Goodbye courage

This is the original writing blog for boyvandals. They're cool I guess.

[anthemofimpendingdoom]

Senses

I cannot draw

the feeling of fingers in hair,

the press and desperation and love of those fingertips in the soft fluff at the back of my neck,

nor exactly explain

the grace behind your limbs

laid out and locked into a body that does not belong to me but is shared with me

(for which I am eternally grateful).

Can I really say

what this feeling is

in my chest?

When you smile half way and the edges of your teeth barely surface behind your lips?

I cannot help but smile in reply and I feel my eyes crinkle, and I hope that is explanation enough.

There isn’t time to pluck out a tune

for your fingers in mine, carefully looped into each other, and my toe on your ankle, as well as the strange rub of my printed shirt against yours.

(Though I would geniunely take a year to try, because that’s a moment I wish to lock down, even if only in song).

I can say

that you are vital

and there is more to us than the sensations we create.

That is enough, I hope.

[anthemofimpendingdoom]

Fine

You know, everyone has their struggles, and I don't play the Pity Game

Or I try not to

Because I am not special in any way, my struggles are not important

but sometimes they feel overwhelming

And people empathize and say they're sorry and I almost hate it

because I am not special and I say its fine!

It's fine!

I'm just playing life on hard mode right now

It's not a big deal!

But where is that line between not a big deal and a big fucking deal?

Is it the point where I stay up all night thinking

about the stars and space

and being unable to breathe because the idea of a universe so large terrifies me?

Is it when I cannot leave my tiny cramped room

because the thought of being seen (let alone touched) by another human

makes me want to peel off my own skin and let it all wash down the drain?

Is it when I make the same mistakes, over and over, and cannot change for the life of me?

Is it when how I see myself opposes what everyone tells me because my own view of the world has been so skewed that I doubt everything I see and know because

That can't be true my feelings cannot be valid I'm just

Fucking

Crazy.

Or am I crazy, am I just blowing up my own problems?

I'm not important. My problems are not important.

I don't need sleep, or peace of mind, or acceptance for myself.

I'm fine!

I'm fine.

[anthemofimpendingdoom]

You've got some time

F                                         u                 c k...! You feel like you’re choking wheeze breathe stop slow down, kid.               Wait wait you’re not dying! not yet you’ve got some time But it sure feels like it's ending.     Holes in your throat fingers wilting lips twitch This what dying must feel like...! But you’re not dying. not yet you’ve got some time.                     I need to be alone you think but you don’t have the fucking time. Irony? Terrible. Worthless. Time is fluid and fucking pointless. f u c k You wish you were dying                 but you’re not dying not yet     You’ve got some time.

[anthemofimpendingdoom]

A poem for the neighbor

You wake up and you think What if I did? What if I went to the girl next door and knocked on her door and said         “I like you”             “Do you want to go out sometime?”     “You don’t have to like me too.” “Nothing has to change.”         “But if you’re okay with change--”                     “-- then we could give it a go.” But you don’t. What if she says no? Or     worse what if she says yes?         You are fragile (We all are) And if she laughed too hard you would shatter because boy golly do you like her. You like her so much that when you walk behind her you think about How damned lucky you would be to hold her.             But if you did hold her?     You would shake into a million pieces. Because you are fragile             (Aren’t we all?)

[anthemofimpendingdoom]

Generation Y

OH THIS IS SO TEEN ANGER I WAS SO MAD WHEN I WROTE THIS I WAS 17 OR 18 but people on dA like it so why notttttt

And then they raised a generation of brilliant, enlightened children who went on to commit suicide and bully their peers to the grave. We are another lost generation but our great war is ourselves. We have been forced to look into our own souls and see the darkness and light there. We've been forced to find us and fight us and die for our cause of self-discovery. Tyler Durden would be proud of us. We wax poetic about our loves and lives but then we spill our blood on our green cars and bikes and organic food and QSAs and gay pride and "you're just a kid" speeches and college degrees. We say pretty words and stab ourselves in the back. It's a battle back and forth of preening and punishing. We are the user and the used, the abuser and the abused, the wounder and the wounded. We are the nice guys and gay guys and confused guys and guys who are feminine but as straight as their happily married suburban fathers. We are the sluts and the prudes and the lesbians and the business women and the housewives and the women defined by their sexuality and their role in the household. We are the transgenders and the bigenders and the nogenders and the allgenders. We are heterosexual and bisexual and homosexual and pansexual and demisexual and asexual and flat-out sexual. We are panromanic and aromanic and pretty romantic and not romantic at all he even forgot our anniversary. We are the rebels and the republicans and the liberals and the leave-me-alones. We are the apathetic and the overemotional.

We are the brilliant and the boring. We are defining ourselves in a million new ways, ways that defy the logic of our parents and even defy our own standards. We are both those who bind chests behind closet doors, hoping for a tomorrow without fear, and those who throw words of hate and uncertainty around like it's a game of hot potato- who has the slur on their lips now? We are people. We are a generation of lost souls, imperfect beings, and scared children. We are the generation of suicides and people chasing others into the grave. We are lost children. We are the great war. And we are the soldiers. Haul up the white flag boys, it's time to settle this.

[anthemofimpendingdoom]

You Heal/Break

Oh my dudes I dont even know i wrote these all last spring I think this was about a dude who survived the zombie apocalypse 

Your mouth is sharp, your eyes tight. Scars tie you together, inside and out, and they are you. Patchwork, perhaps. You have seen the start to the end of the world, Turned it back, fought. You gave and gave and now you’re empty. hollow boneless but not heartless not yet. You’ve been shocked right back into a shell, Tied tight. You would push at the seam but you’re too hurt → scared to try. You’re      Dying. You touch the scars, and they remind you of fire and things gone wrong. You heal       and you break and the end does not start again. Not while you’re around.

[anthemofimpendingdoom]

Birds

I think this one was about a bird girl and her bf who wanted to be a bird boy??? I was really into bird people at the time (I never stopped being into bird people).

I touch the skin draped over your solid bones, feel your need for them to be hollow. The echoes of a music that could exist hits us and you tremble. A whistle flows from your mouth and tongue and teeth and the birds respond, and you smile. for the first time in ever. I hold your hand, whisper things that mean little. and say everything. If you could fly, I’d let you. You weave a feather into my hair and I smile. I feel my hollow bones and your solid ones and wish I could teach you how to be me.

[anthemofimpendingdoom]

Beautiful Boy

Another poem. Wrote this one last spring?? I think?? ye. It's not based of real experiences haha

Beautiful scarred boy, let me build upon your bones. Let me add another wound, make it soft, bright. You are flowers surrounding a desert around a forest, but the sand is cracked, the forest deep. The flowers are sharp. Beautiful scars, boy, let me shape them. A map across your skin. X marks the spot over a bleeding heart. Inches are miles in unmarked skin- The compass rose is hidden in your voice You talk like a male siren enchanting, low, and you trap me. but you’re the sailor confused, lost, looking for home. Beautiful scarred boy, hiding behind your sharp flowers your hands cover a wound that still hurts. I tap on your chest and wait for it to open, and I pry at your edges. A soldier of misfortune, an actor for false gods, The siren, the sailor, the scars. Your forests are dark and deep. and they hide less than you think I find myself in them, but I am not lost I have your map, your compass rose. Your voice makes me fall, and as I scribble these words along your skin I fall deeper. You talk. I touch, and you laugh. Beautiful scars, boy, let me feel them. They speak louder than you do. Screaming words you don’t say. I quiet them with my mouth.

[anthemofimpendingdoom]

Fights

I guess I wrote a poem or something? it's meant to be slam and as such I think it's better if read aloud but I am not there to read it for you so idk I give up POETRY IS TUFF

It feels like blood or something dark going down my throat like a tidal wave or maybe a downpour and I stumble like I’m in the first fight of my life but it's all metaphorical because I’ve never fought and there’s nothing dripping down my mouth and I’m just laying in bed with my eyes closed breathing. And in the breath out I see the fight I wish I could be in because there’s something in a fight that you could win thats amazing and breath-taking (I breathe in) and my nose cracks and my knuckles are bruised but we’re laughing because we could win or lose and it’s exhilarating (I breathe out) and in a fight you could be alive but in bed I might as well be dead I’m less alive than the me inside my head who rolls to my feet and comes up biting because in bed I feel the blood (or maybe it's just dark) painting itself on my ribs and I feel that something that they say just needs some time making time go so damn slow but in the fight time is ripping through physics and I'm scrapping it out with nails bitten to the quick reaching for something to grab onto so I can win. In bed my nails are still bitten and I’m still reaching but the pads of the tips of my fingers just barely brush what is real (because this barely feels like reality) and I slip and fall. In the fight I reach and I grasp and someone else’s nose breaks and we’re a matching set or would be except one of us has to lose and one of us has to win and the winner will be me. They’re down and I’m up and we’re shaking because we’re too alive there’s blood dripping down my face or maybe it’s light because I’m a fire wailing through the forest and we’re burning until it’s over and we’ve both won and lost and we spread our ashes out to cool so we can sleep until the next fight. In the bed my ashes are long since cold but I still cannot sleep.

[anthemofimpendingdoom]

Love Me Dead! Yet another Zombie Story

You know, you’d think that during a zombie infestation, the places you’d least want to be are the extreme climates.  Sweating bullets while firing off rounds at decaying flesh or swinging a chainsaw in the bitter cold while feeling their deathly smell invade your nose- it sounds like Hell, doesn’t it? But when it actually happened, those places were paradise.

The extreme heat melted flesh off dead bones and you could smell them coming from miles away. The extreme cold slowed them down and it was easy to break them apart. One good swing with an axe and a pre-teen could chop off a zombie’s head in that cold. Same goes for size of city. You think the city is the area you want to stay in, with more shelter and more gas stations, whereas shit out of luck nowhere is the last town you want to be in. Another false fact you picked up from a movie, or a book, or some other media crap. You know what bigger cities mean? Bigger populations. You know what bigger populations means? Bigger infestations. That alone makes small towns better. Once you take into consideration the fact that most cities are a lot in a small area and are full of small streets and close quarters, you pretty much have a hellhole waiting to happen. You can’t fire because you could hit someone innocent and thus create another zombie, you can’t see around the many, many corners littering streets, and it’s easy to get trapped. Little towns not only means that it’s harder for the infestation to spread from big cities, but also means it’s easier to corral the infestees and lock them away. Most small towns are spread out, with big streets and few hiding places. Plus everyone knows each other, which generally means people will trust each other in a situation like…oh…certain death unless you work as a group. Small towns are cake-walks, trust me.

When the infestation hit, people were running north and south. Canada was getting more movers in a week then New York City sees in a year. Greenland was commissioning boats to take travelers from middle Europe and suddenly everyone wanted to live in Siberia. Arizona and Texas were the most populated states within months, Colombia was getting more than drug runners, and people were moving from Germany to Turkey instead of the other way around. Apparently one group of people moved to the Arctic.  I heard reports of lots of small towns, even some big cities, that easily packed away their infested in one section of town and sealed it off. They spent the zombie infestation in a pleasant daze, living as they always had. Sure, every so often a teenager would take a wrong turn after a bad kegger and end up dead and then alive again but it was taken in stride. Sure, their families grieved but families always find something to grieve about. At least their grieving had some sort of real reason. I remember seeing a funeral being held outside one Nevada town’s infested section, the family members gazing woefully through the double gates at their beloved who was trying to paw at his sister’s flesh through his side of Gate One. “Jeremy!” his mother had snapped, apparently forgetting that her son’s brain had partially dissolved by this point, “Stop trying to eat your sister!” Jeremy had looked blankly at her and then groaned. Someone had tutted. It was a good day.

 Now that I’ve said all that, I’m sure you can piece together the places you did not want to be, under any circumstances. Big cities with nice climates. The cities that everyone wanted to live in before they were filled with the rotting dead. Nothing like a flood of zombies to kill the reputation of a city. So, since most of you are probably a smart group of citizens, you can guess where we ended up.  Unless you’re wondering who “we” are, in which case you need to pipe down and read because I’m getting there. No skipping ahead, either. This is important stuff I’m telling you.

Sorry, normal readers. Those curious people just had to ruin it for you, didn’t they? Anyway, we ended up living in San Diego. Big city, hailed as one of the most pleasant climates in the west. Rarely gets above 70 degrees, just as rarely goes below 50, on the coast of California- sounds great, huh? Most of our lives, my family resided in Vermont. Bennington, Vermont. Small town, huge packs of snow in the winter, rarely gets above 70 degrees in the summer and the average temp is 50 something.  Perfect for a zombie infestation. The graveyard didn’t have a fence, which could have been a problem, but otherwise it would have been fine. But no, we moved to San Diego my senior year of high school. Thanks, Mom and Dad. I tip my hat to you. I know you’re reading this,  don’t deny it. I mean, you don’t know it’s you yet because I haven’t introduced myself yet and I’m using a pen name (a female name, to be twice as confusing), but you’ll know soon. Right. Moving along.

So, my family lived in San Diego. I went back to Vermont, to Bennington College , then came back to San Diego to employ all my job skills. Got a job as an intern at the one of the Senators’ offices and never got sexually propositioned by anyone. I actually had it pretty good. By the time I was 25 I was working full time at the office and considering moving to DC to try to get a job at the UN. My baby brother was graduating that year from high school and had applied to a bundle of good schools. We all had faith he’d get into his top choice. Dad lost his job due to the bad economy but between Mom and I, the family was doing okay. I wasn’t living at home. Life was pretty great.

Then the government decided to fuck shit up. Cool, guys, real cool. I’m still really grateful for that. You know, because instead of living in San Diego with my happy family and my friends and a fantastic career, I’m now living in the middle of the woods with no friends and no contact with my family and pretty much nothing going for me at all. Props to the G-Men and Women for that one.  Man, I sound angry. Sorry, innocent readers. Spending months and months killing zombies and pretty much losing everything you cared about does that to a guy.

At which point, you curious folk speak up again. “What guy, though?” you ask, “Who is we? Who are you, if not Samantha XXXXX?” I’ll indulge you, readers. My name is Liam Winters. Hey, Mom and Dad. Yeah, you guys know who you are now. Don’t worry, I’m not mad about the moving thing. You didn’t know the possible end of the world was coming. I have a lot of anger and I’m kind of misplacing it because I don’t have anyone around to get angry at. I’m okay. I’m living alone. I’m eating mostly well. It’s a long story which I guess you’re going to read. Sorry for swearing.

“We” was my brother and I. Garrett Winters, aged 17, and Liam Winters, aged 25. Zombie killers extraordinaire. 

[anthemofimpendingdoom]

The Arms Dealer Story, part one

This the the official first part to the arms dealer story mentioned in “Hell Found Me.” It does’t have a title right now…I just call it the Arms Dealer story ;; I give names like that to all my stories though. Anyway, here it is.

Room 12 is soft. That’s really the only word you want when describing it. It’s filled with a delicate glow for light, a glow that comes from nowhere and everywhere all at once without being overwhelming. The walls are all painted what a housewife would call a shade of egg but everyone else would call off-white. They don’t reflect the light but rather pushed it onwards to other corners of the room. There is a single wall which contains a one-way window, but it is only a rectangle of calm gray on the wall instead of harsh reflective glass. The table is made of a cherry wood with four matching chairs.

Room 12 proves, without a doubt, that the phrase “Don’t judge a book by its cover” is double-edged. There are cameras everywhere, painted off-white to match the motherly walls. The table is installed into the ground and the gray window is really just a gray shape painted on the wall to hide the real one way mirror painted like the cameras to hide it away.

Everything Room 12 appears to be is a lie, but it is truly soft. It distracts. It calms. It comforts. It pulls confessions out of men both innocent and guilty and is a gateway to much darker and much harder rooms.

Room 12 is one out of many just like it, but today Room 12 is special. Today it holds two men, very important to it and the people who made it. One chair holds a man in a suit. He’s young but not nervous or stupid. He shakes dark hair away from dark eyes and flicks open a folder. He pages through, his glazed eyes indicating he’s read it a million times. Across from him is a man wearing rough pants tucked into dusky boots, a white shirt, and a worn hat he is currently tipping away from his hairline. He smiles smoothly at the suit. He is known as The Fox, a trickster, a shadow, uncatchable. His true name, as far as the world knows, is-

“Ferrin Borét.” The suited man has his chin resting in his hand as he looks down at the file and reads off the name dully. “Came in of own will. Found in an agent’s hotel room.” His eyes flicker up to Ferrin, who is staring at the wall behind the suit. “What is it?” he asks, suddenly alert.

“That wall is the real one way, isn’t it?” Ferrin squints. “Nevermind, I know the answer already.” The suit frowns. “How did you know that?” “The wall is glossy. It’s subtle, I’ll give you guys that-” Ferrin puts his feet on the table and leans his chair back, a Cheshire smile plastered on his face, “– but it’s there. Really, Miguel, are you surprised that I got that?” Miguel sits up and scowls at the man across the table from him. “No, I’m not. And you should refer to me as Mr.Sherenkov. I’m not part of your business, nor am I a friend. I’m the agent who caught you.” Ferrin shakes his head. “Actually, you’re the agent who found me in his hotel room and spluttered at me until I held out my wrists to be cuffed.” Ferrin tilts his head. “Besides, I thought we had gotten to first names a long time ago.”

Miguel crosses his arms and glares at the open file on the table. The silence lounges between them until Ferrin speaks again. “If you’re done sulking, am I allowed to leave?” Miguel looks up slowly, the glare on his face never wavering as it settles on Ferrin’s smirk. “You haven’t even told me anything of use and you expect to just walk out? Our headquarters are not a hostel, Ferrin!” Ferrin beams and drops his legs, leaning forward. “See, we are on a first-name basis!” Miguel looks like he is ready to break the chair next to him, and Ferrin sits back up. “But in all seriousness, I came because you people have been looking for me. You have questions to ask of me, and you have yet to ask any of them, so I assumed that I could leave.” “You want a question? Alright. Have you been trading with the Americas?” “I can’t tell you that.” “You can tell me anything, Ferrin, you’re the head of your operation!” “Okay. I won’t tell you that.” Miguel’s lips twitch, once. “What about the Korean Empire?” “Same answer as last time.” “Can you tell me anything you’ve done in the last six months?” “Business-wise? No. Personally? Only parts of it.” Ferrin throws Miguel an boyish grin and Miguel throws his hands up. “So really there’s no reason for you to be here?” Ferrin smiles again and Miguel is tired of his smiles, if his expression is any indication.

“There are plenty of questions I can answer, ‘Guel. You’re just asking the wrong ones.” Miguel doesn’t look happy at being called ‘Guel, but he lets it go because he’s finally, fucking finally, getting somewhere. “Are there any questions that could provide useful information for me?” “Yes. Defintely. And before you ask, it’s information about me, my business, and a little about The Americas. It’s not fluff information like my favortite color, either. Which, by the by, is dark blue. The thing is, I won’t just tell you. You need to ask the right questions and know the right things, Miguel. Are you up for that?” Ferrin has his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. It’s a relaxed and terribly rude position to sit in considering his current situation, but he can do what he wants now. Suddenly, Ferrin holds all the power- when before he only held most of it.

Miguel’s fingers are clutching the table, and his jaw is clenched. Miguel may have a quick temper but he is not quick to action. He sees an opportunity; one presented to him for a reason. Ferrin always has a reason. Perhaps he chose Miguel- without a doubt he chose Miguel, there were five agents on his case who were in that hotel and he went to Miguel’s room on purpose- because he knew Miguel could ask the right questions. Perhaps he chose him because he figured Miguel was doomed to fail. Perhaps this is a game. Whatever the case and whatever the reason, Miguel has a choice. Yes or no.

Though, in Miguel’s mind and in the mind of the four agents behind the glossy wall, there is no choice. Just an answer.

“Yes. I am up for that. I’m assuming the time for these questions is not now?” Miguel knows that he is not in power anymore. That is how it has to be for this to work right. Ferrin sets the rules, the boundries, and provides answers. Miguel will be given infinite freedom in those boundries and he will ask and record. That is his only job now. “You’re correct, Miguel. I have things to do and you do as well. I’ll find you when it is time.” Ferrin stands up, and winks at the very tense agent still sitting. “Say hello to Quinn for me.” Ferrin glances up at the one-way wall behind Miguel. “Unless she’s in there. Is she?” Miguel gives on terse nod, his lips a hard line and his eyes focused intently on nothing as he makes his plans for preparation. Ferrin looks at the wall and gives a quick wave. “Hello Quinn! I’m sure you look lovely as always. I’m leaving.” He directs the last part at Miguel, who stands. “I’ll escort you out.” “How old-fashioned. Are you going to carry my books too?” Miguel gives Ferrin a glare and behind the wall four agents smother their laughter.

Together, they exit Room 12 and leave behind them the shallow softness and an open folder containing a picture of Ferrin paper-clipped to a single sheet of paper, filled out in Miguel’s handwriting. There are six other forms. Three are in different handwritings but three are still Miguel’s.

That folder might be a lot more full very soon, if both of them have their way.

[anthemofimpendingdoom]

Prompt: a White Picket Fence is somehow involved

                                  ELLE AND THE GIRL

Everyday, she walks past Elle’s house. Maybe she goes to school, maybe she’s just taking a walk- whatever it is, she’s always there. It isn’t the same time every day, but she walks that way at least once. If Elle is lucky, she’ll go by twice. Once, she went by three times. Elle thought that it was a sign, a hint that it would be a better day. It wasn’t, but seeing her three times made it a little better.

Her walks have an odd routine to them. She’ll float past with her curls fluttering softly and the neighborhood cat will prance over to the (confining, constricting, choking) white picket fence surrounding Elle’s crisp suburban house. The cat will leap up to the fence and trot across the curves of the posts to reach her, the girl, and it will say hello in its little feline way. The girl will stop. She’ll smile a curve of teeth and hope. She’ll pick up the cat and the cat will snuggle into her neck, wiggling in a kind of euphoria. She’ll laugh -- a laugh which is silent to Elle through her window. Elle likes to pretend that she can hear it anyway. It must be a soft sound, she decided long ago. It’s soft like the waves of brown hair that slide around her face as she smiles down at the cat. It’s soft like her dark but short eyelashes, framing her brown eyes. It’s soft unlike the glass that Elle presses her face against whenever she walks by, trying to get just a little closer.

Today is no different than any other day. She walks by at four past three in the afternoon, wearing a green skirt and a secret smile. The cat leaps up to her, and she picks him up. It reaches up a paw to tap her nose and the jolt of happy surprise in her eyes makes Elle dig her fingers into the curtains around her window. Elle’s hair - course, dark, short, and everything the girl’s hair is not- digs into her forehead. The girl pets the cat a little longer, than lets him go to continue on her way. As she walks away, Elle watches her. She wonders what it would be like to follow her. There is nothing keeping her inside, nothing besides her own fears. The girl could banish those away, and does so every day when she smiles. Elle wants to follow her. She imagines running out her door, past the (previously confining, constricting, choking) white picket fence. She sees herself running to the girl, telling her that her name is Elle, asking to walk with her. The girl says yes and tells Elle her name, a name as lovely as she is. They hold hands as they walk. The girl talks for them both but doesn’t mind. Elle smiles for the first time in years.

                It’s a nice thought, but nice thoughts don’t open doors.

[anthemofimpendingdoom]

Prompt: Hell Found Me as the first sentence.

These are characters I have from a story I am working on -- our narrator is Ferrin Borét, an arms dealer living in the year 2124. Two empires have taken over most of the world, except the Americas and Australia. Section One is Latvia, Section 32 is Spain. Both of these Sections belong to the Baltic Empire. Miguel Sherenkov was the lead agent on Ferrin's case, working in Section One mainly. I think that's all the background info you need. If you have questions, let me know!

-----------------------------

Hell found me.

Which is funny, you know, because I always figured that I would find it first. I always thought I’d find Hell, pop in for a quick hello, play a round of cards with the devil, and then pop back out. At least, I told Miguel that once. He gave me that look he used to give me sometimes. The one that questioned what the hell he was doing there with me, working an underground arms operation and generally being illegal as all get out. I knew what he was doing there, but I haven’t told him that yet. He’ll figure it out.

                Point is, I’ve never been one to be found. I always reveal myself. Miguel never found me – I walked into his house one day, introduced myself, and then ate a slice of bread. Section One didn’t discover my existence. I told them I existed. I dropped a carton of guns on their doorstep with a fox engraved on the top and a note telling them to look for the Fox if they needed some help. That made a big splash with them, let me tell you. They never forgot about me out there, and I intend to make sure that they never will.

                When Hell found me, it didn’t come in the form of demons, or eternal fire, or any of the things the priests and exorcists tell you. It came in the form of one misplaced form and Miguel Sherenkov.  I knew why Miguel was working with me, alright. He was sent by his big bosses in Section One, sent with a sob story about being cast out and told to sneak into my arms empire to pull me down from the inside. They could never fool me, and although Miguel really did put his little heart into it, my sources knew better. I knew better, dammit. Miguel can’t hide anything from me. I can’t explain why, but while most people are like magazines to me, Miguel is the fucking Bible. Most people are shallow sources of information – wide open to my eyes, but they only have parts of a story and generally are useless when it comes to real information. Miguel is just as wide-open, but he’s full of twists and turns and rules and explanations and loyalties and interpretations; he’s a cornucopia of every kind of information I’ve ever wanted to know. It’s fascinating. He can’t lie to me. It’s like a law of physics. His attempts to lie may change but the truth is constant.

                But the problem is that Miguel can’t lie about what he doesn’t know. He didn’t know about the form confirming his parentage.  No one was supposed to. It slipped out of a folder of an intern and landed on the floor and the wrong person picked it up. Suddenly, everything Miguel had ever stood for turned against him. And in kind, against me.

                Before, they hadn’t really liked me, but I was tolerated well enough. They wanted to take me down, sure, but just enough so I’d work for them. Now, I was enemy number two, right below Miguel. That hit him hard…poor kid. He had been one of the best agents for the Baltic Empire. He’d dedicated his life and his loyalty to them and what do they do the moment they deem him a little dangerous? They send hit men after him.

                Once Section One found out that Miguel’s mom was Section 32 royalty, that was it. All bets were off. They were after my blood as well as Miguel’s. Hell found me, alright. Hell was running to protect a man who hated you, leaving behind a pretty productive business and a mildly entertaining life. Hell was getting shot at 20 hours a day and sleeping for four hours every two days, trading sleeping days off with the man who hated you.

                Hell was this. Right here. Hell was Miguel looking at me like that, like he didn’t know why he was sitting here with me. Like he didn’t know why he was even alive. I don’t know why I’m here either. I guess I feel sorry for him. He’s pathetic like this. I’ve never seen him look this beaten. He doesn’t know what to live for, this much I know.  I always know about Miguel. An open Bible with a tattered cover and a broken spine, sitting in my shaking hands. He’s all faith and no protection.

“Miguel Sherenkov” I begin, rubbing my eyes before looking at him. Miguel looks up from his crossed legs to gaze at me with shadows under his eyes like bruises. I sigh, than say “What the heck am I going to do with you?” Miguel’s lips twitch before he looks back down.

“I’d like you to kill me before it gets worse.”

I stare at him.

Hell found me --

And then tried to hand me the rope to hang it with.

Hell is just full of firsts, isn’t it?

[anthemofimpendingdoom]

Vague drabble written late at night

It was an odd kind of worship.

It wasn’t worshipping what he was or the things he did- it wasn’t even worshipping his whole body fervently, sexually, fully.

It was worshipping the lines of his back, the slim curves of muscle skulking just below warm skin.  It was pressing lips to the tips of his fingers and feeling the pulse flowing in his wrists.

It was worshipping the small parts that made one something much bigger, much more important than just the sum of sections.

It was feeling his face with quaking palms and looking up into his eyes and being shaken deep down when confronted with exactly what he was.

He wasn’t bad or scary or intimidating, not at all.

He was just so much.

He was fit for worship- especially the worship of small parts.

Worshipping him wholly, for his everything, was bound to swallow the worshipper’s being. He would pull them into himself and never let them out. He wouldn’t even do it on purpose- which was dangerous enough in itself.

He was all-encompassing. He was omnipotent.

Worshipping him for all he was, all at once, would be crash-landing into the Big Bang.

No one could survive it- but during the free fall it would be breath-taking; it would be painful and scary and deadly but for two seconds it would be an explosion of glory and heat felt in the bones and perfection.

But no one could do it.

So the worship of his parts it stayed. It stayed as hands on the lines of his back and kissing finger tips and never being a whole.

It was odd and it was scary but it was okay. 

[anthemofimpendingdoom]

Dan's Apartment: A Story.

This is kind of a look into the Apartment of the main character of the screenplay I'm writing with my best friend. You don't need to know anything to read it! It's kind of stand alone. Enjoy!

The Apartment was special.

It was the apartment of a man who mostly lived alone, but it was the apartment of a man who loved living. The small space was permeated with his life and history and dreams and the stories. Oh, the stories that apartment knew. The story of how the dining nook in the kitchen got dinged, the time a cat snuck in, the world’s most awkward one night stand- the Apartment knew it all.

There’s a reason I capitalize the word Apartment when referring to Dan’s Apartment. It’s not because of some sort of creative desire or need to spice up the normally boring word. It’s because that’s how everyone says it and thinks it. No one who had been inside the Apartment for any length of time called it Dan’s apartment. When they said “Dan’s apartment”, in their mind they saw the words as “Dan’s Apartment”. It was that kind of place. It was important.

Now, I don’t mean to say that anything vitally important happened in the Apartment. Sure, there were many stories that took place in there and there were many plots thought up there. Most of Martin’s, Jane’s, and Dan’s time was spent in there planning before they left the country. But after they left the Apartment was not a factor in their lives. It was not a plot point. It did not explode or contain treasure or hide a secret passageway.

It wasn’t that kind of important.

It didn’t have to be.

It was important in the way you felt a distinct sense of home when you entered. You know that instinct inside of you, that animal instinct that tells you when you enter your home that it is your safe place, your shelter, your nest? The feeling inside you that makes your parent’s house pop into your head when you’re away for college for the first time and you’re desperately homesick? Dan’s Apartment gave that feeling to anyone who stepped inside. Dan’s Apartment was home. It had absorbed the energy of Dan and the people he loved and the stories and the history and the care and made all that its own. There was something about the way none of the furniture should match but did and the off-peach color of the walls turned warm in the afternoon sun that had made people cry before.

Dan distinctly remembered the first time a friend of his entered the Apartment. Said friend came from a broken home and had been shifted to a foster family at thirteen. He’d loved that family like they were his own, but sadly had not seen them in some time. Upon entering the Apartment, the feeling of homefullness struck him and the full force of missing that family hit him harder. He cried because he missed them, and he cried because when he was in the Apartment he felt like he’d never left them.

It was a little magic. This was silently agreed on all of Dan’s friends and Dan himself.

Being forced to leave the Apartment was the hardest thing Dan had ever done, even harder than leaving his first love. He might have cried a little, but no one can confirm anything. Even while being chased across Europe and a little into the Middle East, Dan never stopped paying for his Apartment. In preparation of his possible death, he made Jane and Martin promise that they would live there.

“That Apartment needs people” he told them with one of his more serious looks “Just like people need the Apartment. If you leave the Apartment empty, my ghost will find you and murder you.  You can’t abandon the Apartment. You just can’t.”

Jane and Martin swore that they wouldn’t abandon the Apartment.

After all, it had become their home too.

The Apartment had a way of adopting people.

When they came back to the Apartment, Jane and Martin moved in with Dan. It was never known as Jane, Martin, and Dan’s Apartment, however. The Apartment forever remained Dan’s Apartment.

The Apartment adopted people, but the only person it ever truly belonged to was Dan. This was another fact silently agreed upon.

Dan loved that Apartment, and the Apartment loved Dan. Dan poured his heart to that Apartment many nights when he was alone and life had worn him down. The Apartment always listened, and it always seemed to understand. People came in and out of the Apartment many times, but Dan was the one who had given the Apartment its warmth. He had given it life. True, the Apartment had been a little magical before Dan but Dan helped it flourish. It was weird to see the Apartment without Dan, just like imagining Dan living anywhere but the Apartment was strange.

I’m sure you think I’m giving too much to the Apartment.

“It’s just an apartment” you think as you read this, purposefully leaving the a in lowercase, “-the place where Dan lives.  It’s just his home. The apartment can’t do all that. That’s stupid.”

You can think that all you want, if it makes you feel better to live a life where a place like the Apartment doesn’t exist, if you feel more fulfilled to think that there can never be a house that is so purely a home as the Apartment is.

That won’t mean that the Apartment will stop existing.

You’ll walk into it someday.

You might not know that it’s Dan’s Apartment.

You might be helping a friend move in, or maybe you’ll be moving in yourself.

You might become the owner of an apartment building and go about checking all the rooms.

Maybe you’ll be browsing for a new place to live.

Maybe you’ll just be in a friend’s building and get bored waiting for the pizza and go wandering the halls.

Whatever the case may be, you’ll enter the Apartment someday.

When you enter, the Apartment might be empty. Maybe Dan moved out. Maybe he hasn’t moved in yet. Maybe he’s doing spring cleaning.

But you’ll feel it. Even if it’s only for a second, it’ll hit you. You’ll feel safe. You’ll feel warm, even in January. You’ll feel like everything is going to be okay, even if your significant other just broke up with you or your childhood pet is dying or you don’t have a job. You’ll want to stay there forever.

Now, this moment might not last. If Dan hasn’t moved in yet, it probably won’t even be longer than a moment.

But it will happen.

When that feeling hits you, you’ll know you’ve found the Apartment. If you’re moving in, be glad. There’s nowhere better to live in the whole word. If your friend is moving in, I suggest you crash on the couch that night, just so you can feel what it’s like to sleep in the Apartment. If Dan still lives there, you should become his friend. You should for more than one reason, but defiantly for the Apartment. You can even tell him that you want to be his friend because of his Apartment. He’ll understand. He’ll smile and welcome you in. He’ll usher you to the dented dining nook and make you tea and talk with you.

When this happens, let me know. Tell me of how you didn’t believe and then you found the Apartment and tell me about how Dan is actually a pretty swell guy. I want to know what you think. I can tell you about how I didn’t believe either until I met Danno.

You might, right now, think I’m crazy.

That’s fine.

You can write me all the emails you want, telling me about how stupid this is and the Apartment is made-up and so is Dan for that matter and really I need to see a doctor because these fantasies are imposing on real life and soon I’ll have a social disorder.

If knowing the Apartment exists classifies me as crazy, then I’ll gladly take insanity as it comes.

The Apartment is worth it.

It’s just that kind of place.

[anthemofimpendingdoom]

Ib Theatre Stimulus ending. Prompt: The Seven Deadly Sins

All the voices were screaming, all at once, all vying for Cain's attention, all trying to influence his decision. "Rob him!" "Become him!" "Be better than him!" "Ignore him!" "Take him!" And the two voices he was trying to ignore most of all became louder than the rest- "Kill him! "Kiss him!" The others soon fell away, leaving Wrath and Lust to scream at him in his own mind. "Kill him!" "Kiss him!" They were both impossible to do- to kill Abel, to kill his own brother, the only one who'd ever really loved him, was unthinkable. To kiss him would be even worse. Cain gasped for air, clutching the ends of his shirt and trying to focus on something- anything real. All he could bring himself to focus on was Abel and his frantically worried face. "KISS HIM!" "KILL HIM!" The two female voices began to screech louder at the appearance of Abel's face in his view, and Cain felt himself slipping harder. "Abel..." Cain's voice was weak and he was scared as he slid to the ground, one hand grasping for his little brother's reassurance. Soon he was being cradled in Abel's arms, his face against the softness of Abel's hoodie and Abel's familiar voice in his ear. "I've got you Cain. It's okay, it's okay." Wrath and Lust's voices grew weaker now that he was in Abel's arms. Funny, he thought, how things happened sometimes. "Kiss him?" "Kill him?" The previous statements became pleas, questions, begging. "Abel....." " I'm not letting go. I promise, I won't let you go." He felt water hit his neck. He looked up to see Abel crying and tears falling off his face. Lust's voice became louder. "Kiss him." "Abel? Don't...." Cain's voice cracked and he swallowed, rubbing a tear off his brother's cheek. "I'm not worth-" his voice cracked again. Cain was losing himself again. He had to pull it together, for Abel. Abel couldn't see him when the moods hit him- if Abel saw him when he lost himself... He'd leave. He'd hate Cain. Or maybe Cain would listen to one of the voices, something he couldn't afford to do. There were vans being parked outside, doors slamming shut. Abel's tears started coming faster and he looked scared. "Cain, Mom and Dad... They sent people here. They-" Suddenly, Cain's voices and his own mind put the pieces together. "They're coming to take me away?" "T-they think you're bad for my career or something. Cain, I tried to warn you but- Cain I don't want you to go. I love you." Cain's hands trapped themselves in Abel's hoodie. "They're taking us away." Abel didn't question the use of 'us' "Kiss him!" Lust yelled "Run!" his own shattered brain screamed "I'll wait for them." his mouth said. "Cain-" The door was knocked down. Abel’s head snapped up. In Cain’s own head, all the sins fell silent. Pride, forever the leader, spoke first while the exhausted Cain listened on. “They won’t get us. Cain, they can’t get us. You have to listen to one of us to for us to leave. You have to choose.” Inside his own mind, Cain shook his head. The dark room of his mind was filled with all seven of his sins, watching the exchange while nervously keeping tabs on what was going on outside Cain’s psyche. “Cain. Do  not be stubborn.” “I-I’m not. I refuse. I won’t hurt Abel. I can’t.” “You must.” Cain was distantly aware of Abel’s pleading outside his mind and the murmuring of a deep voice unknown to him. Then, there was one loud yelp from Abel and Cain felt the sharp pain of a needle in his neck. Inside his scarred brain, Cain saw seven figures in white uniforms march in. Pride spun on her heel towards them. “ Begone, Humility! This is not your territory! He’s ours!” Humility, a man in the middle of the white-clothed figures, stepped forward. “Was, perhaps. We don’t want him Pride. Just you.” Each of the white figures walked towards a sin. Lust hissed at the male who came to her, striking out with her heels. Wrath seethed as she was grabbed roughly by the other man of the seven. Each of the other male sins was matched up with a female in white, but were powerless to fight them off. They all screamed their anger and frustration at their virtues, growing quieter as they were pulled further and further away from Cain’s inner body. There was silence in his mind for the first time in seven months. Back in the real world, Cain shuddered against Abel’s clutching arms and closed his eyes. “It’s so quiet.” The sounds of the outside world filtered in through his now open door and his open window, but Abel understood anyway. “I’m glad.” He smoothed the matted hair off his brother’s face and looked up at the tall man before him in a doctor’s uniform. “He’s okay now, right? You don’t have to take him away?” “We must. This was just a sedative to calm him so we can take him back to our facilities.” The doctor pulled Cain out of Abel’s frantic hands and hauled him up. “Come on.” Cain’s wide eyes stared at the doctor before looking at Abel, who had scrambled to his feet. “Don’t worry, Abel. I’ll be okay. I always am.” Abel’s hands grabbed Cain’s, intertwining with them in a mess of fingers and pulses. “Cain-” Softly, in the very corner of his mind, Cain’s own voice muttered- “Kiss him.” Cain pulled on their conjoined hands and so pulled Abel closer. Cain’s lips were rough and dry and cool. Abel’s were wet with tears and his fear and soft. The doctor seemed to take no notice of the kiss or the sad smile plastered over Cain’s face when they were pulled apart. “Goodbye, Abel. I’ll be fine!” Cain seemed to be frantic, though it wasn’t for himself. Abel’s face had a look of shattered shock and as Cain was pulled out the door he dropped to his knees. When the door clicked shut, he pulled his knees up to his face and hid his head between them, hands clenching in his hair. It was hard to tell if the sound he was making was sobbing or quiet screaming.

[anthemofimpendingdoom]

As inspired heavily by Laura Marling's "My Manic and I"

A/N: I know I've already asked, but if you guys could give me feedback that would be great! The ask box is where it's at.

Also, this story requires a little explanation. This is about my Hetalia OC, Brandenburg. In my canon, Brandenburg is part of the whole German family...he's more like Prussia than any of the other German states. He used to be an empire and shiz. Look it up on Wikipedia. It's kind of cool. Anyway, I have sort of developed a "dark" persona for him. In his empire days, he had a more bloodthirsty personality, like many of the empires. This ended up with him having kind of a voice in the back of his head that would take over when occasion called for him. Wow that sounds really derpy. Anyway, this takes place during the Berlin Wall era, when Brandenburg was under Soviet control. Somehow or another, Darkdenburg has formed his own body, or been forced to create his own body...My guess is he forced England into helping him. It doesn't matter. Brandenburg has never liked his darker half- well, more like he's always been afraid of what he could do under Dark's influence. Also, they aren't lovers. It may seem that way in the story, but they aren't. Dark likes creeping on Branden because that's who he is. Near the end, Dark's mentions of love are not platonic, where as Branden's are. I think....that is it. That was probably more than you wanted to hear.

OH ALSO the wall hasn't been up too long and Dark got his body only a short while before the wall. He's still getting used to it. This means something later.

Okay I'm done. I hope you guys like it ;;

I hardly know you, I think I can tell- these are the reasons I think that we’re ill.

The former nation of Brandenburg and the current occupied state of Brandenburg sat alone in the dark. He was in what was designated as his room on what was called his bed. It wasn’t really his room- His room was over the Berlin wall, on the west side. This was the place where he slept, where he chose to spend most of his time, yes. But it wasn’t his. This was Russia’s room, just like this was Russia’s house. Just like he was Russia’s.

Well, mostly Russia’s. But that was only on maps and in title. In reality, he belonged to someone much more terrifying than Russia. He belonged to himself. This normally would have been a good thing.

But this thing was far beyond normal.

Brandenburg- whose human name was Nikolaus- heard footsteps coming down the hall. Wasn’t Ivan’s, he assumed, as they weren’t heavy enough. Nor Gilbert, Ravis, Edward, Natasha, or Toris’s. They were too heavy. There was really only one other person it could be. As the footsteps came towards the door to “his” room, Nikolaus felt a tingling in his palm, like his circulation had been cut off but blood was now returning to his hands. Soon the tingle spread over his whole body and Nikolaus knew for certain who it was. He bowed his head and closed his eyes right before the door opened. It then clicked shut and the footsteps came to the bed. The steps stopped and the bed creaked as the wearer of the feet crawled onto it and settled behind Nikolaus. The walker leaned his chest against Nikolaus’s back and wound his arms around the other’s shoulders.

“Hello, Nikky.” The walker’s spoke, his voice soft but frightening like summer nights after staying up watching movies your parents said would give you nightmares. Nikolaus sighed quietly. “Hello, Dark.” Dark laughed. “Why must you always call me that? Can’t you even come up with a real name for me, Nikky?” Nikolaus opened his eyes and turned his head so his chin met his left shoulder. He didn’t look directly at Dark, but kept his eyes on the cover of the bed. “I’ve always called you Dark.” “But that was when I was in your head, darling. Now I have my own body. I should at least have my own name, yeah?” “…” Nikolaus looked up at Dark from the corner of his eye, meeting eyes only a few shades darker blue than his own. “I don’t think you can be trusted with a name.” Dark laughed a flowing, smooth laugh like a wave of high-grade melted chocolate. Nikolaus shivered. “You don’t even trust me with a name? After all I have done for you?” “You have done nothing for me.” Nikolaus sniped, turning in the other’s arms to look at him head-on. “So you tell me. But we both know better, don’t we?” Dark’s voice was tinged with humor, the mocking kind, the kind that only the one delivering found funny.

Nikolaus gnawed at his chapped lips and turned back to his original position, back to Dark’s chest, hunched over. “I’ve done so much for you, Nik. So much for our land. Without me, we would have never been an empire. Hell, without me, we would have never saved Gilbert.” Dark smirked when Nikolaus tensed at the mention of his brother, “And you need me now too. If I wasn’t around now….who knows where we would be? Probably Ivan’s bitch, yeah? Not to mention what would have happened to Gilbert….” Dark trailed off, leaving his words to slide down Nikolaus’s spine like an ice cube. Dark pressed his lips to the back of Nikolaus’s neck and smiled when he felt his other half shudder. “And yet you’ve never thanked me once. Never trusted me. Sometimes I wonder if you even love me, Nikky.” He spoke against Nikolaus’s too cold skin, never lifting his mouth, “And if you can’t love yourself, who can you love?”

Nikolaus buried his face in his worn hands. “Dark…” “Yes, Nikky?” “…” Nikolaus said nothing, just shook his shoulders out of Dark’s grasp and scooted away from his darker half to lean against the left bottom bed post. Dark shifted on the bed, leaning back on his elbows and extending his legs casually. He smirked at the defeated back of Nikolaus. “You wish I had never been released from your head.” Dark observed, “You wish I had never existed at all.”

Nikolaus shook slightly with the tumble of emotions swirling in his brain. He stayed silent despite the harsh yet calmly stated words that Dark threw at him. “You made me, you know. You needed me, and I came into being. No one to blame but yourself for that, babe.” Dark appeared to watch the ceiling as he spoke, like he didn’t care what effect his words had on the other. In reality, his eyes flickered down to look at the tense back in front of him, “Not that I’m upset about that. I mean, how could I be? Without you, I don’t exist. I need you, Nik, just like you need me.”

“I don’t need you.” Dark laughed again, from deeper in this throat than before, and even sharper. “Oh Nik, when will you accept it? You need me, loveling. You can’t deny that any longer.” Nikolaus’s shoulders jumped and he suddenly spun around. In a second he was above Dark, knees next to the other’s hips and his hands on either side of the hair which was just as many shades darker then Nikolaus’s as his eyes were. “I don’t want to fight over this” Nikolaus’s voice was strained with anger, bitterness, his constant fear, and something which was probably heartache. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. “ He paused, took a deep breath to calm down, and then spoke again, “What I’m going to do now is sit up. You’re going to get out of the bed, and I’m going to go to sleep. When I do, you are not going to bug me or touch me or anything like that. You’re going to leave me alone, Dark. Okay?” Dark shifted, his trickster smile splayed over his mouth, “And where do I sleep?” “…You know where you sleep.” “Come on, say it.” Nikolaus frowned, his brows furrowing “Dark-“ “I won’t get up until you say it.” Nikolaus closed his eyes and sighed in frustration before opening them again, “…You‘ll sleep with me. In this bed. But only if you don’t get grabby or tricky. Is that enough for you?” Dark grinned. “Yessir.” “So you promise you’ll leave me alone tonight?” “I promise.” Nikolaus watched him for a few seconds more and Dark return the gaze with his most innocent face, complete with wide eyes and eyelash-batting. Nikolaus sighed again, as he was prone to doing these days. Then, he slowly sat up and backed up off Dark on his knees.

Dark cast a smile at him once, a smile that spoke of warm nights and painful kisses and forbidden lovers, and swung his legs off the bed. In an instant he was out the door and closing it behind him, trapping his careful words inside with Nikolaus. Nikolaus winced at the sound of the door closing as it hit him like a slap. He bit the inside of his lip a couple times, and got off the bed to get dressed for sleep. The process was hurried in case Dark came back and got “ideas”, so he was back into the bed relatively quickly. He wrapped the covers around himself and stared into the lulling darkness, trying to calm his nerves. Eventually, his emotional turmoil left him, and in its place was exhaustion. After that happened, it took only seconds for Nikolaus’s eyes to drift closed and for his body to slump into a blissful sleep with no dreams.

```````````````````

Sometime during the night, Nikolaus was shaken awake by his body’s senses telling him he was being watched. His eyes opened unwillingly and when Nikolaus rolled over to see who was watching him, he did it sluggishly, with none of his general grace. He squinted to see better in the dark, which seemed to have gotten blacker in the time he was asleep. He could smell alcohol from where he was laying and see the outline of a person sitting in a chair a few feet away from the bed. The small table which was situated against the wall behind the watcher had a few bottles of differing shapes on it which explained the smell. Nikolaus turned his attention back to the one sitting in the chair.

“…Dark…?” “Yeah? Oh.” Dark sat up in his chair, “You’re awake.” “Yeah. I am.” Nikolaus shifted up onto his elbows and squinted again. “Why are you watching me?” “You’re really happy when you sleep, you know that?” Dark’s words were slurring together and Nikolaus wondered exactly how full those bottles were and how full they’d been before Dark had gotten his crafty hands on them, “Is that why you’re watching me?” Nikolaus’s lips pursed together, “Have you done this before?” Dark waved aside his other half’s questions with a floppy hand and tipped his chair back, “I never see you happy anymore. Why is that? Why are you so sad? I mean-“Dark’s head rolled back and his silhouette had the uncomfortable look of being headless, “- You don’t have any reason to be. No one hurts you around here, Gilbert is safe, Luddy is probably safe…You should be happy!” “…Why are you drinking?” “Can’t sleep. I dunno why. Maybe my body is still tryin’ to settle itself or somethin’.” “…” “It’s not cause I’m upset or anything. I mean, I finally have my own body! Even Ivan doesn’t wanna mess with me! I’m happy…” He sounded confused when he spoke his last sentence, like a small child trying to convince themselves of something they aren’t too sure about what it even is.

He continued speaking right away. “ Hey, Nikky, why do you not like me?” Nikolaus started at the sudden shift of subject towards him. “What…?” “You don’t like me, right? Why?” Nikolaus saw Dark’s head move up and look at him. “I don’t…not like you, Dark.” Dark let out a noise that sounded like air being let out of a hot air balloon. “Liar. Come on Nik, fess up. You’re not gonna hurt my feelings.” “Dark…Jesus, What am I supposed to say?” “Say that you don’t like me. I-I know you don’t. Everyone does.” Dark gestured with a hand around the room in an attempt to add meaning to his words. “Dark-“ “Don’t you ever get tired of callin’ me that?” Nikolaus sat all the way up and put in hands into the valley created in the blanket space between his knees. “It’s what I’ve always called you.” “Yeah…cause you’re the light. You’re the good, and I’m just your shadow.” “That’s not what I me-“ “Of course it is!” Dark snapped, “ Why else would you call me that? Because you resent me, is that it? I remind you of all the bad shit we’ve done? I’m just the bad parts, I’m the dark. Nobody likes the dark.”

Dark shuddered, once, and then leaned forward. He used the forward motion to reach all the way to the bed and stumble onto it without fully standing up. Nikolaus’s heart slammed around in his chest and he slid down before Dark came over to his side and straddled his legs, putting his hands on the headboard on either side of Nikolaus’s face. “That’s why you don’t like me. It’s because I’m the dark and nobody likes the dark. Everyone wants to be in the light…they’re all scared of the dark.” This close to Dark’s face, Nikolaus could see his drunken half’s wide eyes and saw the tear or two that hid in them. His heart slowed down to a normal pace and then twisted around with guilt. Dark was drunk, confused, tired, and beyond that he was scared. He was scared of not being loved, not even being liked- deeper down, he was afraid of himself. Without a word, Nikolaus opened his arms and drew Dark in; resting his head on the other’s when Dark’s face burrowed into Nikolaus’s left shoulder. Dark’s hands slipped down from the headboard and dug themselves into Nikolaus’s night shirt and Dark shuddered again. Dark snuffled a few times while Nikolaus just hugged him and felt an odd mixture of guilt for making him this way and pity for him feeling this way. Then, Dark spoke into Nikolaus’s shirt, and Nikolaus felt the words more than heard them.

“How can anyone care about you if your own self doesn’t love you?”

Nikolaus screwed his eyes shut and pressed his eyes against Dark’s shoulder. That wasn’t the question Nikolaus wanted to know the answer to.What he wanted to ask was-

Was it possible to love your own self if terrifies you more than everything you know?

Because he was starting to think he did.

Nikolaus choked out a small laugh as the big clock down the hall struck 5 am.

When they’d first gotten here, everyone knew that Ivan was the one that was sick in the head and that Nikolaus, and to some extent Dark, was normal. Now Nikolaus was sure they were the sick ones, so twisted they made Ivan look like a kindergartener on his first day of school.

There was something wrong with them, he was sure.

But he couldn’t tell what anymore.