Clorkie @2clork2smith - Tumblr Blog

Chamuel laid in bed. She had been on her side, idly plucking feathers from her wing for hours. Last night she broke into Alma's kitchen to brew drinks to drown herself in. She had lost count of how many pints littered the floor.

The dizziness, the numbness, it wasn't enough to keep her out of her own mind. She toyed with the idea of heading down the cliff to the mushroom forest. Digging into the earth searching for something strong enough to either take her out on a trip or kill her. The nausea and bile threatening to climb up her throat stopped that train of thought.

The wing she was picking at was starting to sting. Chamuel turned onto her other side to pluck feathers on a different wing. She hadn't even treated Obaran too harshly. Sure she was having a bit of fun with it but she didn't think it went too far. Chamuel thought back to the prison in The End, back to Hell, back to Purgatory. Obaran's treatment had been way better than those! Isn't this better?? Wasn't she supposed to do better??? What did that even mean?

Chamuel let out a sigh, she brought her arm up to wipe away the tears that started to spill out. It was happening again. The expectations she wasn't meeting. She didn't have any excuses this time though. Shouldn't be acting out, shouldn't be running from her problems, shouldn't be letting her emotions make decisions for her.

She closed her eyes trying to calm down. Her thoughts wandering to her past.

Hell. I miss Hell.

Things were never this complicated back then. She never had to think or make decisions. She just did what she was told. It was easier back then. They'd welcome her back, she wouldn't even need to beg. Her Master knows she'd come back eventually.

She stopped picking at her feathers and brought her hands up to run through her hair. She dug her claws into her scalp.

What am I thinking? What am I saying??

She let out a groan in frustration. She lazily felt around the floor beside the bed for a drink. She was rewarded with a half empty bottle of wine which she finished off quickly.

Hell? Truly this life was worse.

(OOC writing thing- Clark's Birthday)

Clark had fucked up.

He was very aware of this. Aware before he left, and aware even more after. But it had not yet occurred to him that leaving was in and of itself a fuck up; that is, that running away would be something he regretted. He knew it was something he shouldn't do, he knew that it was a dumber choice compared to facing his problems head on, but he did not consider the third option, that it would hurt him to leave and it would hurt him after leaving. He thought all these things as he struggled to keep his head above water, the storm raging around him, fog obscuring his view. He could leave the island, yes, but that did not mean he could leave easily.

Another wave hit him and he found himself thrashing, fighting to keep his head above the water. He did not need to breathe air, and he knew this; he had never feared drowning or suffocating before. But as the storm raged harder and harder it was not his rational mind that reacted, but his instinct, the instinct of a thousand people who had at one time relied on breathing air. Instinct that screamed the water meant death. So frantically he flailed his arms, fighting as the waves grew larger and the lightning stormed above him.

And though his mind was preoccupied with this, he could not help but feel, deep inside him, that if he knew the way back, if he were not surrounded by fog and ocean and thunder he would swim back right now, he would admit he was stupid and beg his friends to let him make it up to them. Beg to come back to a place he had not been forced from, but had left by choice, a choice he knew none of them wanted him to make.

The fog circled closer and another wave crashed, and he found that he was suddenly looking up as everything became further and further. It was up, wasn't it? Or was it down?

Tears burned in his eyes and he tried to convince himself it was just the saline.

Stupid fucking idiot, goddamn it, why are you here? Why? If you had to leave, if you had to hurt everyone, couldn't you have at least made a fucking boat? Or taken Chamuel's plane?

He gasped again, as though his body had forgotten it did not rely on air. For just a moment, the storm quieted and he swam to what he believed was the surface. There were no lungs to meet the air that now stung his face, but he was grateful for it anyway.

Without a doubt, he knew now that he did not want this. "I CHANGED MY MIND," he called out, ragged, but the only reply was a gull cry far above. "I DON'T WANT THIS!"

He treaded water, and wracked his brain trying to remember which direction he had come from and where he had been headed. It all looked the same, mile after mile of fog.

He wiped his eyes, and decided to swim further North, where he was sure his friends would be waiting. He would return, damp and worn but otherwise fine. He would tell them he was sorry. He would find a way to atone for another horrible sin on his belt.

He could not have known that in the other direction, a lone demon was wishing him a happy birthday.

He could not have known that he came from the South.

weirdlandtv

From: HOW TO READ A PERSON LIKE A BOOK (1971), by Gerard I. Nierenberg and Henry H. Calero.

ruminationsofapuppyboy

Creepystalkerguy: Hi can I go to your house to look at your things, no you don't have to talk to me or anything I just want to Know

@chamuel-of-serenity that stupid ass bug doesn't even stand a chance

herr-hair

“Him” before becoming a “what”

auntierayeraye

infectiouspiss

you're mommy's good little printer aren't you? you'll print whatever mommy tells you to because otherwise mommy gets sad and leaves you for one of those free use library printer sluts