itself among the guilt nesting there. The combined pressure of the two threatens to turn me into a human bomb, an explosion of blood, organs, and bone that covers everything around me.
Unfortunately, though, the pain can't end that quickly.
Black tendrils slip into my body through various cracks and crevices; a cut is an open door, complete with a welcome mat.
The rest of the day flies by in that same frantic daze; my mind hovers between a thousand different thoughts, flitting to one but jumping to another before it reaches its destination. There's a sense of desperation underlying my frantic need for movement, for freedom, as if I'm trying to outrun the inevitable crash. As the final bell rings and I join the mad dash out the doors, I find myself thinking about the puppy on the hill. Maybe I don't have to go home right away. He seems like he could use a friend.
Wait, what am I thinking? I pause outside, right by the bold display of impurity on the wall, and lean back against the wall. That's a strange dog; what if it has rabies? A disease? There's no telling what could be going on with it. Strange dogs are dangerous, and I'm not even a dog person. Still, I find myself tempted by the thought, and as I think of the pathetic whine, guilt writhes in my chest once again. Like a ravenous snake, it swallows my previous energy whole and leaves me whirling on the edge of something horrible.
I'd do anything to keep from falling off the edge, so, desperate and terrified, I unsteadily walk towards the puppy.
Once inside, they nest in my chest and thrive off of my emotions. Like parasites, they grow in my body, and once they're ready, they will burst forth into the world and start the process anew.
My breath quickens, and a tremble makes its way up my fingers as I approach. As soon as I am close enough, the puppy slowly rises to his feet and stares at me pathetically, and this close, I can see the ribs sticking out. Guilt sinks its fangs into my heart, and I pull the rest of my lunch out of bag. At the sight of my food, the puppy's eyes brighten; in response, I feel some hidden force within me rise and grow.
What am I doing? I almost go to put the food up, but the wanting, longing look in the puppy's eyes keeps me hovering between feeding him and walking away. Shuffling closer, he lets out a pathetic whine, and without a second thought, I give him the rest of my food. He devours it quickly.
While he's distracted, I walk away, heart pounding and an oddly free feeling bubbling up in my chest, right alongside all the other emotions.
Like worms, they writhe around and chew at my insides to create room for their ever-growing bodies, and as they create tunnels and caverns within me, I grow emptier and emptier.
Breathing erratically, I stumble into my room; my backpack falls off on the floor with a low thump. I can't see clearly through the tears that cloud my vision, and I slam my door shut in my franticness. What did I just do? I--oh, God, why? Gulping down deep breaths of air, I force myself to swim past the ocean of guilt and think rationally.
What did I do? I fed a dog my lunch--so what? What's so bad about that? You wasted food, I remind myself, but I push that thought away. My food, my choice, right? Still feeling uncertain, I think back on the feeling after the feeding dog, close my eyes, and sigh.
I want to do it again--and again and again and again.
I can feel them wriggling around, their tiny mouths scraping at my tender flesh, but I don't care--why should I?
The next day, the puppy bounds down to reach me at the bottom of the hill, and I briefly consider skipping school to spend the day with him. What's wrong with me? I shake my head and run a hand through my hair; I didn't get much sleep last night, that must be it. Not that I ever get enough sleep, but today I can feel the fatigue pressing down on my shoulders and threatening to force me to my knees. Today's a bad day, I decide, but a glance at the puppy makes me consider something.
Does it have to be a bad day? Hesitating, I think back to yesterday, to the euphoria after feeding him, and hurriedly dig into my backpack. The puppy eagerly sits at my feet with shining eyes and his mouth partially open; I find myself wondering at his sharp teeth before I take out my lunch. Opening it, I feed him about half and linger to watch as he devours it, sharp teeth eagerly tearing into the flesh, and I find the pressure lifted off my shoulders.
Hesitantly, reluctantly, I drag myself away from the puppy, past the vulgarity, and into the not-so-comforting hallways of the school.
Despite infecting me once already, the blackness still stalks around my prone body and taunts me; it makes jabs for me, wraps around my arms for a few seconds, and disappears back into nothing.
Replaying the memory of the puppy in my head, I sit in class and half-pay attention to the teacher as my foot taps out a rapid beat in the ground. With a sigh, I scribble down some semi-important notes and wonder what the point of all this really is--not just school but living. Why breathe? Why anything? Frowning, I run a hand through my hair and feel as everything slowly drains out of my body in a slow, agonizing bleed that leaves me empty--and I don't mind.
Feeling empty isn't that bad, is it? Compared to everything else. Blinking, I turn my attention back to the teacher and continue to scribble down notes, not that it matters. My stomach growls, and I frown, thinking back to feeding the puppy. I'm hungrier than usual, I don't have that much food--but it doesn't matter, does it?
Sighing, I push down the hunger and numbly decide to feed the puppy the rest of my food after school, maybe even bring him home--why not if it doesn't matter?
Tortured, emptied, and weakened, I give myself over to the darkness with a breathy sigh and close my eyes as I am dragged into its dark embrace.
Excitement buzzes dully in my veins as I slip out of school; the closer I get to the puppy, the more my excitement grows. Tightening my grip on my backpack strap, I bite my lip and glance around in a sudden bout of paranoia--no one will see, right? The puppy whining distracts me from my irrational fears, and I shake my head as I dig up the rest of my lunch out of my bag. Watching the puppy ravenously descend upon the food, I let out a deep breath as, once again, I feel free--freer than ever.
Everything else has left, all the burning guilt, the frenzied excitement, the sickening uncertainty, and I revel in the emptiness as I stand before the puppy. Taking a deep breath, I absently scratch my wrist and ignore the biting hunger in my stomach. It's worth it for this, I tell myself, shoving down the part of me that doesn't agree. The puppy finishes feasting and nudges my leg with a whine; he looks up at me with the same shining eyes. Not even hesitating, I smile and lead him home, and he follows.
When I walk into my house, I go to my room, stop, and glance at the door next to it--light shines under the bottom, signalling life--but a whine from the puppy shoves those thoughts out of my head and turns my attention to it.
Blackness, everywhere. The light has disappeared, but I don't even care. Lifelessly, I simply lay in the darkness and accept the emptiness with arms wide open. What's the point of struggling? As I lay here, though, I can still feel the worms feasting upon me and slowly devouring me whole.
Two For One
Heya so kind of been a while I guess. This is two short pieces in one (hence the name) because I have not had quite the inspiration to write out anything more than this lately. But hey here these are so. Enjoy.
New Kid
He has wings. That’s the first thing I notice about the new guy as he walks in, and I, like many others, can’t tear my eyes away from the awkwardly fluttering feathery wings that make his already thin, small form seem almost sickly. Raising an eyebrow, I glance the kid over and wonder what a lightweight like him is doing in this place, but I shrug and turn back to my book.
“Um, excuse me--is this seat taken?” a soft voice questions; without looking up, I shake my head. The chair scrapes across the floor awkwardly, as it always does, and the thin form perches on the edge, as if about to spring up at any time. Still, I keep my eyes focused mainly on my book and resist the urge to grit my teeth as I re-read the same information over again.
“Not here,” I mutter to myself, flipping back to the table of contents to double check. Page 421, chapter ten--should have been there. Frowning, I return to the page and quickly skim over the rest of the chapter--no.
“Are you, uh, are you looking for something?” the same soft voice questions, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes or snap back at him as I finally glance up at the new kid. He shifts nervously in his seat, and while I can tell he regrets asking me the question, I can also see that he genuinely wants to help. Sighing, I close the book with a solid thump
“Yes. A certain piece of information that seems to be a bit rarer than I originally thought,” I explain, frowning as I glare at the three books stacked on the table. He flashes me a confused look, and I sigh before further elaborating. “I’m trying to find out how to contact demons because of, well, I am sure you could figure it out.” He remains silent, but I notice how his baby blue eyes flick over my form curiously.
“I can help,” he softly replies after a long moment of silence. I raise an eyebrow, but after thinking about it, I can’t come up with a decent reason as to why I shouldn’t at least accept his offer. At the very least, he can scour books with me, but what if he has some actual knowledge? Besides, there’s little to nothing that could actually go wrong in this situation, and this doesn’t mean that we have to become friends.
“Sure, kid. I’m Kalzerin, you?” I inform him, studying his tiny form more intently. His pale skin almost glows in the harsh white lights illuminating the space, and the hood of his light grey sleeveless hoodie covers his pink hair. Still, wavy locks fall into his face and just barely reach his blue eyes, and even I have to admit that he has a pretty face and alluring lips. Something within me stirs, a primal need to crush his innocence and take him for myself, and I allow myself a smirk at the thought. Perhaps… if I feel like it.
“Ezio,” he answers, and I nod wordlessly. Before we can exchange any further information, an intimidating female walks in, armor gleaming under the light and only enhancing her beauty, and her fiery red eyes scan the room habitually. Everyone scrambles to stand up, with the exception of Ezio and me. He looks around in confusion and looks like he wants to stand up but forgot how to while I leisurely recline and stare back at the woman with a rebellious look. She glares harshly but turns away without a word to focus on those standing.
“All of you, report outside for training, now!” Nirel barks, and everyone stands still as she glances over them one last time before sharply turning on her heels and striding back out the doors. As soon as she leaves, everyone begins clamoring to get outside; Ezio motions to get up until he notices me casually sitting.
“Wait for the crowd to thin,” I inform him in response to his curious look, and he nods in understanding as he settles back down. Soon, the majority have fought for the right to go through, and I stand up to begin making my way outside. Before we exit, though, I turn to Ezrio with a smirk. “Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll go easy on you. Unless you like it rough,” I suggest, throwing in a coy wink at the end. He flushes a deep red, and I don’t fail to notice how the blush creeps down his neck as well.
This year has become quite a bit more fun.
~~~
Clash
Striped curtains. Dotted walls. Checkered chairs. One zebra pillow, one cheetah pillow, one tiger-striped pillow, all on a shiny red leather couch that rests on an elegant oriental-patterned rug. A blue plaid blanket rests on the back of the couch. The room, a disastrous collection of competing patterns and textures, assaults my sense of fashion as I step inside, stepping delicately around the lazy cat sprawled near the doorway.
“I see you’ve redecorated,” I politely remark, and Isaac shakes his head with a fond smile on his face as he closes the door. I open my mouth to ask him who did, but his mother walks into the living room before I can. Suddenly, it all becomes clear, and I flash her a warm smile as we exchange greetings. As an elderly lady with quite the eye, she has amassed a collection of interesting items, some of which she seems to have gifted her son for his new house.
“Compared to the bare room as before, I say it’s come along quite well,” his mother, Rosa, defends, and Isaac and I share a secret look before we agree with her. We exchange some more polite conversation before she bustles back off to decorating the kitchen. Shaking my head, I take a seat on the couch, Isaac following and keeping a respectful amount of space between us.
“Congratulations on the new house,” I awkwardly inform him, and he smiles a little. It doesn’t reach his eyes, though; they remain looking a little lost and pained. He doesn’t say anything, and we lapse into silence. The neon clock on the wall ticks loudly in the silence, and I tuck a piece of my red hair behind my ear.
“Why did you come?” Isaac questions softly, and I almost ask him to repeat himself before the words suddenly register in my mind. I sigh and stare down at my hands; I know why I came. I came for a reason. Still, though, saying it out loud, in front of him--I’ve practiced it so much so why can’t I?
“Isaac, I love you, okay? I love you, and I want to be with you. And I know you know that, right? I mean, how could you not after--after that. And I know you’re in a relationship and I know I’m ruining our friendship but I just can’t ignore my feelings anymore,” I explain. The words explode out of me, and it takes a surprising amount of willpower to keep from more rushing out to join their brethren. Isaac just continues to stare at me, his face unchanging, for a few long seconds before he lets out a heavy sigh.
“You know, the worst part of all of this is that I was starting to love you, too,” Isaac whispers, and I clench my jaw as a confusing rush of emotions flood me. Feeling dizzy, I let out a deep breath; suddenly, the room seems all too fitting. We sit in this stifling silence yet again, and all I can think about is that I just want him to be happy.
“I think it’s best if I leave you alone,” I admit, feeling like crying just at the suggestion. When Isaac doesn’t respond, I slowly get up from the red couch; even when I’m walking away, he says nothing. With my hand on the doorknob, I turn back and take in the hectic living room, which suddenly seems entirely too well-suited for this current situation. Isaac stares back at me; a war rages on in his eyes. Taking a deep breath, I open the door and prepare to leave.
“Stay.” That simple word, just one syllable, makes my entire world freeze. A single second drags on for infinity as my mind races with all the consequences of staying, but I grit my teeth, push my emotions away, and turn back with a smile. He grins weakly; it’s a start. Refusing to think about anything but the present, I take a seat next to my friend and begin informing him about the latest incident of my work, never once pausing to consider anything more than what I will say next.
New Kid
He has wings. That’s the first thing I notice about the new guy as he walks in, and I, like many others, can’t tear my eyes away from the awkwardly fluttering feathery wings that make his already thin, small form seem almost sickly. Raising an eyebrow, I glance the kid over and wonder what a lightweight like him is doing in this place, but I shrug and turn back to my book.
“Um, excuse me--is this seat taken?” a soft voice questions; without looking up, I shake my head. The chair scrapes across the floor awkwardly, as it always does, and the thin form perches on the edge, as if about to spring up at any time. Still, I keep my eyes focused mainly on my book and resist the urge to grit my teeth as I re-read the same information over again.
“Not here,” I mutter to myself, flipping back to the table of contents to double check. Page 421, chapter ten--should have been there. Frowning, I return to the page and quickly skim over the rest of the chapter--no.
“Are you, uh, are you looking for something?” the same soft voice questions, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes or snap back at him as I finally glance up at the new kid. He shifts nervously in his seat, and while I can tell he regrets asking me the question, I can also see that he genuinely wants to help. Sighing, I close the book with a solid thump
“Yes. A certain piece of information that seems to be a bit rarer than I originally thought,” I explain, frowning as I glare at the three books stacked on the table. He flashes me a confused look, and I sigh before further elaborating. “I’m trying to find out how to contact demons because of, well, I am sure you could figure it out.” He remains silent, but I notice how his baby blue eyes flick over my form curiously.
“I can help,” he softly replies after a long moment of silence. I raise an eyebrow, but after thinking about it, I can’t come up with a decent reason as to why I shouldn’t at least accept his offer. At the very least, he can scour books with me, but what if he has some actual knowledge? Besides, there’s little to nothing that could actually go wrong in this situation, and this doesn’t mean that we have to become friends.
“Sure, kid. I’m Kalzerin, you?” I inform him, studying his tiny form more intently. His pale skin almost glows in the harsh white lights illuminating the space, and the hood of his light grey sleeveless hoodie covers his pink hair. Still, wavy locks fall into his face and just barely reach his blue eyes, and even I have to admit that he has a pretty face and alluring lips. Something within me stirs, a primal need to crush his innocence and take him for myself, and I allow myself a smirk at the thought. Perhaps… if I feel like it.
“Ezio,” he answers, and I nod wordlessly. Before we can exchange any further information, an intimidating female walks in, armor gleaming under the light and only enhancing her beauty, and her fiery red eyes scan the room habitually. Everyone scrambles to stand up, with the exception of Ezio and me. He looks around in confusion and looks like he wants to stand up but forgot how to while I leisurely recline and stare back at the woman with a rebellious look. She glares harshly but turns away without a word to focus on those standing.
“All of you, report outside for training, now!” Nirel barks, and everyone stands still as she glances over them one last time before sharply turning on her heels and striding back out the doors. As soon as she leaves, everyone begins clamoring to get outside; Ezio motions to get up until he notices me casually sitting.
“Wait for the crowd to thin,” I inform him in response to his curious look, and he nods in understanding as he settles back down. Soon, the majority have fought for the right to go through, and I stand up to begin making my way outside. Before we exit, though, I turn to Ezrio with a smirk. “Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll go easy on you. Unless you like it rough,” I suggest, throwing in a coy wink at the end. He flushes a deep red, and I don’t fail to notice how the blush creeps down his neck as well.
This year has become quite a bit more fun.
~~~
Clash
Striped curtains. Dotted walls. Checkered chairs. One zebra pillow, one cheetah pillow, one tiger-striped pillow, all on a shiny red leather couch that rests on an elegant oriental-patterned rug. A blue plaid blanket rests on the back of the couch. The room, a disastrous collection of competing patterns and textures, assaults my sense of fashion as I step inside, stepping delicately around the lazy cat sprawled near the doorway.
“I see you’ve redecorated,” I politely remark, and Isaac shakes his head with a fond smile on his face as he closes the door. I open my mouth to ask him who did, but his mother walks into the living room before I can. Suddenly, it all becomes clear, and I flash her a warm smile as we exchange greetings. As an elderly lady with quite the eye, she has amassed a collection of interesting items, some of which she seems to have gifted her son for his new house.
“Compared to the bare room as before, I say it’s come along quite well,” his mother, Rosa, defends, and Isaac and I share a secret look before we agree with her. We exchange some more polite conversation before she bustles back off to decorating the kitchen. Shaking my head, I take a seat on the couch, Isaac following and keeping a respectful amount of space between us.
“Congratulations on the new house,” I awkwardly inform him, and he smiles a little. It doesn’t reach his eyes, though; they remain looking a little lost and pained. He doesn’t say anything, and we lapse into silence. The neon clock on the wall ticks loudly in the silence, and I tuck a piece of my red hair behind my ear.
“Why did you come?” Isaac questions softly, and I almost ask him to repeat himself before the words suddenly register in my mind. I sigh and stare down at my hands; I know why I came. I came for a reason. Still, though, saying it out loud, in front of him--I’ve practiced it so much so why can’t I?
“Isaac, I love you, okay? I love you, and I want to be with you. And I know you know that, right? I mean, how could you not after--after that. And I know you’re in a relationship and I know I’m ruining our friendship but I just can’t ignore my feelings anymore,” I explain. The words explode out of me, and it takes a surprising amount of willpower to keep from more rushing out to join their brethren. Isaac just continues to stare at me, his face unchanging, for a few long seconds before he lets out a heavy sigh.
“You know, the worst part of all of this is that I was starting to love you, too,” Isaac whispers, and I clench my jaw as a confusing rush of emotions flood me. Feeling dizzy, I let out a deep breath; suddenly, the room seems all too fitting. We sit in this stifling silence yet again, and all I can think about is that I just want him to be happy.
“I think it’s best if I leave you alone,” I admit, feeling like crying just at the suggestion. When Isaac doesn’t respond, I slowly get up from the red couch; even when I’m walking away, he says nothing. With my hand on the doorknob, I turn back and take in the hectic living room, which suddenly seems entirely too well-suited for this current situation. Isaac stares back at me; a war rages on in his eyes. Taking a deep breath, I open the door and prepare to leave.
“Stay.” That simple word, just one syllable, makes my entire world freeze. A single second drags on for infinity as my mind races with all the consequences of staying, but I grit my teeth, push my emotions away, and turn back with a smile. He grins weakly; it’s a start. Refusing to think about anything but the present, I take a seat next to my friend and begin informing him about the latest incident of my work, never once pausing to consider anything more than what I will say next.
Stolen by Scales
Um yeah so this is kind of darker than what I usually write? By that, I mean it deals with straight up kidnapping and I'm not sure if I portrayed it correctly but. I mean. Maybe it works considering the situation.
My heart pounds in my chest; quivering and sweating, I try to cram myself further into the far corner of my closet. My breathing comes in heaving gasps that penetrate the silence, and it all seems to make so much noise. Trying to quiet my breathing, I focus on deep, steady breaths and squeeze my eyes shut.
Oh, God, don’t let them find me. Images of those foolish or desperate enough to resist flash in my mind; slashed open by claws or tails or-or--oh, God, please. Anyone, please. At this point, I would take help from a demon--okay, maybe not. Out of the pot and into the frying pan with that one, I guess.
For fu--really, Scott? You’re in a life or death or freedom situation, and--okay, talking to myself isn’t helping either. God, why did I move into my--well, honestly, like being with other people would help the situation. If--no, when they come, what will I do?
A loud bang startles me back into reality, and I bite harshly down on my lip to keep from whimpering or crying out. Blood trickles from the resulting wound, but I barely feel it or the pain from the adrenaline rushing through my veins. My heart pounds so harshly that I can’t hear anything but the rushing of blood; oddly enough, being unable to hear--not soothing whatsoever.
“Come out, little fleshling. I can taste you in the air,” a voice hisses, close to the closet door, and I sink my teeth further into my lip as terror races through me. For a few seconds, all goes silent; I almost relax, foolishly thinking that maybe it left. As soon as I start thinking that, though, the closet door slowly creaks open, and a scaled head slowly peeks around the corner. Black pupils ringed with a vibrant yellow-green stare at me; slowly, the mouth curls into a vicious smiling snarl.
I freeze. Flight or fight fails me because I just freeze. Stop breathing, stop moving, stop blinking. Stone still--except for my thoughts. All I can think about is those sharp teeth ripping into me, claws slicing, tail whipping--or, even worse, where it could take me.
“Not going to fight or run? I’ve got a smart one on my claws,” the lizard-person-thing hisses, and I can only swallow as it maneuvers a hook-ended staff into the space. The hook catches onto my overly large hoodie and drags me into the open; claws flash in the light of the sun from the open window. I whimper and flinch, but the claws just tear through my hoodie instead.
Scott--say something! Do something! But I can’t. I’m paralyzed by fear, and all I can do is lay here and allow the lizard creature to tear off my hoodie. The blades attached to its whip-like tail would gleam, if not for the dried blood along its edges, and the slick, deadly black form exudes power. Damn me and my submissive ways--why couldn’t I just be an alpha male like Dad always wanted? Great--jokes--God, help me, please.
“Oh, what a fine fleshling you are. Issileus! I’ve got one,” the lizard-person calls out to a partner-in-crime, and I manage a broken whimper as I flash through the possibilities in my head. While I don’t want what’s going to happen, I can’t find it in me to lash out and try to run when I’ve seen what can happen.
They might just bring me, anyway. A shudder crawls down my spine at the thought of it, of everything they could do, and I curl up into a ball to try and block out the reality of the world. A fierce trembling sets in, and I can only tighten my curl as their claws gently try to pry me into a different position.
“He’s a shy one. Ressi, I’ve got the cart ready, but we have to get him there first,” a new voice, lower and huskier than the other’s--Issues and Ressi--informs, and I whimper at the sound of the cart. I’ve seen it--a big, barred box. Or smaller ones; probably a smaller one this late in the attack. Full of other humans, all of them taken, some wounded.
They always go back to the ships. I am going back to the ships. This should incite some sort of reaction from me, but instead I just sink into myself and shut out the rest of the world. I barely notice as they sling my body into the cart along with a couple of other humans; I don’t peer out the bars at what I’m sure is a ruined city. By the time we reach the ship, I’ve sunk completely into the blackness in the hopes of never coming out.
Unfortunately, nothing lasts forever. I come back out of the reality in the midst of everyone else; in the dim lighting, I can’t make out any familiar faces. This is only one of several ships, though--who knows how many they have? A somber silence has settled over everyone, and I can only shift into a more comfortable position. Not that many positions prove comfortable in this cramped space.
Though it’s dark, I can make out the forms of lizards stalking down the rows of people. Every now and then, someone starts crying, which begins a chain of wailing and cursing; the lizards will hiss something in some different language to each other before one cracks its powerful tail against the floor. At this, the wailing stops, for now. Time passes by silently, missed and uncounted in the darkness.
At some point, the doors open; faint, warm, soft light streams in from the opening before getting blocked out by a large, scaly form. Sashes crisscross its torso with chains and odd charms hanging from them, and it saunters through the rows with a feeling of power. The other lizards step aside for it, heads bowed in respect, and everyone quiets immediately as the lizard examines its prisoners. Every now and then, its tail caresses someone gently.
When the lizard, obviously the captain of the ship, stops before me; its dark eyes scrutinize me before it smiles, almost genuinely, and continues on. My heart pounds harshly in my chest; I force my breathing to remain steady. Soon, the captain finishes its rounds and comes back in the middle of the rows and stares out at us.
“Hello, little fleshlings, and welcome to your new life,” the captain softly hisses, its voice carrying through the rows, and I whimper at the way the captain gazes at me. As lizards begin to go through and unchain all prisoners from the wall or floor of the ship, I can only begin to tremble and wonder exactly what will happen to me, and I almost ask some sort of deity for help before I remember that God can’t help me now.
I’m all alone.
hello this is my original race of lizard pirates if you would like more information I will gladly give it goodbye
My heart pounds in my chest; quivering and sweating, I try to cram myself further into the far corner of my closet. My breathing comes in heaving gasps that penetrate the silence, and it all seems to make so much noise. Trying to quiet my breathing, I focus on deep, steady breaths and squeeze my eyes shut.
Oh, God, don’t let them find me. Images of those foolish or desperate enough to resist flash in my mind; slashed open by claws or tails or-or--oh, God, please. Anyone, please. At this point, I would take help from a demon--okay, maybe not. Out of the pot and into the frying pan with that one, I guess.
For fu--really, Scott? You’re in a life or death or freedom situation, and--okay, talking to myself isn’t helping either. God, why did I move into my--well, honestly, like being with other people would help the situation. If--no, when they come, what will I do?
A loud bang startles me back into reality, and I bite harshly down on my lip to keep from whimpering or crying out. Blood trickles from the resulting wound, but I barely feel it or the pain from the adrenaline rushing through my veins. My heart pounds so harshly that I can’t hear anything but the rushing of blood; oddly enough, being unable to hear--not soothing whatsoever.
“Come out, little fleshling. I can taste you in the air,” a voice hisses, close to the closet door, and I sink my teeth further into my lip as terror races through me. For a few seconds, all goes silent; I almost relax, foolishly thinking that maybe it left. As soon as I start thinking that, though, the closet door slowly creaks open, and a scaled head slowly peeks around the corner. Black pupils ringed with a vibrant yellow-green stare at me; slowly, the mouth curls into a vicious smiling snarl.
I freeze. Flight or fight fails me because I just freeze. Stop breathing, stop moving, stop blinking. Stone still--except for my thoughts. All I can think about is those sharp teeth ripping into me, claws slicing, tail whipping--or, even worse, where it could take me.
“Not going to fight or run? I’ve got a smart one on my claws,” the lizard-person-thing hisses, and I can only swallow as it maneuvers a hook-ended staff into the space. The hook catches onto my overly large hoodie and drags me into the open; claws flash in the light of the sun from the open window. I whimper and flinch, but the claws just tear through my hoodie instead.
Scott--say something! Do something! But I can’t. I’m paralyzed by fear, and all I can do is lay here and allow the lizard creature to tear off my hoodie. The blades attached to its whip-like tail would gleam, if not for the dried blood along its edges, and the slick, deadly black form exudes power. Damn me and my submissive ways--why couldn’t I just be an alpha male like Dad always wanted? Great--jokes--God, help me, please.
“Oh, what a fine fleshling you are. Issileus! I’ve got one,” the lizard-person calls out to a partner-in-crime, and I manage a broken whimper as I flash through the possibilities in my head. While I don’t want what’s going to happen, I can’t find it in me to lash out and try to run when I’ve seen what can happen.
They might just bring me, anyway. A shudder crawls down my spine at the thought of it, of everything they could do, and I curl up into a ball to try and block out the reality of the world. A fierce trembling sets in, and I can only tighten my curl as their claws gently try to pry me into a different position.
“He’s a shy one. Ressi, I’ve got the cart ready, but we have to get him there first,” a new voice, lower and huskier than the other’s--Issues and Ressi--informs, and I whimper at the sound of the cart. I’ve seen it--a big, barred box. Or smaller ones; probably a smaller one this late in the attack. Full of other humans, all of them taken, some wounded.
They always go back to the ships. I am going back to the ships. This should incite some sort of reaction from me, but instead I just sink into myself and shut out the rest of the world. I barely notice as they sling my body into the cart along with a couple of other humans; I don’t peer out the bars at what I’m sure is a ruined city. By the time we reach the ship, I’ve sunk completely into the blackness in the hopes of never coming out.
Unfortunately, nothing lasts forever. I come back out of the reality in the midst of everyone else; in the dim lighting, I can’t make out any familiar faces. This is only one of several ships, though--who knows how many they have? A somber silence has settled over everyone, and I can only shift into a more comfortable position. Not that many positions prove comfortable in this cramped space.
Though it’s dark, I can make out the forms of lizards stalking down the rows of people. Every now and then, someone starts crying, which begins a chain of wailing and cursing; the lizards will hiss something in some different language to each other before one cracks its powerful tail against the floor. At this, the wailing stops, for now. Time passes by silently, missed and uncounted in the darkness.
At some point, the doors open; faint, warm, soft light streams in from the opening before getting blocked out by a large, scaly form. Sashes crisscross its torso with chains and odd charms hanging from them, and it saunters through the rows with a feeling of power. The other lizards step aside for it, heads bowed in respect, and everyone quiets immediately as the lizard examines its prisoners. Every now and then, its tail caresses someone gently.
When the lizard, obviously the captain of the ship, stops before me; its dark eyes scrutinize me before it smiles, almost genuinely, and continues on. My heart pounds harshly in my chest; I force my breathing to remain steady. Soon, the captain finishes its rounds and comes back in the middle of the rows and stares out at us.
“Hello, little fleshlings, and welcome to your new life,” the captain softly hisses, its voice carrying through the rows, and I whimper at the way the captain gazes at me. As lizards begin to go through and unchain all prisoners from the wall or floor of the ship, I can only begin to tremble and wonder exactly what will happen to me, and I almost ask some sort of deity for help before I remember that God can’t help me now.
I’m all alone.
hello this is my original race of lizard pirates if you would like more information I will gladly give it goodbye
Show Must Go On
Yeah so school has started, and my boyfriend has also started school, which means that we typically hang out most of Saturday. In short, I pretty much have one day to really work on outside of school projects, but also I will be writing poetry for school so look forward to that I guess? But yeah enjoy this!
Around him, the town burns. People scream; blood hangs like a fine mist in the air. Shadowy monsters lurk in the shadows; all he really sees of them is flashes of a half-formed body, eyes glinting in the darkness, blood dripping off sharp teeth and claws.
Still, he dances. Like a puppet controlled by some unseen master, his body twists gracefully through the air, and he lands gently on the hastily-constructed stage. Its uneven surface has torn the bottom of his feet to ribbons; by this point, he’s convinced his feet have more wood than flesh.
Slowly, as the creatures finish their party of death, the shadows around him grow; red eyes and sharp teeth glint at him in the depths of the darkness as it crowds around him and fully encases him in a dome of ink. Primal terror surges up through his soul and threatens to take over his mind; something stronger than animalistic urges, something entirely not him, stops it, though.
“My little dancer, how rude of you to run away like this,” a silky voice purrs from the dome of darkness, and he feels the control over his mind slowly ebbing away. The darkness parts, revealing a tall, willowy figure with a presence darker than even the ink-black creatures around him.
“Sorry, my king,” he finds himself forced to say, the words grating against his throat and soul. After those words, the control fades completely, and he falls to his knees onto the rough wooden surface. Splinters force their way into his skin and embed themselves deep within, yet he can only manage an exhausted whimper at the pain.
“Trust me, you are not sorry yet, but you will be,” the dark man promises with a threatening smile. With ravaged feet, knees, and hands, the lithe male in the center of the stage cannot even begin to muster the strength to try to escape as the blackness surges down on him; with an echoing scream, he disappears into the vortex of darkness. Chuckling, the only remaining living being walks into the vortex as well.
As the vortex swirls into nothing, all that remains is the bloody stage in the center of the ruined town; flames lick the stone hungrily for more wood to devour and begin to set upon the maimed bodies lying haphazardly in the streets. Even the creatures that usually populate such a town--cats, dogs, rats, and more--join the body count or have managed to escape the carnage.
Far away, though, the lone survivor of that ruinous night drops out of the blackness and onto a familiar, silken bed; he looks around with resigned terror. Afraid of what will happen yet knowing all too well that he cannot escape it, he quietly sets to tending to his numerous wounds and awaits the arrival of Ilherius--king of the dark. One of the several kings of elements, head of the Black Lands, his captor.
“You seem to have forgotten how you ended up here, Eire,” Ilherius remarks, his voice light yet ominous, as he glides through the wall of blackness to the left of the massive bed dominating the center of the room. The male on the center of the bed stiffens and refuses to glance over; instead, his focus remains on the splinters in his flesh.
“You seem to have forgotten your end of the deal,” he softly replies, no defiance in his voice or his posture. Still, as he raises his head to finally look at the king, rebellion shines brightly in his golden eyes. The king sighs and turns, his expression holding the irritation of dealing with a stubborn child.
“My end of the deal was to take you away, and you cannot deny that you are away,” Ilherius calmly explains, shooting the male bleeding on his bed a condescending look. With a sigh, the king sits down beside Eire and begins to look over his wounds with a tenderness that contradicts his vicious appearance. Eire can only sit in silence and think over the words.
Yes, true--Ilherius has taken him away from his previous life of the streets. While he may kick and scream, he would never want to go back to his former life, and while King Ilherius may prove a brute at times or use unnecessary force to get what he wants, he is better, admittedly, than others he has met in the past. Any actions him and Eire have taken together have been a mutual decision, typically brought on by Eire (not that would ever admit to seducing anyone, his dignity would never allow it).
“You are lucky that I am more benevolent than your previous masters,” King Ilherius remarks with a sly glance at the lithe male sitting in his bed. Those fascinating yellow eyes of his focus on the mark branded on his wrist, as they always do whenever he mulls over the past, and Ilherius lets a knowing smirk slip onto his face as the rebellion fades from Eire’s eyes.
“I suppose I am, but that does not change that you are a monster for what you do,” Eire finally responds, and the king of darkness can only give a soft, condescending sigh. Eire stiffens, rage flooding through his veins once again, and it takes all of his willpower to not lash out. Instead, he pulls out of the king’s grip and busies himself with looking over his wounds once again, now free of splinters.
“Eire, my little dancer, have we not discussed this? You and I are both aware of the corruption in this world, and I am merely trying to fix it. As for that town, well, I admit that I may have been a slight bit brutal, but that town--Eire, you are lucky that I found you when I did,” King Ilherius scolds the younger male, concern seeping into his usually silky and devious voice. Eire frowns, annoyed at the repetitious explanation, and lets out a soft huff.
“Yes, fine--the world is corrupt and the night must set before a dawn rises, I understand, my king. It does not matter, I suppose, what someone as low as I thinks for obviously my talents lay only in my physical abilities,” Eire sarcastically hisses as he moves more toward the head of the bed, away from King Ilherius. The dark red eyes of the king blaze dangerously before he forces himself to calm down.
“Very well, then. Act like a young child, and I shall treat you like one. I will return when I feel that you have had enough time to reconsider how you would like to treat your king, and if you have decided that you are going to continue to be ungrateful and disrespectful, I will find myself with very few options left,” Ilherius ominously promises, and Eire can only watch, stunned, as the dark form stands up and sweeps out of the room. With an ominous thud, the door swings shut, and a soft click informs Eire that it is indeed locked.
Great. Eire sighs and looks down at his lap--what is he supposed to do? Some part of him wants to continue this rebellion, frustrated at just watching the carnage around him, but another part finds itself terrified of whatever things King Ilherius could do. Sometimes, death isn’t the worst option, and Eire shudders at the thoughts of everything the king could.
However, an even deeper, smaller part of himself feels hurt because, somehow, King Ilherius has managed to snatch a small part of his heart. Not the king as everyone else knows him, though--not that dark, intimidating figure that commands his shadowy minions to rip apart anyone he deems fit for death. No, Eire cherishes the secret side of the king, the one that tenderly picks out his splinters, that whispers to him in the early mornings.
But maybe that King Ilherius doesn’t even really exist. With a sigh, Eire slips underneath the bed sheets and closes his eyes. All he can do for now is sleep and wish for sweet dreams. Deep inside himself, he finds himself missing the warmth of arms around his waist, but he shoves those thoughts away. Finally, sleep overtakes him.
Around him, the town burns. People scream; blood hangs like a fine mist in the air. Shadowy monsters lurk in the shadows; all he really sees of them is flashes of a half-formed body, eyes glinting in the darkness, blood dripping off sharp teeth and claws.
Still, he dances. Like a puppet controlled by some unseen master, his body twists gracefully through the air, and he lands gently on the hastily-constructed stage. Its uneven surface has torn the bottom of his feet to ribbons; by this point, he’s convinced his feet have more wood than flesh.
Slowly, as the creatures finish their party of death, the shadows around him grow; red eyes and sharp teeth glint at him in the depths of the darkness as it crowds around him and fully encases him in a dome of ink. Primal terror surges up through his soul and threatens to take over his mind; something stronger than animalistic urges, something entirely not him, stops it, though.
“My little dancer, how rude of you to run away like this,” a silky voice purrs from the dome of darkness, and he feels the control over his mind slowly ebbing away. The darkness parts, revealing a tall, willowy figure with a presence darker than even the ink-black creatures around him.
“Sorry, my king,” he finds himself forced to say, the words grating against his throat and soul. After those words, the control fades completely, and he falls to his knees onto the rough wooden surface. Splinters force their way into his skin and embed themselves deep within, yet he can only manage an exhausted whimper at the pain.
“Trust me, you are not sorry yet, but you will be,” the dark man promises with a threatening smile. With ravaged feet, knees, and hands, the lithe male in the center of the stage cannot even begin to muster the strength to try to escape as the blackness surges down on him; with an echoing scream, he disappears into the vortex of darkness. Chuckling, the only remaining living being walks into the vortex as well.
As the vortex swirls into nothing, all that remains is the bloody stage in the center of the ruined town; flames lick the stone hungrily for more wood to devour and begin to set upon the maimed bodies lying haphazardly in the streets. Even the creatures that usually populate such a town--cats, dogs, rats, and more--join the body count or have managed to escape the carnage.
Far away, though, the lone survivor of that ruinous night drops out of the blackness and onto a familiar, silken bed; he looks around with resigned terror. Afraid of what will happen yet knowing all too well that he cannot escape it, he quietly sets to tending to his numerous wounds and awaits the arrival of Ilherius--king of the dark. One of the several kings of elements, head of the Black Lands, his captor.
“You seem to have forgotten how you ended up here, Eire,” Ilherius remarks, his voice light yet ominous, as he glides through the wall of blackness to the left of the massive bed dominating the center of the room. The male on the center of the bed stiffens and refuses to glance over; instead, his focus remains on the splinters in his flesh.
“You seem to have forgotten your end of the deal,” he softly replies, no defiance in his voice or his posture. Still, as he raises his head to finally look at the king, rebellion shines brightly in his golden eyes. The king sighs and turns, his expression holding the irritation of dealing with a stubborn child.
“My end of the deal was to take you away, and you cannot deny that you are away,” Ilherius calmly explains, shooting the male bleeding on his bed a condescending look. With a sigh, the king sits down beside Eire and begins to look over his wounds with a tenderness that contradicts his vicious appearance. Eire can only sit in silence and think over the words.
Yes, true--Ilherius has taken him away from his previous life of the streets. While he may kick and scream, he would never want to go back to his former life, and while King Ilherius may prove a brute at times or use unnecessary force to get what he wants, he is better, admittedly, than others he has met in the past. Any actions him and Eire have taken together have been a mutual decision, typically brought on by Eire (not that would ever admit to seducing anyone, his dignity would never allow it).
“You are lucky that I am more benevolent than your previous masters,” King Ilherius remarks with a sly glance at the lithe male sitting in his bed. Those fascinating yellow eyes of his focus on the mark branded on his wrist, as they always do whenever he mulls over the past, and Ilherius lets a knowing smirk slip onto his face as the rebellion fades from Eire’s eyes.
“I suppose I am, but that does not change that you are a monster for what you do,” Eire finally responds, and the king of darkness can only give a soft, condescending sigh. Eire stiffens, rage flooding through his veins once again, and it takes all of his willpower to not lash out. Instead, he pulls out of the king’s grip and busies himself with looking over his wounds once again, now free of splinters.
“Eire, my little dancer, have we not discussed this? You and I are both aware of the corruption in this world, and I am merely trying to fix it. As for that town, well, I admit that I may have been a slight bit brutal, but that town--Eire, you are lucky that I found you when I did,” King Ilherius scolds the younger male, concern seeping into his usually silky and devious voice. Eire frowns, annoyed at the repetitious explanation, and lets out a soft huff.
“Yes, fine--the world is corrupt and the night must set before a dawn rises, I understand, my king. It does not matter, I suppose, what someone as low as I thinks for obviously my talents lay only in my physical abilities,” Eire sarcastically hisses as he moves more toward the head of the bed, away from King Ilherius. The dark red eyes of the king blaze dangerously before he forces himself to calm down.
“Very well, then. Act like a young child, and I shall treat you like one. I will return when I feel that you have had enough time to reconsider how you would like to treat your king, and if you have decided that you are going to continue to be ungrateful and disrespectful, I will find myself with very few options left,” Ilherius ominously promises, and Eire can only watch, stunned, as the dark form stands up and sweeps out of the room. With an ominous thud, the door swings shut, and a soft click informs Eire that it is indeed locked.
Great. Eire sighs and looks down at his lap--what is he supposed to do? Some part of him wants to continue this rebellion, frustrated at just watching the carnage around him, but another part finds itself terrified of whatever things King Ilherius could do. Sometimes, death isn’t the worst option, and Eire shudders at the thoughts of everything the king could.
However, an even deeper, smaller part of himself feels hurt because, somehow, King Ilherius has managed to snatch a small part of his heart. Not the king as everyone else knows him, though--not that dark, intimidating figure that commands his shadowy minions to rip apart anyone he deems fit for death. No, Eire cherishes the secret side of the king, the one that tenderly picks out his splinters, that whispers to him in the early mornings.
But maybe that King Ilherius doesn’t even really exist. With a sigh, Eire slips underneath the bed sheets and closes his eyes. All he can do for now is sleep and wish for sweet dreams. Deep inside himself, he finds himself missing the warmth of arms around his waist, but he shoves those thoughts away. Finally, sleep overtakes him.
Red
Red surrounds me. The ground, a deep, dark red; the sky, a light, faint red; me, a bright blood red; and the beast? The beast’s skin is a pale, inflamed red, its claws are almost black, like the color of drying blood, and its eyes are a piercing, bright red. Red. Only red.
You stand, almost bored, while I seethe silently in place. A crowd begins to form; they always do, whenever you’re around. You flick your eyes toward me, a question--why am I still here? My jaw clenches; it takes every ounce of willpower to not lash out at you. Your gaze returns to the crowd; I stalk away silently, body wound tight in a coil of fury. If only, I think, a thousand different scenarios running through my mind. If only.
The beast growls, revealing bloody teeth and a whip-like tongue that almost tastes the air; even as the great beast steps toward me, I feel no fear, only a flaming rage that licks at the inside of my skin in an attempt to burn its way out. Before the beast can reach me, bars, shining, metallic red, slide out of the dark red ground.
Home--grey, empty home. I fling my backpack to the ground, uncaring of what may lie within it, and run a hand through my hair. You, you arrogant--how could you? I stalk the length of my room, feeling like a caged beast--stalk, whip around, stalk, whip around. Each step punishes the ground, but I don’t spare any thought to the ache spreading up my feet. All I can think about is you and the growing rage within me--everything just stokes the fire.
It growls angrily and swipes at the thick bars, but its claws just bounce off without leaving a mark. It snarls savagely and slams against the bars; they rattle but hold strong. Fear seeps through the cloud of rage, but the slamming down of claws right in front of me drenches me in a new torrent of fury. Unfortunately, I cannot do anything; we--the beast and I--standoff, two beings of rage locked in an eternal fight.
With a savage, inhuman growl, I slam my fist against the wall; pain radiates up my arm and dulls the burning rage for a few brief moments. Stopping, I just stand and breathe, trying to regain my sense of being in this swirling vortex of rage that threatens to sweep my off my feet. Red seeps into my vision; you, you, you. How could you? You and her--how dare you? You selfish--you. You.
Drops of red--the same shade of red as me, if not even brighter and more skin to blood--rain from the sky; upon hitting the ground, they mold together into a vaguely humanoid mass. Thousands of them form around me; with each one, the beast’s growling gets louder, its ramming of the bars more insistent, the flame burning within both of us stronger.
With a short yell, I slam my hand against the wall again, harder. More pain. More anger. Have you already kissed her? Do you hold her close? Will you flaunt her off? You, high and mighty and loved, and her, pretty and perfect and not me. Us--where did we go? Gone, thrown away--the fires grow and begin to hurt, licking at my skin and turning my blood into lava. Unbearable--too much, drowning in anger, can’t breathe--why? Why did you do this to me?
Finally, the beast roars--a long, enraged noise. Within me from a deep, animalistic place, I feel the urge to open my mouth up and roar back, to throw the beast’s rage into its face, but the trembling of the bars prevents me. Pieces of metallic red flake off, floating straight through the ground.
I begin to burn in the force of my own anger, and, trembling, I try to breathe and rationalize the situation. All I can think about is you and her you and her you and her. Not me, not me not me not me. You. Me. Us swirling in the abyss. How long? Before you even threw us away? In front of everyone--too hot, burning up, is this what dying feels like? I pant for breath, more animal than human, driven savage by the furious flames, and stumble over to my shelf. Desperately, I search; things tumble to the ground while, finally, my fingers, shaking and unsteady, clasp around cool relief.
With a swipe, the beast snaps the rest of the bars; it also demolishes a crowd of red figures. They burst, like balloons filled with red confetti; their shapes flutter through the ground and into the abyss below. Snarling victoriously, the beast quickly tears through the remaining figures; red confetti fills the air, a childish rain of blood that clouds my vision and leaves me blind.
Rage swallows me whole; I can only see red. I lose myself to a deeper side of me, but fury still engulfs me. This time, though, the flames dance around me; I manipulate them and dig deeper into myself. Red--the color of life. The color of death. The color of humanity. I drip red--filled to the brim, overflowing. It spills over and down the sides, too much for me to handle, and overtakes me in a hazy cloud of life, death, humanity. Anger.
After all the red has settled, only the beast and I remain. It stalks toward me, red strands of drool dripping down to the ground. Rage swells within me, a burning inferno that swallows me whole, and, recklessly, I pick up a red chunk of ground and hurl it at the beast. It hits; the beast stands, stunned, for a moment before it runs and charges at me. I see its ugly, snarling, red face up close for a moment before I go flying away.
A sudden flash of intense anger--what are you doing right now? Are you with her while I’m here, burning up in my anger? It fades, though--spills over and drains out like everything else. It all bleeds out. Slowly, I emerge from the deep place of anger, that animalistic cage of red, and just sit there in a puddle of my own anger. Shaky and unsure, I slowly stand out, stumbling to the bathroom. Numb, I stare at myself, covered in anger and unbearably human once again.
As I sail, leaving behind a trailing line of red, I feel my anger bleeding out and dying away to a dull burn; when I hit the ground, I sail right through and join the rain of confetti slowly drifting down through the tinged-red blackness. Everything fades out, except for the dull thrum of anger deep in the center of my being; all that remains is red.
You stand, almost bored, while I seethe silently in place. A crowd begins to form; they always do, whenever you’re around. You flick your eyes toward me, a question--why am I still here? My jaw clenches; it takes every ounce of willpower to not lash out at you. Your gaze returns to the crowd; I stalk away silently, body wound tight in a coil of fury. If only, I think, a thousand different scenarios running through my mind. If only.
The beast growls, revealing bloody teeth and a whip-like tongue that almost tastes the air; even as the great beast steps toward me, I feel no fear, only a flaming rage that licks at the inside of my skin in an attempt to burn its way out. Before the beast can reach me, bars, shining, metallic red, slide out of the dark red ground.
Home--grey, empty home. I fling my backpack to the ground, uncaring of what may lie within it, and run a hand through my hair. You, you arrogant--how could you? I stalk the length of my room, feeling like a caged beast--stalk, whip around, stalk, whip around. Each step punishes the ground, but I don’t spare any thought to the ache spreading up my feet. All I can think about is you and the growing rage within me--everything just stokes the fire.
It growls angrily and swipes at the thick bars, but its claws just bounce off without leaving a mark. It snarls savagely and slams against the bars; they rattle but hold strong. Fear seeps through the cloud of rage, but the slamming down of claws right in front of me drenches me in a new torrent of fury. Unfortunately, I cannot do anything; we--the beast and I--standoff, two beings of rage locked in an eternal fight.
With a savage, inhuman growl, I slam my fist against the wall; pain radiates up my arm and dulls the burning rage for a few brief moments. Stopping, I just stand and breathe, trying to regain my sense of being in this swirling vortex of rage that threatens to sweep my off my feet. Red seeps into my vision; you, you, you. How could you? You and her--how dare you? You selfish--you. You.
Drops of red--the same shade of red as me, if not even brighter and more skin to blood--rain from the sky; upon hitting the ground, they mold together into a vaguely humanoid mass. Thousands of them form around me; with each one, the beast’s growling gets louder, its ramming of the bars more insistent, the flame burning within both of us stronger.
With a short yell, I slam my hand against the wall again, harder. More pain. More anger. Have you already kissed her? Do you hold her close? Will you flaunt her off? You, high and mighty and loved, and her, pretty and perfect and not me. Us--where did we go? Gone, thrown away--the fires grow and begin to hurt, licking at my skin and turning my blood into lava. Unbearable--too much, drowning in anger, can’t breathe--why? Why did you do this to me?
Finally, the beast roars--a long, enraged noise. Within me from a deep, animalistic place, I feel the urge to open my mouth up and roar back, to throw the beast’s rage into its face, but the trembling of the bars prevents me. Pieces of metallic red flake off, floating straight through the ground.
I begin to burn in the force of my own anger, and, trembling, I try to breathe and rationalize the situation. All I can think about is you and her you and her you and her. Not me, not me not me not me. You. Me. Us swirling in the abyss. How long? Before you even threw us away? In front of everyone--too hot, burning up, is this what dying feels like? I pant for breath, more animal than human, driven savage by the furious flames, and stumble over to my shelf. Desperately, I search; things tumble to the ground while, finally, my fingers, shaking and unsteady, clasp around cool relief.
With a swipe, the beast snaps the rest of the bars; it also demolishes a crowd of red figures. They burst, like balloons filled with red confetti; their shapes flutter through the ground and into the abyss below. Snarling victoriously, the beast quickly tears through the remaining figures; red confetti fills the air, a childish rain of blood that clouds my vision and leaves me blind.
Rage swallows me whole; I can only see red. I lose myself to a deeper side of me, but fury still engulfs me. This time, though, the flames dance around me; I manipulate them and dig deeper into myself. Red--the color of life. The color of death. The color of humanity. I drip red--filled to the brim, overflowing. It spills over and down the sides, too much for me to handle, and overtakes me in a hazy cloud of life, death, humanity. Anger.
After all the red has settled, only the beast and I remain. It stalks toward me, red strands of drool dripping down to the ground. Rage swells within me, a burning inferno that swallows me whole, and, recklessly, I pick up a red chunk of ground and hurl it at the beast. It hits; the beast stands, stunned, for a moment before it runs and charges at me. I see its ugly, snarling, red face up close for a moment before I go flying away.
A sudden flash of intense anger--what are you doing right now? Are you with her while I’m here, burning up in my anger? It fades, though--spills over and drains out like everything else. It all bleeds out. Slowly, I emerge from the deep place of anger, that animalistic cage of red, and just sit there in a puddle of my own anger. Shaky and unsure, I slowly stand out, stumbling to the bathroom. Numb, I stare at myself, covered in anger and unbearably human once again.
As I sail, leaving behind a trailing line of red, I feel my anger bleeding out and dying away to a dull burn; when I hit the ground, I sail right through and join the rain of confetti slowly drifting down through the tinged-red blackness. Everything fades out, except for the dull thrum of anger deep in the center of my being; all that remains is red.
Ugly Side
Mentions of drug and alcohol, so be warned I guess.
They don’t know. It sickens him to even think of them knowing, and he takes a deep breath of the air, filled with smoke, to comfort himself. They don’t know. His head fuzzy and mind buzzing, he can only laugh in relief and stumble against a warm body. Vaguely, he registers the predatory smile of the person, but he can only laugh and go with the warm hand tugging him into a dark room.
When he wakes up, sore but unashamed in the wake of his previous night, he calmly gathers his clothes, and under the protection of the sill-dark early morning, he slinks back home undetected and washes away the evidence of the previous night. Faint memories linger around in the back of his head, but he pays no attention to them. He has lost all concern for memories; they can only bring more pain.
Not that the future brings any more relief. With a condescending scoff at the thought, he dries himself off and takes a good look at himself in the mirror, a familiar practice. Longer than what it should be, his blond hair barely brushes against his shoulders; it would reach further if not for the waves that shorten its length. The vibrant pink and blue tips stand out against his pale skin, paler than he remembers it ever being before.
Unfortunately, quite a few other things stand out, too. Like the darkness around and under his eyes, which he attributes to the harrowing duty of finishing senior year AP homework (he knows the truth but no one else does). The fresh scars on his arms, still a reddish color, speak all too much of his activities, and all the other marks--dark hickies, red scratches, bruises--could mean any sort of things.
Even he has to guess at the origins of some of them Letting out a hollow chuckle, he rips his focus away from his naked form and begins to dress in what has become his standard wear. Just a black hoodie and some loose jeans, black as well today. Whatever socks he can grab, a pair of random, store-brand shoes. Before, he would at least put some effort in his dress--like many other teenagers, his clothes reflected what he felt about his personality.
He supposes they still do, then; it’s just that his personality has changed. Shrugging, he exits the space and goes back to his room, and as he flops on his bed, he feels exhaustion wash over him. It takes all of his will-power to not fall back asleep, and he lets out a rough sigh and forces himself to sit back up. Slumping, half-awake, on the bed, he struggles to remember if he’s finished all his homework; yes, what he needed to.
As for what he hasn’t finished, well, he knows which classes to finish what it. Rubbing his eyes, he forces himself awake and sluggishly slings his backpack onto his back; another day, it seems. While the other residents of the house bustle about, snagging breakfast and lunches, he slips out the door without saying a word.
The people in the night have become less strangers to him than his own family. Not that he’s ever been that close to this part of his family, anyway, and getting close to them now--it’s too dangerous.
They don’t know, he reminds himself as he trudges to school. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs; they don’t know. Nobody knows. With that thought in his head, he numbly reassures himself and tries to keep from falling into the same trap as always; despite his best attempts, though, his mind wanders back as always.
Great way to start the morning. Eventually, he slinks into school and reluctantly joins the stream of students heading to class; they don’t know. He looks around and wonders, numbly, if he’ll recognize anyone; like always, he doesn’t. The night-friends he has aren’t the type to be in school, really, and he tries his best to avoid interacting with anyone he thinks he’ll have to deal with during the day.
Nobody can see his ugly side; his night-friends don’t care about the marks, they just think it’s more fun for him. They don’t see, their vision blurred by the drugs and alcohol, and they don’t care, either, so long as he melts under their touch and begs for more. Everyone else, though? They can’t know, so he fakes a tired smile as he slides into the desk and tries his best to ignore the screaming thoughts at the back of his mind.
They don’t know. It sickens him to even think of them knowing, and he takes a deep breath of the air, filled with smoke, to comfort himself. They don’t know. His head fuzzy and mind buzzing, he can only laugh in relief and stumble against a warm body. Vaguely, he registers the predatory smile of the person, but he can only laugh and go with the warm hand tugging him into a dark room.
When he wakes up, sore but unashamed in the wake of his previous night, he calmly gathers his clothes, and under the protection of the sill-dark early morning, he slinks back home undetected and washes away the evidence of the previous night. Faint memories linger around in the back of his head, but he pays no attention to them. He has lost all concern for memories; they can only bring more pain.
Not that the future brings any more relief. With a condescending scoff at the thought, he dries himself off and takes a good look at himself in the mirror, a familiar practice. Longer than what it should be, his blond hair barely brushes against his shoulders; it would reach further if not for the waves that shorten its length. The vibrant pink and blue tips stand out against his pale skin, paler than he remembers it ever being before.
Unfortunately, quite a few other things stand out, too. Like the darkness around and under his eyes, which he attributes to the harrowing duty of finishing senior year AP homework (he knows the truth but no one else does). The fresh scars on his arms, still a reddish color, speak all too much of his activities, and all the other marks--dark hickies, red scratches, bruises--could mean any sort of things.
Even he has to guess at the origins of some of them Letting out a hollow chuckle, he rips his focus away from his naked form and begins to dress in what has become his standard wear. Just a black hoodie and some loose jeans, black as well today. Whatever socks he can grab, a pair of random, store-brand shoes. Before, he would at least put some effort in his dress--like many other teenagers, his clothes reflected what he felt about his personality.
He supposes they still do, then; it’s just that his personality has changed. Shrugging, he exits the space and goes back to his room, and as he flops on his bed, he feels exhaustion wash over him. It takes all of his will-power to not fall back asleep, and he lets out a rough sigh and forces himself to sit back up. Slumping, half-awake, on the bed, he struggles to remember if he’s finished all his homework; yes, what he needed to.
As for what he hasn’t finished, well, he knows which classes to finish what it. Rubbing his eyes, he forces himself awake and sluggishly slings his backpack onto his back; another day, it seems. While the other residents of the house bustle about, snagging breakfast and lunches, he slips out the door without saying a word.
The people in the night have become less strangers to him than his own family. Not that he’s ever been that close to this part of his family, anyway, and getting close to them now--it’s too dangerous.
They don’t know, he reminds himself as he trudges to school. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs; they don’t know. Nobody knows. With that thought in his head, he numbly reassures himself and tries to keep from falling into the same trap as always; despite his best attempts, though, his mind wanders back as always.
Great way to start the morning. Eventually, he slinks into school and reluctantly joins the stream of students heading to class; they don’t know. He looks around and wonders, numbly, if he’ll recognize anyone; like always, he doesn’t. The night-friends he has aren’t the type to be in school, really, and he tries his best to avoid interacting with anyone he thinks he’ll have to deal with during the day.
Nobody can see his ugly side; his night-friends don’t care about the marks, they just think it’s more fun for him. They don’t see, their vision blurred by the drugs and alcohol, and they don’t care, either, so long as he melts under their touch and begs for more. Everyone else, though? They can’t know, so he fakes a tired smile as he slides into the desk and tries his best to ignore the screaming thoughts at the back of his mind.
Forbidden Lust
For as long as he can remember, the forbidden has fascinated him, and in his household, quite a lot ended up forbidden for one reason or another. His mother condemned the outside at one point because his neighbor stared for too long. Apparently, the kindly old woman, a healer, thought that he looked rather thin, and of course, such accusations must come from only the poisonous lies of sinful people.
For the record, he hadn’t had a proper meal in a little over a week because his mother insisted on “cleansing his soul” from whatever sin he had committed. As a child, he didn’t understand why he couldn’t do so many things; as an adult, he understands that his mom had just gone insane at some point. Still, that lust for the forbidden lingers, even when the forbidden has a reason beyond insanity.
For instance, black magic, forbidden because of its repercussions and unpredictability, proves a far better lover than any he has found in his own race, or even various other magical races. It caresses his skin with a smooth silkiness that sends delightful shudders down his spine, and he tilts his head back a little as he basks in it all.
Of course, he knows that most black mages end up getting controlled by the magic, not the other way around, and everything they’ve ever wanted crumbles to dust in their hands. Not him, though--not out of vanity but out of facts. Most black mages seek revenge or power or control; they want more, they crave more, they take more than what they can handle. However, he just wants to roll around in the forbidden aspect of it all, to submerge himself in the knowledge and the sensations.
He just wants to know. For his entire life, he has lived, dumb and pained in his ignorance, in the dark, but now, he stands in the light--well, actually, still in the dark because it’s black magic. While metaphors may still escape him now and then, he prides himself on his array of other information as he has ravenously thrown himself upon studying in the last few years.
After his mother died of some sort of chronic illness or another (who knows, really, what she died of? So many claims of illness, of sin, of everything but the truth), he fled his town completely, skipping her funeral, and hitched a ride to a main city where he threw himself into studies and internships and everything he could think to do. The world spread open before him at the ripe age of thirteen, and he ravaged it with as much passion as his small, frail body contained.
Now, he’s prying open its legs once more to delve further, push further, until he brings both it and him to a ruinous conclusion. He won’t stop until he knows every single little thing that makes it tick, and then he wants to learn how to manipulate those things. Only black magic offers him such forbidden knowledge; no other area of studies holds such forbidden secrets.
In all honesty, he may come across as an intense person, and, really, he can’t blame them for thinking so. He approaches people with the same intensity that he takes the world; not many can take such prying without cowering away. As a result, most of his many love affairs ends disastrously, but that may in part result from his tendency to become distracted by both other people and his studies.
In all fairness, he has never committed himself to a single person; he has always made it clear that if he found it fit to pursue someone else he would, with or without breaking off with the current person. In short, a more or less open relationship, which suits his needs quite well.
Of course, none of this really has anything to do with where he currently stands, but he reflects upon it nonetheless as he calmly stares down at the demon in front of him. It paces within the confined space of the protective circle restlessly, and every now and then it lets out a tremendous howl before rushing against the barrier. Every time, it gets shoved back in the center, ashen grey skin crawling with the strong magical pulse as it writhes in pain. Its eyes flash between red, orange, and yellow as it rages, and its form shifts constantly.
“If you would merely calm down, we could converse civilly,” he drawls, not expecting a response from the beast. He thought he had summoned a high class demon, perhaps one more capable of thought than this, but apparently not. With a sigh, he remains settled against the wall and observes the demon intently.
At this point, he can’t tell its true form, but he can sense the power radiating off of it even through the barriers. So a high-class demon, but one unused to summoning, perhaps? At the very least, it seems very unhappy with its current situation, and he can’t help but notice a sense of fear and desperation under the anger.
“Because I can’t safely open the portal back to your world for another twenty-four hours, I cannot do anything until you calm down. I merely want to talk with you,” he explains softy, trying to find some way to rationalize with the demon. It gives no sign of hearing him, but he notices that it seems to calm at the sound of his voice. Interesting.
“Speak,” the demon rasps, its voice soft yet piercing. He resists the urge to flinch as the word bounces around his head, and he straights against the wall and begins a slow pace around the room. Runes litter the walls and the floor, and he can sense the magic pulsing in the room. A delightful shudder crawls down his spine at the forbidden aspect of it all, and he regards the demon coolly.
“What part do demons play in the world? How do you factor into the great machine?” he questions; the demon seems to scoff at him, regard him with still-changing eyes, and flick its currently bladed and whip-like tail (but wait, changing again, now tufted at the end). It stalks fluidly despite the changing of its legs, and he watches, intent, as it seems to consider his question.
“Simply, we do not. We exist at the edge of it all,” the demon tersely explains; speaking seems foreign to it, he notes with a barely a wince at the demon’s horrible voice. The feel of the forbidden rushes over him again, and he grins wickedly against the center of the universe as he ravages it once more. He notes, still, how the demon paces, still uncomfortable, still seemingly pained merely by being here.
“You seem discomforted,” he notes; the demon makes no sign of hearing him and returns to its pacing. Its eyes begin to flash; once again, it howls and throws itself against the magical barrier. With a sigh, he watches the downed demon, magic crawling across its skin in waves, and settles back against the wall. Time to wait, it seems, but he’s good at waiting. He will know; he will sate his lust for the forbidden, no matter what.
For the record, he hadn’t had a proper meal in a little over a week because his mother insisted on “cleansing his soul” from whatever sin he had committed. As a child, he didn’t understand why he couldn’t do so many things; as an adult, he understands that his mom had just gone insane at some point. Still, that lust for the forbidden lingers, even when the forbidden has a reason beyond insanity.
For instance, black magic, forbidden because of its repercussions and unpredictability, proves a far better lover than any he has found in his own race, or even various other magical races. It caresses his skin with a smooth silkiness that sends delightful shudders down his spine, and he tilts his head back a little as he basks in it all.
Of course, he knows that most black mages end up getting controlled by the magic, not the other way around, and everything they’ve ever wanted crumbles to dust in their hands. Not him, though--not out of vanity but out of facts. Most black mages seek revenge or power or control; they want more, they crave more, they take more than what they can handle. However, he just wants to roll around in the forbidden aspect of it all, to submerge himself in the knowledge and the sensations.
He just wants to know. For his entire life, he has lived, dumb and pained in his ignorance, in the dark, but now, he stands in the light--well, actually, still in the dark because it’s black magic. While metaphors may still escape him now and then, he prides himself on his array of other information as he has ravenously thrown himself upon studying in the last few years.
After his mother died of some sort of chronic illness or another (who knows, really, what she died of? So many claims of illness, of sin, of everything but the truth), he fled his town completely, skipping her funeral, and hitched a ride to a main city where he threw himself into studies and internships and everything he could think to do. The world spread open before him at the ripe age of thirteen, and he ravaged it with as much passion as his small, frail body contained.
Now, he’s prying open its legs once more to delve further, push further, until he brings both it and him to a ruinous conclusion. He won’t stop until he knows every single little thing that makes it tick, and then he wants to learn how to manipulate those things. Only black magic offers him such forbidden knowledge; no other area of studies holds such forbidden secrets.
In all honesty, he may come across as an intense person, and, really, he can’t blame them for thinking so. He approaches people with the same intensity that he takes the world; not many can take such prying without cowering away. As a result, most of his many love affairs ends disastrously, but that may in part result from his tendency to become distracted by both other people and his studies.
In all fairness, he has never committed himself to a single person; he has always made it clear that if he found it fit to pursue someone else he would, with or without breaking off with the current person. In short, a more or less open relationship, which suits his needs quite well.
Of course, none of this really has anything to do with where he currently stands, but he reflects upon it nonetheless as he calmly stares down at the demon in front of him. It paces within the confined space of the protective circle restlessly, and every now and then it lets out a tremendous howl before rushing against the barrier. Every time, it gets shoved back in the center, ashen grey skin crawling with the strong magical pulse as it writhes in pain. Its eyes flash between red, orange, and yellow as it rages, and its form shifts constantly.
“If you would merely calm down, we could converse civilly,” he drawls, not expecting a response from the beast. He thought he had summoned a high class demon, perhaps one more capable of thought than this, but apparently not. With a sigh, he remains settled against the wall and observes the demon intently.
At this point, he can’t tell its true form, but he can sense the power radiating off of it even through the barriers. So a high-class demon, but one unused to summoning, perhaps? At the very least, it seems very unhappy with its current situation, and he can’t help but notice a sense of fear and desperation under the anger.
“Because I can’t safely open the portal back to your world for another twenty-four hours, I cannot do anything until you calm down. I merely want to talk with you,” he explains softy, trying to find some way to rationalize with the demon. It gives no sign of hearing him, but he notices that it seems to calm at the sound of his voice. Interesting.
“Speak,” the demon rasps, its voice soft yet piercing. He resists the urge to flinch as the word bounces around his head, and he straights against the wall and begins a slow pace around the room. Runes litter the walls and the floor, and he can sense the magic pulsing in the room. A delightful shudder crawls down his spine at the forbidden aspect of it all, and he regards the demon coolly.
“What part do demons play in the world? How do you factor into the great machine?” he questions; the demon seems to scoff at him, regard him with still-changing eyes, and flick its currently bladed and whip-like tail (but wait, changing again, now tufted at the end). It stalks fluidly despite the changing of its legs, and he watches, intent, as it seems to consider his question.
“Simply, we do not. We exist at the edge of it all,” the demon tersely explains; speaking seems foreign to it, he notes with a barely a wince at the demon’s horrible voice. The feel of the forbidden rushes over him again, and he grins wickedly against the center of the universe as he ravages it once more. He notes, still, how the demon paces, still uncomfortable, still seemingly pained merely by being here.
“You seem discomforted,” he notes; the demon makes no sign of hearing him and returns to its pacing. Its eyes begin to flash; once again, it howls and throws itself against the magical barrier. With a sigh, he watches the downed demon, magic crawling across its skin in waves, and settles back against the wall. Time to wait, it seems, but he’s good at waiting. He will know; he will sate his lust for the forbidden, no matter what.
Decisions and Universes
Sometimes, he lays awake at night and thinks about his decisions; he contemplates the different universes that have spawned off from his choices, some of which hold happiness and others that have only isolation. When he sleeps, he dreams of this web of decisions he’s made, a sprawling trap of despair, and he wakes up, drenched in sweat and unable to remember where he is.
In one, he’s never talked to her. He just walks past the crying girl at the table, or he skipped lunch that day. Or he skipped school. They never meet, and he never falls in love.
Other days, he spends the night working feverishly to somehow outrun the impending flood; these nights find him circling around a drain in the chase of some proverbial tail. So much wasted potential potential, he hears echoing the small, terrifyingly empty space of his apartment as he scrawls on paper. The ghost of a kiss against his cheek every time he takes a break sends him back into the frenzy, and the sun rises on him, trembling in the face of the onslaught and surrounded by piles of paper covered in pen scribbles.
In another one, he just doesn’t fall in love. As if he could just make that choice. They’re friends, but he doesn’t want more. Peace, for once.
Most nights, though, he just falls asleep, cold and lonely. Sometimes he has a date--sometimes that date transfers to the intimacy of the bedroom. Even with someone beside him in bed, he still feels cold and alone, trapped on an island of his own making. Decisions, he seethes. All these decisions, so many other universes, and he’s here, alone, choosing the same fate over and over again. Not, of course, that all of his problems arise from the lack of a companion (but that certainly doesn’t help).
In yet another universe, he’s confessed. So many times he could have and should have confessed. Even if she rejected him, at least he wouldn’t be here, still chasing her.
Every night, like clockwork, he receives a call from his mother (and never picks up because he knows exactly what she’s going to say). She leaves a voicemail apologizing for their fight but ultimately blames him again, and she begs for him to come home and stop wasting his potential by studying to become an author. Every single time, she manages to insult him in the most condescending way, treating him as if he’s just a misguided child, and, oh, it makes him want to scream. Still, he says nothing; just wordlessly listens to the voicemail all the way through before deleting in.
Surely, in one of thousands of universes, his mother accepts him and his dreams. She doesn’t force him to conform to her desires; she doesn’t call him every night to remind him of his failures.
During the days, though, he smiles and laughs; he hides his long, lonely nights behind caffeine, sunglasses, and a smile faker than what he whispers to his dates at night. Sometimes, things get rowdy, and he finds himself doing something stupid, like trying to outdrink the shady guy who always sits in the corner of the bar or trying to see who can take the same girl home. Typical college acts, he figures, but every now and then he catches her eyes, watching him--judging him, he feels. Looking down on him for being like everyone else. Whenever this happens, he turns away from her and does something even worse--fights, most of the time. Just to get her gaze out of his mind.
Maybe there’s a universe where he hasn’t lost his mind; maybe he’s just moved on from her, like any normal person. There is no pain when he looks at her, just the warmth of friendship.
On days when he gets particularly out of control, she usually chases him down the next day (typically nurses him back from his hangover, strokes his hair and tells him it’s okay) to console him; he’s not sure how she knows that he needs help, though. It’s bittersweet--a soothing salve to his wounds but a burning coal to his soul. Her fingers stroke through his hair as he buries his face in the pillow, and as hs throat aches from holding the sobs in, he finds himself hovering on the edge of self-delusion, about to allow himself to fall into the fantasy that maybe she loves him back.
In some unreachable universe, she’s the one dreadfully in love with him, and he’s the one breaking her heart. She lays awake at night, thinking all these same things, dreaming of all these same universes.
Unfortunately, the illusion never lasts long as she receives a call from her boyfriend, and with a shrug, he laughs it off, makes some stupid joke, and watches her leave with a breaking heart; once the door closes, he sits in his room, mopes and cries some more, and inevitably makes the resolution to go out and forget about her (to escape his pain in the empty embrace of somebody else). He calls up one of the numerous women on his phone--more often than not, they don’t answer. Somehow, though, he finds someone, and for a moment, his problems disappear in the rush of pleasure, of some feeling other than the growing emptiness at his core.
There’s a universe where the woman under him is her--it’s her and him in his bed, in her bed, in their bed. On the couch, the floor, against the wall, on the counter--images flashing through his head as he chases the pain away, only to invite it back in.
He has a friend who reads his writing--only one. The friend proclaims him a literary and poetic genius as he reads his (often delirious, done in the middle of the night under some kind of influence) writing, and he feels like a fraud. Rarely, he produces something he’s proud to show, but more often than not, his writing finds itself furiously destroyed in some rage of his--rages that often find him slumped in his bedroom, slowly feeling his emotions seep out. His friend, by request, has a copy of everything--all of his ramblings about his pain, his emptiness, his eternally stupid desire. It all just makes him sick.
To think, in some timeline, he isn’t a writer but a doctor like his mother wants, or a physicist, or just anything but a joke, a fraud, a talentless kid just chasing his own tail into the chasm of emptiness.
On some level, he knows that this is his fault, but he doesn’t know how to move on. He’s tried--oh, how he’s tried. But he can’t. For some reason, he’s stuck on her, her gleaming smile, dazzling eyes, angelic personality, and every time she glances his way, he feels his heart writhe in his chest in some poetic agony. Oh, woe is he, how divinely cruel thy beauty must be! Love, sweetest enemy, stalks him in his sleep and seduces him in his waking moments; it lets him not rest from its relentless agony. It grins a sickening grin as it drains him of his life force, and he finds himself limp in its grip, soothing him as it readies its talons.
In thousands of other universes, he’s happy--with or without her. Freed from his burden of love, unchained from the shackles of his mother’s expectations, he lives free from this sweet agony.
At night, he lays awake and dreams of other universes, other choices he could make. In the morning, though, he always wakes up to the choices that he has made, and he feels the emptiness in him grow a little more with every smile she gives him. Someday, he figures, love will release him from its grip--but for now, it holds tight and keeps him in this endless cycle of pain. Despite himself, he can’t stop thinking of his decisions and the countless universes that branch off from them, and he lets out a sigh, shakes his head, and presses his pen against the paper once again, ink scrawling out a world in which he and her are happy. An unreachable universe.
In one, he’s never talked to her. He just walks past the crying girl at the table, or he skipped lunch that day. Or he skipped school. They never meet, and he never falls in love.
Other days, he spends the night working feverishly to somehow outrun the impending flood; these nights find him circling around a drain in the chase of some proverbial tail. So much wasted potential potential, he hears echoing the small, terrifyingly empty space of his apartment as he scrawls on paper. The ghost of a kiss against his cheek every time he takes a break sends him back into the frenzy, and the sun rises on him, trembling in the face of the onslaught and surrounded by piles of paper covered in pen scribbles.
In another one, he just doesn’t fall in love. As if he could just make that choice. They’re friends, but he doesn’t want more. Peace, for once.
Most nights, though, he just falls asleep, cold and lonely. Sometimes he has a date--sometimes that date transfers to the intimacy of the bedroom. Even with someone beside him in bed, he still feels cold and alone, trapped on an island of his own making. Decisions, he seethes. All these decisions, so many other universes, and he’s here, alone, choosing the same fate over and over again. Not, of course, that all of his problems arise from the lack of a companion (but that certainly doesn’t help).
In yet another universe, he’s confessed. So many times he could have and should have confessed. Even if she rejected him, at least he wouldn’t be here, still chasing her.
Every night, like clockwork, he receives a call from his mother (and never picks up because he knows exactly what she’s going to say). She leaves a voicemail apologizing for their fight but ultimately blames him again, and she begs for him to come home and stop wasting his potential by studying to become an author. Every single time, she manages to insult him in the most condescending way, treating him as if he’s just a misguided child, and, oh, it makes him want to scream. Still, he says nothing; just wordlessly listens to the voicemail all the way through before deleting in.
Surely, in one of thousands of universes, his mother accepts him and his dreams. She doesn’t force him to conform to her desires; she doesn’t call him every night to remind him of his failures.
During the days, though, he smiles and laughs; he hides his long, lonely nights behind caffeine, sunglasses, and a smile faker than what he whispers to his dates at night. Sometimes, things get rowdy, and he finds himself doing something stupid, like trying to outdrink the shady guy who always sits in the corner of the bar or trying to see who can take the same girl home. Typical college acts, he figures, but every now and then he catches her eyes, watching him--judging him, he feels. Looking down on him for being like everyone else. Whenever this happens, he turns away from her and does something even worse--fights, most of the time. Just to get her gaze out of his mind.
Maybe there’s a universe where he hasn’t lost his mind; maybe he’s just moved on from her, like any normal person. There is no pain when he looks at her, just the warmth of friendship.
On days when he gets particularly out of control, she usually chases him down the next day (typically nurses him back from his hangover, strokes his hair and tells him it’s okay) to console him; he’s not sure how she knows that he needs help, though. It’s bittersweet--a soothing salve to his wounds but a burning coal to his soul. Her fingers stroke through his hair as he buries his face in the pillow, and as hs throat aches from holding the sobs in, he finds himself hovering on the edge of self-delusion, about to allow himself to fall into the fantasy that maybe she loves him back.
In some unreachable universe, she’s the one dreadfully in love with him, and he’s the one breaking her heart. She lays awake at night, thinking all these same things, dreaming of all these same universes.
Unfortunately, the illusion never lasts long as she receives a call from her boyfriend, and with a shrug, he laughs it off, makes some stupid joke, and watches her leave with a breaking heart; once the door closes, he sits in his room, mopes and cries some more, and inevitably makes the resolution to go out and forget about her (to escape his pain in the empty embrace of somebody else). He calls up one of the numerous women on his phone--more often than not, they don’t answer. Somehow, though, he finds someone, and for a moment, his problems disappear in the rush of pleasure, of some feeling other than the growing emptiness at his core.
There’s a universe where the woman under him is her--it’s her and him in his bed, in her bed, in their bed. On the couch, the floor, against the wall, on the counter--images flashing through his head as he chases the pain away, only to invite it back in.
He has a friend who reads his writing--only one. The friend proclaims him a literary and poetic genius as he reads his (often delirious, done in the middle of the night under some kind of influence) writing, and he feels like a fraud. Rarely, he produces something he’s proud to show, but more often than not, his writing finds itself furiously destroyed in some rage of his--rages that often find him slumped in his bedroom, slowly feeling his emotions seep out. His friend, by request, has a copy of everything--all of his ramblings about his pain, his emptiness, his eternally stupid desire. It all just makes him sick.
To think, in some timeline, he isn’t a writer but a doctor like his mother wants, or a physicist, or just anything but a joke, a fraud, a talentless kid just chasing his own tail into the chasm of emptiness.
On some level, he knows that this is his fault, but he doesn’t know how to move on. He’s tried--oh, how he’s tried. But he can’t. For some reason, he’s stuck on her, her gleaming smile, dazzling eyes, angelic personality, and every time she glances his way, he feels his heart writhe in his chest in some poetic agony. Oh, woe is he, how divinely cruel thy beauty must be! Love, sweetest enemy, stalks him in his sleep and seduces him in his waking moments; it lets him not rest from its relentless agony. It grins a sickening grin as it drains him of his life force, and he finds himself limp in its grip, soothing him as it readies its talons.
In thousands of other universes, he’s happy--with or without her. Freed from his burden of love, unchained from the shackles of his mother’s expectations, he lives free from this sweet agony.
At night, he lays awake and dreams of other universes, other choices he could make. In the morning, though, he always wakes up to the choices that he has made, and he feels the emptiness in him grow a little more with every smile she gives him. Someday, he figures, love will release him from its grip--but for now, it holds tight and keeps him in this endless cycle of pain. Despite himself, he can’t stop thinking of his decisions and the countless universes that branch off from them, and he lets out a sigh, shakes his head, and presses his pen against the paper once again, ink scrawling out a world in which he and her are happy. An unreachable universe.