HAHA. HA. WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE. GET OUT. HONESTLY. This is a not-actually writing tumblr made out of obligation of url usage and basically where I dump my feels about-- well I guess anything. Have fun. (Also, music is NOT autoplay, so you're gonna have to check that out yourself in the corner over there.)
A waterfall of hair spilled down her small frame. Her shoulders blanketed by the soft veil of her virginity. Her eyes, bright as the sky, gazed up at me. And I could feel myself breathing. An ache deep in my chest boiled up as she pierced through the windows to my soul. But it wasn’t so familiar. It wasn’t the gentle beat, beat, beat, that I had grown used to. These weren’t the same sharp eyes, the same delicate skin. The river that rolled down in streams from her crown to the carpet was no longer made of pure, beautiful snow.
It was red.
“Rashaad.”
I heard her meager voice ring out to me. Her touch, lukewarm, reached out to my right arm.
My insides squirmed as my hands impulsively grabbed for her slim waist. It wasn’t small enough.
“It’s alright.” Her voice, calm and thick, as she leaned forward to kiss my ear.
I touched her hair. She touched my neck. My hands soon found themselves gliding up her curves, tugging up her gown as she silently allowed my graze.
I was trying to forget. It wasn’t the same. Her thighs were just a fraction too full, her hips just a little too large. Her eyes were green. Just green. But why did they matter? Her skirt was too heavy. Her skin was too taught. It was wrong. She was all wrong. It hurt. Because my hands could still remember. Why? Why couldn’t this be alright? Why couldn’t they let go?
I gripped up her ribs. To feel their structure. Only to be met with soft plush body.
A body. A whimper, and a thud. I reach deeper. To touch her tongue. A tongue I so desperately need. But it’s missing. It’s dry. It’s too weak. It’s breathing too hard. I shove. As it finds itself parried with the floor.
My muscles ache. My body, aches. My loins burns hotter than the sun, yearning for the sweet taste of cool dusk which it may never know again.
But this is all I have.
It lies there, still, waiting to provide my comfort. I can hear it. Come. This is all you want. This is all you need. And I can feel the rigor mortis setting in.
Shh. Hush now. Settle. This is who you are. This is all you need. She’s gone now. She’s gone.
As the thudding gets louder. As my fists meet the only bones I have left to break.
An oooold game from 2014! Did this as a gift for a friend, but I recently redid the artwork, so I figured I’d make a release for anyone that’s interested. :’)
Take Kamil on a date during your favorite time of year!! Take him on walks, out to dinner, shopping, sight seeing, just like you would with your dog.
Emotion
A piano virtuoso suddenly understands her manic composer.
And just then, I realized. The simple, scribbled titles of his musical prose - they weren’t any reflection of his lack of coherence, nor was he forced into submission by the school board to title his pieces with this mass of illegible tangled rebellion. No, these musings reach beyond the spectrum of complicated human language. And in my fit of rage, as I had pounded these notes into the keyboard at my fullest strength, one of these words jotted muddily at the top of the page – fury – reached out to me. And I felt it. I felt something. I realized, this was never a matter of notoriety or perfection for him. This was something far deeper.
“Well, the notes aren’t written on my fucking face!” He screamed. “Keep fucking playing!”
Him
A young girl with a lesbian crush learns why it's called a crush.
“You… you like him..?” “I-I didn’t say that!!!”
I swallowed. I could feel my palms dampen as I tried desperately to keep them at my sides. What was I thinking. Of course she likes him. He’s strong. And handsome. And his eyes speak of such devote perseverance. All of those things that I’m not.
“I mean, that’s not what I meant!! Ugh, why do girls always–” Ah, yes. And of course, there’s that…
“… Look, he's… he’s super important to me, okay?” I met her eyes, and I believe I may have shocked her a little, for she froze before turning away to finish her thought.
“O-Of course I like him! He’s our friend, and our leader, and he’s a really good person, and I… I…” I unconsciously reached for my heart, as I heard her squeeze out, “... I wanna be like him some day.”
“M-Me too..!” She whipped her head to look at me, with those large ruby eyes, and immediately I knew the wrong thing had come out of my mouth. “I-I mean, he always tries really hard to do what’s best for everyone. And I want to be strong enough to help everyone too…” God, I'm an idiot! Why couldn’t I have told her she already was a good person?!
“Right!? He’s way cool, isn’t he!?” I offered her a sheepish smile, but I couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness and regret at the sight of her brighter one. I knew – perhaps better than she did – that she liked him. She liked him more than anything. She’s going to grow up and realize and confess her feelings like the brave warrior she is, and more importantly, I knew I would never stand a chance.
“I understand.” She nodded, and after a beat of silence, she said, “Thanks, Dori.” And with that she sent my poor hopeless heart away on wings.
Control
Sexually attracted to a man she hates, a woman lets her hands take control anyways. (Suggestive, but sfw)
He threw himself against me, and as I felt my back against the wall, he stared at me with his sad, cold eyes. Blue as ever. The pathetic creature. I could practically see the tears well up in his poor, tortured soul.
And yet, again, I found my fingers on his chest. His broad shoulders. Damn it. I may have finally given in to the fact that my body magnetizes to his without need or reason, but the last thing I want on earth is for him to know that. “Tell you what, little boy blue.” I drag my fingertips across his rich fabrics and silk tie, as I attempt to gather myself. “Be a good boy and maybe I’ll hold back a little.”
“Don’t.” My fingers slither between the buttons of his shirt in reaction to the deep reverberations of his chest. My eyes stare into his. “Give it everything you have.” And before my lips even have the chance to speak, yet again, my hands seem to have taken hold of his chest, his back, his neck. It makes me sick, their eager uncontrolled behavior. But yet.
“You’re disgusting, Lucius.” “As if I care.” His own thick hands seem to have gotten to work on my dress without my noticing. He leans into my breast. “Just be here, Hiromi.”
I’m a boy. A bit of a baller. A “man whore,” as a favorite of mine calls me. But one that knows his words. Knows how to win them over. The things that blush and hide and shake and move and roll in the circles of their godly construction. Those things that send a rush though my core and up into my chest and remind my head that this existence is lucid and free. Fun. I own those things. Those things about life. I win. And it’s fun.
“You’re nothing but trouble. Don’t talk to me.”
And little does she know the mark she’s placed upon her forehead. From her very first few sentences, I know. She’s next.
I quickly find my curiosity enamoured by her childish pens and devilish prada. Her derisory diction. I sit next to her. Every day. And I begin from the start. I watch her move. I watch her talk. I make note of every wavelength, measure every heel to the inch. She has pens. These ridiculous sharp silver pens in the safe boxes of every supply store. And I take shots at her,
a boy,
hunting for his newest feast and piece of game. And she fights back.
Barks, and growls, and scratches back at the gun in my hands.
Hunts become battles. Battles become war. And I feel it. The sensation in every conversation. In her words. The feeling.
It’s fun.
Every motion I make, she counters with her own sick idea of conquest. In the existence of her sheltered world she believes every breath she delivers to be worthy of the submission of her subordinate population. She’s a child. In the cute symbols of ghosts on her pens to the color organization of every book, her utter obsession with cleanliness, neatness, a perfect nonexistent world proves the ignorance in the way she holds herself in this existence. This girl, a naive and juvenile impossibility. Is.
I steal her pens. I catch her tongues. I take, and I break her every line. Her every thought. It’s fun. And it’s fun.
She hits me.
And it’s fun.
And with the taste of blood on my tongue, I think of her.
As other things take my hips and bite my tongue, I can still taste the rage in her hands and eyes.
My blood. And her scowl. Become the same.
An addictive tinge.
Of delicious pain.
Pain.
A thing I only knew in fists and nails and bruises and thorns on the inside of a woman’s virginity. But now. I know everything.
Two words. One word. A sentence. And silence. Silence. Not even words of rage in the sight of her arrogantly abominable gaze. And in her silence I felt a withdrawal I had never experienced before. My latest addiction. Pulled from under me. And what was this new thing. This pain. This hurt in my chest. This is why I never felt for relationships. She wasn’t even a relationship. But I felt it.
Vulnerable.
A thing I had dreaded from the moment of my conceivance.
For days. Weeks. Months. I ignored it. I ignored it. I bit tongues, just to taste their blood on my lips instead of my own. I reached for hips. Grips. The round comfort of their presence. I don’t care. I don’t need this. I don’t care.
But then.
She smiles.
“Checkmate, Zinti.”
And with those two words a cage on my soul crumbles, falls to the ground as I feel a liberation from my agony. Another puff of her drug. I’m addicted. But I know now. The existence of this thing. Called pain.
And pain…
“Stop it. Shut up..!!”
She hurls her desk at me, as I quickly drop to the floor to avoid the bruises she has yet to leave on my image. But what the hell? What the hell is with this girl?
“SHUT UP!! IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT!!”
She screams. She hits me. She… hits me? But this is something else. Something else entirely.
And she gasps. And runs. And I’m left alone with these desks to think. To think. But of what?
I reset the desks. I hear a sink down the hall. Turn off. And then on. Again.
I.
She.
Is something else.
I’ve memorized every facet of her existence at this point. Her hair. Her shoes. The way she walks. The way she speaks. Honors Econ. AP Lit. AP Physics. AP Calc. Her four pens. Her habit to tap. The length of her glare. The colors in each of her notebooks, as childish as they were. I knew everything. I knew it all. Except.
I never knew you had the ability to feel pain.
The next day I wait for her in the hall.
“…Excuse me?”
She stares, apparently dumbfounded at my ability to share in her ignorance. And I know. I know. But there is nothing I can do. I’ve become addicted to these days. Her words. I’ve already attempted to cut them from my life once, let them exist separate from the world I have become so proud of creating and living and existing in. But all that left me with was a sharp and brutal knife in the context of my soul. My. Something. And I can’t. She can’t. We can’t.
I. She. We.
And as she takes her pedestal. Her crown. As she stands in front of a lectern and a sea of pathetic peers and simpleton subordinates, we know. I know.
This is only the beginning.
.
In college I’m a mess.
“You’re a mess, Rashaad.”
Her voice is mixed with the smell of coffee and the intruding beat of a hangover. Every day, I take more. More of the girls. More of the liquor. More of her bitterly satisfying words. And it’s fun. It’s great. I laugh at every new insult she flings. Every new glare that I wasn’t aware existed the day before. Her gaze. She’s amazing. I steal her pens. I steal her furniture. Because, no matter where I go, no matter where I am, I can’t help but think. Damn. But the look on her face when she sees this is going to be so worth it.
Your face will be so worth it.
And every night. I press myself into another woman. And every morning.
“Positively pathetic.”
And the beating.
The beating.
Her fists come flying into view as I wrestle with tiny bones and delicate hands. A table. A chair.
“Yamete!!”
A thrill of a battle enters through my veins, and exists through the touch of her palms pressed into mine. She’s cold.
“Yamete!!!”
In her tongue, there are words that I could never begin to comprehend as language. Her riddles. Her crypts that can only reach the homes of the dead. But I know.
She shouts,
in a fit of rage,
and fear,
and desperation,
and confusion,
and she screams.
But I know.
Pain.
On her tongue.
.
Her tongue.
.
This pain is something I can withstand.
But.
“... You mean it.”
The curves of a woman are so imprudently intoxicating. Hips. And breasts. Lips. And nipples. Every circle, cyclic and forever. Every arch, a representation of an orbit around the existence of a man’s pleasure and passion. Lust, the ever important fruit of knowledge which reminds us all that happiness is the sole pursuit of all human endeavors. And happiness. And you.
You.
All that I have ever wanted I have taken. I own the things that blush and moan and reach for the fruit of knowledge I provide.
There is nothing in this world that exists like the thorns on the inside of your small and childish mouth.
I allow smoke to escape from my lungs when my chest is incapable of escaping from the pain of absence in your words. I try. To break from the weakness you’ve placed upon my back and my arms. To break out, and escape from the possibility of madness. But your grip on me. Your grip on my hands. And my throat. Your small, cold fingers. Your tongue draws me back, every time, as I am incapable of suffering the withdrawal from your drugs. What are they. Tell me. There are words for them, aren’t there. Shouldn’t you know them. You know every word. So what is it. Besides fear. And pain. Tell me.
I want them.
I want you.
And everything I have ever wanted...
My hands press against yours. Your hands press against the wall behind you.
You’re warm.
And as I touch your skin. And take your tongue.
Finally. I take your tongue.
And as I finally take your tongue.
You moan.
And you blush.
Oh, God.
Exciting, and engulfing, and with every mewling moan of your delicate and desperate body, an electrifying cord pulls from my chest to my groin. And I tug. I tug at your hips. And your skirts. And with the fever of your shudders, I feel it. This pounding. This beating.
Are you looking at me. Is my hair sexy enough. My hands. Are my hands soft enough for you to feel. Are you listening. Do you know. Do you know? Lust. Here? Is this it?
I take it. I take it all. Your sweater. Your blouse. Your skirt. Your bra. Your shoes. Your socks. Your pantyhose. Your lace. Your breasts. Your cunt. Your moans. And your virginity. The thorns on the inside of your virginity. I don’t care. God, the way a body feels. But yours. Yours. You moan my name, and you’re more than a woman. You’re mine. You’re mine.
Me. You. Yours. Mine.
And you’re mine.
Again.
And again.
Your face is so worth it.
.
But things
are different now.
This beating. This incessant beating. In my head. And my chest.
The taste of smoke still escapes my lungs in every hearty laugh I give without her.
The women. And the liquor. Everything tastes of drugs. Lust. I feel it. In every suck of another woman’s tongue, I imagine if it were hers. Her tongue. On my body. Beneath my foreskin and between my teeth. Sweat. Like a fever. And cries. Slightly empty without the depth of her soul.
Her soul.
My blood still tastes like her fists and her claws.
And in her touch on my back, the pain of insertion, like the needle of a narcotic. But delicate glass.
“Itai, itai, itai, itai!!”
I scowl, and I bleed, as I pick her up and allow her to kick and flail as she reaches for the spirit of death behind me.
“Dekinai… Dekinai…”
And as her limbs give in, and she slumps, slowly, on my shoulder. And I hold her. Mine. A child. A girl. This girl. What is a girl?
And again. She is mine.
And again. She succumbs.
To death. And then to me. And then to death. Again.
And as I stare at her form, on the ground, again, without strength. She is pathetic. Continuously caving into this pain of her persistent existence, finding her only peace in concession to her fate as one with the dreadful dead.
But yet.
Am I any better?
I reset the desks. I bring her to her bed. Still bleeding from a fresher orifice than the night before. Is the blood on her carpet mine or hers? And as the sink turns on. And off. And on. Again. I am left by myself to think. But of what?
Who am I?
What am I doing?
I live in constant fear of the very soul which brings me life. Vulnerable. I feel vulnerable. And I never wanted this. I never wanted any of this. I don’t want this. But I want her. I want my life back. But I want her. Who is she? What is she? Who is she. But as I stand in the doorway. And stare. I know that I know. The one thing I do know. Is who she is. But I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I don’t know what to do. Or what to say. I don’t know the name of her drugs. But I do know.
The way she places her hand on me.
The way she looks at me. Different from before.
The furrow of her brow. The silence of her gaze.
And I see it.
No.
No.
I can’t.
She can’t.
We can’t.
Itai.
The beating.
“Rashaad.”
This beating.
I don’t.
Know.
Because.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
I’ll smile tomorrow.
When she’s here.
I’ll be here.
Here.
She snorts.
“Oh my god.”
Here.
.
Here.
I’m here.
I’m here.
You don’t eat. You don’t sleep.
The sound of your record player skipping at the end of its course of cyclic repetition still leaves a ringing in my ears with the absence of your sound. Your breath, there, still, silent against the sound of white noise. And I stare, at the ceiling, your hair in my hand, as you rest here. And a beat. A silent beat.
Again, you find yourself in my chest. You’re cold. But I’m warm. And though your knees still shake from the things that I’ve taken, you press in. For some reason. Into my chest.
And when you say it.
My name.
And when you have nothing else left to say.
A thorn from my past mistakes prods at the newly found heart in my chest. My heart. That thing. The mistakes of my past haunt me in every touch, every whisper, every bit of silence. She haunts me. In every kiss I swallow yet another one of her painful, beating thorns. And she haunts me. Like a ghost.
It still hurts. It was meant to. But I can’t fight it anymore. I’ve tried. Whatever this is. At the end. I always give in. A beat. In every mention of my name.
“Rashaad.”
And I’ve lost. Again. Yet again.
But I’m here.
She doesn’t eat. She doesn’t sleep. She waits to die. And I bring her a fridge. She rests, bruised and exhausted by her demons or myself. And I wait. I try to leave. I try to move. But I can’t. She’s sleeping on my arm.
She’s in my chest, her arms around mine, and I hold her.
She sleeps, there, on the floor in my blood. And I stay. Here. With the sound of her absence.
She asks, quietly, for my lips. And I can’t refuse. I can’t say I don’t want to.
Smoke escapes from my lungs like a canary. And I’m jealous.
She touches my chest. She takes my hair from it’s place. And I’m beating. Beating.
Tomorrow.
But more than tomorrow.
I
almost begin to enjoy this.
Pain.
Until.
“Junichi and I are getting married in December.”
.
.
.
What.
I.
We.
No.
No.
She says. Nothing. And I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to feel. I don’t. Know. And the beating stops.
The rhythm of my heart in her pulse stops. And I just.
What.
The hell.
Rei.
You can’t
do this to me.
Why are you doing this to me? My words spill out in a hot mess of anger and fear. My tongue. Still rushing. As it tries to think. To think. But of what? This is it. This is the end. Do you think I wanted this? I never wanted this. I never wanted. Anything. But everything. You had. Your gaze. Your pens. The desks. The sinks. Sinking. Somewhere. And somewhere. Besides tomorrow. Is sinking. I’m screaming. Itais. And yametes. And all the things on the tip of your tongue that should belong to the man who took your eyes and your virginity and the frozen touches you never gave to anyone else. You said. You said never talked to anyone else. So why. Why are you giving this away. Us. You’re waiting. To die. Why. Why are you doing this to me?
Why are you doing this to me? Seriously, I need to fucking go. This is way too fuckin heavy for me. I mean, I've taken some pretty heavy shit for you? But this takes the cake. How the hell am I supposed to do this anymore?? But, you know, I hate to admit it, but at this point I'm just doing this for you now. I'm doing this for you, and I sure as hell hope you're having the time of your life knowing you've ruined mine. You can't tell me you didn't want this. And you need me. Jesus Christ, Rei. I'm not. Shit, you think I wanted this either? I didn't want this. I never wanted this! This is literally the exact opposite if everything I ever fucking wanted!! Listen to us! Who the hell are we?? God, Rei. This sucks. This sucks and I don't know what to do. Don't tell me you're just gonna let yourself think about me when you fuck him. I'm not gonna be your fucking ghost. Jesus Christ. Is this just how it is now? You're just going to grow a kid and think about me in front of him and just live your totally expected life, and you're just gonna keep me as your personal fucking pet because you need me to keep your goddamn sanity. I don't know what the hell I want anymore. I don't know! You think I have all the fucking answers?? How about we just live our lives doing what we want and fucking pray that we die happy?? You!! Jesus FUCKING Christ, Rei, this is why I HATE goddamn relationships!! God knows that's what I've been trying to do, but you just have to fuck everything up don't you! You need this and I want that, and you're not gonna give me shit and I'm just gonna give you everything because neither of us know how to get it up anymore. I don't know, Rei. I don't know! I don't fucking know.
I don’t fucking know.
I don’t know.
I don’t.
Fucking.
Know.
Anymore.
And as hot tears touch my face for the first time in millennia. I want to say I don’t care. But I do.
And it hurts.
It hurts.
It hurts.
.
Your eyes.
They’re blue, aren’t they.
Blue.
Like the packet in front of me.
Of you.
I’ve known all of these years about the conditions of your parole. The things they say to you. The way they exist. And they do exist. Gramps. Your family. The wicked ways in which they wrap their will around your wits and drive you to the edge of a reality you dare to call life. Life. You’re hardly alive. You constantly feel on the verge of frostbite until I touch your hips and force a fever which perspirates your palms and flushes your face into a rich red reading of the things in your throat. Thorns. There. Far from me, now. And as I reach for you.
I take cold showers.
I eat less from my fridge.
And I wonder. What voice would you choose for me in your world. My laugh? My shouts? My foreplay? Or the silence.
What do they sound like to you.
What will life be without.
You.
Drugs.
In my hand. A heap of hallucinogens. Blue. Like you.
Is this it?
Is this it?
.
I hear you.
I taste them.
In my eyes the scent of something stronger than your cunt. A push. Like yours. But back.
No. Forward. No. Black.
In the circles of your godly construction I can feel the whispers of the Gods. A God. Or the Devil. Demons. Black. No. White. No. These shapes. Taste. Like something. Family.
あなたは私たちが失敗しました。
あなたが失ってしまいました。
あなたが負けた。
寒いです。
Like you.
..
.
…
I wake.
In her arms.
.
Malika.
.
I hit her.
“What the hell are you doing here!!”
“Saving your life!”
“I’m dead! I’m already dead!”
“Rashaad!!”
I kiss her.
I fuck her.
Fuck.
Fuck.
.
Fuck.
“Her name is Miyuki.”
Why am I not surprised.
“... Tomorrow?”
Sure.
And for what turned into days. Weeks. Months. Years. Seasons go by as I shelter the scars left on my heart from the wars we waged on the hunting grounds.
Occasionally I forget. Sometimes. But I regret it.
I stop paying for warm water.
In each new woman that places their head on my chest. I feel a pang of withdrawal from the tongue I’d known so well. I brush hair from their faces, and none of them are white like yours. None of them feel right, wrapped around my finger. But as I live. And fuck. And play. I forget. Just a little. Only a little.
But I never let my phone leave my bedside.
And I was right.
“Rashaad.”
There she is. That voice. I know. And still, somehow, even now, a beat.
The drugs help. The drugs become fun.
And Malika. Often standing in the living room of my apartment. Her hijab in her hands. Her red hair draped almost to the floor. I haven’t seen this much red since you cut in me. Was that my blood or yours? But she becomes fun.
“Definitely hers.”
I can’t fucking believe this.
Our kids are stuck in the same mistakes we couldn’t stop from making ourselves all those years ago. By some twisted hand of fate. Some humor God has. You laugh.
Your husband calls.
I hang up.
I don’t need to know more.
I know your address.
And as I walk through the halls and wait for the old familiar hurricane, in the eye of the storm lies your daughter’s bedroom. Her things. Things you never had. Notebooks, colored with childish care. Memories. With familiar drawings still left hiding between the pages of every carefully taken note. Furniture. Of her own. And. Pens. Five pens. One misshapen, as if lost and then found by a loving owner.
And I know better now. She didn’t make your mistakes. We did.
We.
Rei.
I don’t know what to say.
But here.
Now.
I can hear your laughter. And it’s the first time in years that I’ve been able to hear it clearly.
You take my hair from it’s place. And I can still feel it. Beating.
You gave it a name before, didn’t you? One of those words from your webs of wicked wizardry or some shit? Gan? Or something. It doesn’t actually matter.
And just then, I realized. The simple, scribbled titles of his pieces - they weren't any reflection of his lack of coherence, nor was he forced into submission by the school board to title his pieces with this mass of illegible tangled rebellion. No, these musings reach beyond the spectrum of complicated human language. And in my fit of anger, as I had pounded these notes into the keyboard at full strength, one of these words, jotted lazily at the top of the page -- emotion -- reached out to me. And I felt it. I felt /something./ And I realized, this was never a matter of notoriety or perfection for him. This was something far deeper.
“Well the notes aren't written on my fucking face!” He screamed. “Keep fuckin playing!”
- Him (Dr kiddo au)
“You… you like him..?” “I-I didn't say that!!!”
I swallowed. I could feel my palms dampen as I tried desperately to keep them at my sides. What was I thinking. Of course she likes him. He saved her. He’s strong. And handsome. And his eyes speak of such devote perseverance. All of those things that I'm not.
“I mean, that's not what I meant!! Ugh, why do girls always--” Ah, yes. And of course, there's that…
“... Look, he's… he's super important to me okay.” I met her eyes, and I believe I may have shocked her a little, for she froze before turning away to finish her thought.
“Of course I like him. He's our friend and our leader and he's a really good person... I…” I unconsciously reached for my heart, as I heard her squeeze out a small, “I wanna be like him some day.”
“M-Me too..!” She whipped her head to look at me, with those large red eyes, and immediately I knew the wrong thing had come out of my mouth. “I-I mean, he always tries really hard to do what's best for everyone. And I want to be strong enough to help everyone too…” Arceus, what an idiot! Why couldn't I have told her she already was a good person?!
“Right!? He’s way cool, isn't he??” I offered her a sheepish smile, but I couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness and regret at the sight of her smile. I knew -- perhaps better than she -- that she liked him. She liked him more than anything. She's going to grow up and realize and confess her feelings like the brave warrior she is, and more importantly, I knew I would never stand a chance.
“I understand.” She nodded, and after a beat of silence, she said, “Thanks, Dori.”
And with that she sent my poor hopeless heart away on wings.
-#notbad 1
He threw himself against me, and as I felt my back against the wall, he stared at me with his sad, cold eyes. Blue as ever. The pathetic creature. I could practically see the tears well up in his poor, tortured soul.
And yet, again, I found my fingers on his chest. His broad shoulders. Damn it. After so many times, I may have finally given in to the fact that my body magnetizes to his without need or reason, but the last thing on earth I want to have happen is for him to know that.
“Tell you what, little boy blue.” I drag my fingertips across his rich fabrics and silk tie, as I attempt to gather myself. “Be a good boy and maybe I'll hold back a little.”
“Don’t.” My fingers slither between the buttons of his shirt in reaction to the deep reverberations of his chest. My eyes stare into his. “Give it everything you have.”
And before my lips even have the chance to speak, yet again, my hands seem to have taken hold of his chest, his back, his neck. It makes me sick, their eager uncontrolled behavior. But yet.
“You're disgusting, Lucy.” “As if I care.” His own thick hands seem to have gotten to work on my dress without my noticing. He leans into my breast. “Just be here, Hiromi.”
-#notbad 2
He grips my hips as my toes curl. His thick fingers in my skin. He tugs my hips towards him, shoving my pelvis over the edge of the banister and forcing my vagina to rub against the decoration on the footboard of his decadent castle of a bed. God, fuck, does it feel good. The hard wood against my center. His heavy hands force my body against it, and it's happy to oblige.
My breath escapes in huffs as my face sinks into the rich sheets of his bed. My hands grip. My voice moans. His hands suddenly drag up my back, and I shudder. Such thick masculine arms wrap themselves around my woman's frame. This man's body, now pressed firmly against my back, feels so solid and warm. And as he touches the center of my feminine existence. Oh, fuck. I shudder. I shuddered. Oh, fucking shit, I shuddered.
As I fear he may have felt me tense, a finger shoots into me and I gasp. God damn it, Hiromi, get a hold of yourself. He’s just a man. He’s just a man. He’s. Jesus, God, I moan. What the fuck is wrong with me.
-#notbad3
Her frame. In my hands. It's cold but it speaks. Inside myself, a force drives my hands to reach. And it does. My hand on her soft breast, where a million hands have been before. It's disgusting. But the rest of me besides my utterly animalistic impulses seems to dull as I feel her breast. Her far too large nipple. A sound. It surprises me. But it urges me forward, deeper into her abyss, and further from the sadness that grips my waking breaths.
-- Winter Formal --
Her eyes are screaming at me, I can feel it. Steaming from her hot red eyes. Her cold, harsh expression chilling me more than the winter air. The clouds following her heavy breath remind me of an angry steam engine. I can practically hear her whistle.
"Dorian--" She cuts herself off.
I can hardly even remember what it was I said now. My mind's gone blank. All that's there is the anger in her red eyes. I can't move. I want to say something, but my jaw just lies here dumbly agape. I can't move. For God's sake, why can't I move?
"--... Just... Forget it."
She turns away from me, and storms off in a direction.
Earlier in the night, Coach Riley and I had been enjoying an evening in each other's company while we chaperoned our first annual winter formal. I hadn't known, of course, that she would be there too. But she obviously took it upon herself to ignore the second half of the party's title. She arrived strictly in her usual letter-mans and -- of course -- her trusty pair of cleats. Though, come to think of it, I'm not entirely sure if she's ever owned another pair of shoes in her life. Despite the jarring contrast between her and the rest of the participants however, she still fit. She felt exactly right the way she was.
Throughout the evening, we shared faculty-approved child-safe sugary drink, while she laughed at my chaperoning tactics as well as my ill-informed intellectual witticisms... I shoved balloons between students, she blew whistles at titillated young boys. We talked about politics of the 1950s, the dual meaning of "unionized," childhood love stories and unfortunate parenthood... But what was it? What was the awful thing I said? Something came spilling out of my mouth, and for some reason Riley came over with quite the fit of silence, before tentatively excusing herself in a huff, and avoiding me throughout the hallways before meeting me with those wet, red eyes...
And eventually, slowly, I feel my eyes begin to fall down to the cement. All that's left of her to look at are the dotted marks left in the sleet by her cleats.
Carpe noctem. That's what I told myself as I overcame my surprise at the sight of her large, raven bun. There goes that, I suppose. And, quite possibly, what I would have considered to be my first real friendship in years.
-- Dawn --
What's with the new kid?
Does he ever take that hood down?
He doesn't even talk to anybody. He's even too blue for the emo crowd.
Across the cafeteria, there sat a hunched blue and white blob on the corner of a wide-seated bench. He had a cafeteria tray, like the other more colorful blobs surrounding him, but his seemed like a mere prop, sitting untouched in front of his pale, lanky figure. The poor child had just made it to his first day of school -- which was technically the third day of school -- and he hadn't even made it to 4th period without a cloud of whispers surrounding his poor blue head.
However, a pare of red eyes seemed to keep quiet attention on this blue thing from across the room. Where exactly did theis new piece of furniture come from? He looked practically ill. But more importantly, his plate seemed to be catching a quick case of the common cold.
This lumpy red and brown child took a soft plop into the seat across from the boy. He jumped and flicked his eyes upwards, only to be met with a round freshman already knee deep into her lunch. His guard stood up tall as the air between them fell deadly silent. Before a casual interjection:
"Hey, are you gonna eat that?"
Again, the boy startled. As if his skin could fall any more pale, she peeked up at him. With a nervous head shake, the girl stole his plate. And peaceful silence fell for a few seconds more.
"... It's Riley, by the way. You aren't too great at making new friend, are you-- uh--"
"D-Dorian." He stuttered quietly.
"... That's a pretty pansy name."
He recoiled slightly and slipped deeper into his hoodie. A pause.
Somehow, he muttered again, "I-I'm really just not very good at impressions..."
"Really? Because I'm pretty sure anybody can do Arnold Schwarzenegger's voice."
He blinked, as he slowly processed her misinterpretation.
"... It's nice to meet you, Miss Riley."
He could feel her jump as his lips revealed his sharp front pair of pearly teeth.
-- Christmas --
Christmas always meant something heavily important to you. Not as a christian or anything, you stopped believing in that bullshit a long time ago. ( Actually, did you ever really believe that? ) But there was always something very important about it.
Of course, the lights were always a wonderful thing. Secretly, you loved those lights. Your eyes would gleam every time you went to a mall or a shopping outlet, or even when you passed by a house you had already seen 12 times over. You actually really loved those lights. They were warm. They felt like home. They felt like something you could never quite express in person. But they felt the way that stars look.
Snow was also warm in your heart. Not as warm as summer and spring, but someone close to you always loved that white winter snow. You still remember, having snowball fights in streets with her, drinking warm chocolate and later coffee as you watched the snow fall out the window. You even remember how surprisingly warm her hands were, when she would slip off her glove to take your fingertips. She was always rather cold the rest of the year. But when it snowed, she was always very warm.
There's something about this holiday that reminds you of roses and dandelions. It's always so red and sweet, almost sickeningly cheesy in its presentation. But it was also everywhere. Like a weed. All too often treated like something that shouldn't be cherished. But it's really quite unique. And beautiful. And fuzzy.
You're not actually christian though. You're really just a subject to popular branded commercialism that runs wild during the season of your country's yearly economic boom. But it's really more important to you than all that. That's why you've started to call it more of a family-versary. It isn't about Christ. It isn't even about men in big red suits. It's about something far more important. Your family.
We always seemed to be caught out in the moonlight like this, on a school night like every other night. But it's not as if I ever minded. The way those round, red eyes of yours reflected the stars, I doubt anything could have ever made me mind those moments.
"Hey, didn't Professor Simmons give us homework last week?"
You look at me as you grab for something to talk about. All I wanted to do was spill out words about how perfect you are. About how beautiful you looked. About how sexy you were when you pulled your hair down and how deeply I wished I could kiss you right now.
"Yeah, last Friday. You mean you haven't done it yet?"
"Uhm, well, I don't think I've got the... "
You seem to clam up a little. The silence between us seems to stretch on forever.
"... Did you want to work on it over coffee next class?"
"Well, actually, I've got practice on Wednesday..."
"... So tomorrow?"
You look up at me with those red eyes of yours. God, I have never met anyone with such red, round eyes.
"... Sure. Around 8..?"
I laugh. "Yeah, okay, sure, if you can even wake up that early."
"Hey!" The sudden pain in my arm hardly feels like pain. More like the bruising kiss of an angel.
"... Coffee?" I look at you, and you just give me one of those cute, shyer smiles. You practically roll your eyes without diverting them from mine.
The train seems to move slowly. The cold air frigid. Breath becomes cloud, as the distance seems weary to you.
There was a train like this one. You remember it well, that train ride. The air was much warmer then, more simple. It was easy for you to understand. But the metal of the boxcar was still cold against your bare skin.
It was summer. There were still quite a few things on your mind. Well, motly one, actually. She had such a strange way of smiling. She was so strange. She looked at your extended hand, and smiled, you think. At least, you think it was a smile. You honestly couldn't tell. But she smiled, as you turned your back and left her there. But as you turned away from a long and depressed goodbye, this shadowed feeling of distance seemed to birth in your chest.
But as the distance grew past adolescence with each passing mile, the world moved on with it. There were trees and there was grass and the world was green. Mostly green, anyhow. Some part of the world was still burnt a red shade of blue. You could still feel her rejecting hand on yours. The metal of the boxcar was cold.
But tonight the world was white. Outside the warmth of the boxcar was a dreary wind and a tiresome moonshine. Blankets of tepid white. You stare, as the train continues to move slowly past the blurred trees and shadows. You could still feel it. A cold hand someplace warm.
You look up to find the lonely night sky and the distant moon. Your howls are silent, but no one needs to hear them anyhow. Well, mostly no one, anyhow.
-- 2
It's all the same. City to city, town to town. People are all the same. The buildings are the same. The streets are the same. Everything is the same. Everything is dark. Streetlights scream against the black and hideous backdrop of the rest of the world. It's all the same. Everywhere. Everything. The air is still stale and damp and angry and and empty. Sleep is still depressed. Home is still alone. Spring still smells of dirt and flowers and shops and winter nights. Of her scarf and her hands and the bench you fell asleep on. Spring is still stale. Nothing is different. Nothing has changed.
You count the change in your pocket that has recently turned to bills. 10s that have become 20s. This city didn't have a problem finding a place for you to fit in. Money still finds itself hard to come by. The work isn't easy, but it seems as if this is what your life has been leading up to this far. Drugs to dollars. It doesn't matter. You couldn't imagine your life being any different.
Nothing feels different. Everything feels alone. Nothing has changed.
-- 3
There's a scar on your chest where stitches used to be. Next to it again is a new, deeper scar. It feels hot. Fresh cash stained red by fingerprints looks back at you. It feels like mortar.
-- 4
Cigarettes taste like tobacco and nostalgia. You bring one to your lips and inhale, before letting your breath become cloud in the dark, dirty scent of empty, absent space. The air is quiet. Subtle. And silent.
The taste of sadness seems to make its way past your teeth. It tastes like a missing tooth, a gap that can't be filled, but that you keep reaching back to feel and confirm its reality. It feels bitter. You inhale.
And out, again, you stretch and feel your muscles. Your scars seem to increment day by day, you feel. You're getting used to it now, but this kind of business is taking a bit of a toll on you. You should probably find a doctor.
You sigh, again, as the time you have left burns away with each puff. This sadness tastes like winter. You look out, but yet everything is black and warm.
You breathe in, again, for the last time, as you let your sorrow slip from between your fingers, and land firmly on the hard and dense cement beneath your feet. You stamp the ashes to the ground, and exhale your last cloud of breath. You toss your empty pack from your pocket. You hear a man call your name, as you turn and leave your bitter melancholy on the cracking cement.
You wonder what she's doing, anyways.
-- 5
You cough. You let the blood spill from your lungs. You stare forward as you hobble and fight for your balance. You breathe, as you feel through your mind for a solution to your slowly-growing-urgent problem.
There is something about the taste of the summer air and the warmth of your bitter blood that makes you yearn for the touch of a cold scalpal.
-- 6
It's been a while since snow has felt this warm. You curl and let the snow gather in the crevice of your body. It feels dry. And warm.
Snow slips through fingers like sand and cement. It falls with the sound of chilled breezes against a house. A hand lands in the pillowed snow. And feels of fleece blankets and purple sheets. Sheets of snow. Virgin and innocent. Pale and smooth like hands and arms. Soft like skin. The snow is warm like needles and knives. Warm, small needles and warm, small voices. Soft and slow. Degrading, with careful precision. Careful flakes fall from white night skies. Landing with precision in the dark palm of a monster. Fingertips of near purple. Purple feels warm. Purple feels like surprising smiles and gleaming eyes and scared fingers and worried shakes. Like purple lips and purple nails and purple scarves and purple blankets. Blankets of snow. Fleece and warm. Soft, gentle.
Glass and chairs feel warm like ice. Fingerprints smudged on windows are happy and safe and calm. Pencil marks smudged on desks look playful and honest and caring and warm. The sound of pencils are happy. The sound of pens are like soft smiles. Graphite smells like wooden desks. Desks taste of sleep and sunshine. The feel of drool on your cheek, met with warm blue eyes and a warm gentle expression. A word, a banter. A sleeve to your face and the quiet sound of content and tepidness. Glass feels smooth and soft. Red marks on blue windows, and the sound of knocking and sliding glass. The smell of carpet and furniture and slight worry. The feeling of safety in soft, shaking hands. The gentle feeling of needles. The taste of metal blood and gentle grins. The sound of silent seriousness. A warm heart. The emotion of trust. The room feels tepid like salty tears. Like lonesome snow. Home.
Home.
Your eyes begin to shut. White fades slowly to black. Behind your eyes, alone. A monster. This is home. This is home.
-- 7
You pull your knife out of the thick, hideous flesh before you. The sound feels sick, as the heavy mass of shit flops forward by the influence of gravity. You stand there, dazed, as you and this figure exist alone in a world of cold red death.
The wind howls silently. The cold air seems to engulf you as you stare. It's not as if this hasn't happened before. You've seen plenty of men die. That's life. That's how it is. But yet. Your red, disgustingly sticky knife glares up at you. Red. Hideous color. It glares. But yet.
You feel yourself suddenly begin to breathe. Your knife slips from your hand, and sinks into the cold snow beneath your feet. Your heart sinks, as you exhale, and let the hot air from your lungs. You breathe, as you gain your balance and look at the poor piece of shit in front of you. The world is dark. And so is he. And so are you. A hideous monster.
The hideous scent of red begins to pool in the white virgin snow beneath his body. You notice your knife, too, having stamped red ink into the beautiful white of snow. The blood only thickens, as you stand and gaze at the beauty of white submitting to the horrid red.
The harsh sound of mass hitting water is heard as you release his weight from your hands. You turn back, and gaze at the hideous red trail left behind. You walk back, shoving the red snow into the black water where it belongs, before picking up your knife. You glare. You pitch it into the black depth, as you pull a cigarette from your pocket. You leave, as snow silently fills the gaps you've left behind. It always hated the red color of blood. It deserves the white serenity. Its peace.
-- 8
Death has a strange way of smiling. It is so strange.
You stare back at the clustered mesh of charred wood and broken beams. The smell of smoke and fire and wood fills your lungs as you gasp for air. You feel like pain. You're bleeding. Every part of you is bleeding with pain and fear and red and. You stare back at where your clothes currently lie for you. Tattered and soaked in your blood and sweat. You stare back, and breathe.
You hear sirens. You flee. You let the fall leaves cover your trail, as you escape with what little of yourself you seem to have left. The scars and bullets embeded in your flesh mean little to you now. All you can think to do is dash for home. But you don't seem to know where it is.
-- 9
The train seems to move slowly. The air stale and heavy. The clinks of the train are harsh and sharp. Angry with fear and regret. You look up at the weary stars. You remember something about distance, but it seems fleeting to you now. It escapes your heart, and you can no longer seem to grasp the feeling.
You've ridden hundreds of trains like this one. They're excellent transportation, really. They aren't hard to sneak onto. They take you where you need to go. Elsewhere. Anywhere. But it's all the same. Everything's the same. Nothing is different. Nothing is home.
You reach for your empty box of cigarettes, but you seem to forget why they were there in the firstplace. What do they taste like. You can't seem to remember.
You stare up at the tired sky. The dreary stars. They sparkle like something. Like eyes, perhaps. Maybe.
You're tired now. You close your eyes. The world fades to black, and behind your eyes lies nothing.
-- 10
Is this what death feels like.
For a minute, you thought you knew where you were. There was a light, and a corner. And something beneath your feet. But as you turn, all that seems to exist before you is a horrid, grey blizzard. It chills you to the bone, as you stare quietly out into the murky distance.
Death. You feel as a ghost, standing alone in this vacant space, amongst a world of full grey. Time seems irrelevant. Time feels emotionless, but the steel snow tastes of melancholy, and cigarettes. Is this what death feels like. An absence within space. The wind, mostly angry, is content. It's bitter. Its taste slowly disappears from you, as the storm whirls in harsher tones. Is this what death feels like. You hear the winters breath, paniced, and worried, scared, and uncertain. But it overlaps, in round, as it slowly transforms into grainy, white noise. It sounds like nothing. Is this what death feels like. Feel, gone, touch no longer existant at your fingertips or your palms. The world feels the same, of nothing, of vacancy. Yes, you think. This must be what death feels like. The world, alone, gone.
You close your eyes, and let your world fade to black. But something. She. Still seems to exist there. Behind these curtains. She still exists. Whatever world is left doesn't matter anymore. She still exists. She is home.
-- 11
The sun beats down, and the living is easy. Laughter exists, and the world is green with the smell of grass and trees. This spot feels right to you. Like a safe place to rest. Some part of the world is still washed a blue shade of red. But you prefer it that way. The day feels warm.
Something, an itch, urges you to turn behind you, to the gravestone at your back. You squint from the pale reflection of the sunshine. You brush your hand along the soft, warm surface. And you realize.
Kamil Zinti. A good friend.
-- 12
Purple feels like sunshine. Like a warm desk on a spring day. Like soft hands and cold skin. Like roof panneling and the structure of a home. Purple smells like flowers. Like the flowershop on 3rd and main. Like the nursery you stopped by that day. Like roses and soft, dainty handkerchiefs. Purple tastes like salt. Like salty tears and desk drool. Like bitter blood, and sweet pastries. Purple looks like winter. Like ice cold sheets and warm fleece blankets. Like falling snow and roaring fireplaces. Like white, and blue eyes. Purple sounds like breath. Like breathing, soft and scared and pleasant and content. Like soft voices. Caring voices. Worried and shaking voices. Snarky and playful voices. A little like her laughter. A lot like her laughter.
Purple is a feeling. An emotion, of width and depth that no one can imagine. It's joy. It's sadness. It's content. And it's home.
You watch her stare at you, wide eyed. She almost seems to drop her belongings, as she gasps at the sight of you. You grin. And you can feel it. This moment. She feels like purple.
Before he was born, this destiny was chosen for him. By gods, some say. Others call them paths. Roads. Tunnels. But this man had only one. He was a miner.
At the age of 3, he would become a boy, and at 6, his parents would give him schooling. He would be a good boy. Never one for words, or trouble. At the age of 7 and 1/2, he would fight another boy, and at 14 defend another.
At the age of 15, he would grow big. He would work. He would impress the men this first day in the mine. The boy who could dig as a man. He would find salvation here. He would dig. He would set records. And he would dig. Forward, into the depths of the unknown. Discovering dirt. And more dirt.
At the age of 17 he would be one of the best diggers of their own graves. He would be titled as a king. A tank. But no longer a child. He would be responsible. Focused. A man.
At the age of 19 he would meet a girl. A regular, ordinary girl. He would be in simple love with this girl. They would share their moments. Have their poor man's fun. The would like one another. At the age of 21, he would marry this girl. And he would dig. And they would be ordinary.
At the age of 23 he would give the earth his first child. At the age of 27, he would give the earth his second. He would tred that path to the mines every day. He would have stepped in his own footsteps 4382 times. And at the age of 27 and one day, he would have stepped there 4383 times more.
At the age of 34 he would train his second born to mine. He would come home to his ordinary children every day and hug them. And he would come home to his ordinary wife and kiss her. And he would come home to his ordinary parents, proud of their son, and provide them food, and clothing, and shelter.
At the age of 44 he would work in the mines with his second born. They would have excellent work together. He would come home from a hard day's work and his ordinary wife would put dinner on the table. He would have an ordinary family. He would be content.
At the age of 47 his father would die. His family would give him funeral. They would grieve, his mother most of all. And at the age of 53, his mother would die of sadness. They, too, would give her funeral.
At the age of 64 he would have stepped in the same footstep 17,889 times. At the age of 64 and one day, he would have stepped on that spot 17,900 times more.
And at step 20,847, he would die. His ordinary wife would grieve. His ordinary children would give him funeral. At the age of 75, his wife would die of sadness. And their children, too, would give her funeral.
Except, for one day, 15,000 steps ago. As he made step 5,848, he would look across the rye.
And there would be she. The woman who stole his heart and his life. Taken from destiny, this man would now wander. Trapped somewhere separate from where he was supposed to be. In hell, some say. Others call it limbo. A forest. A clearing. But he, the miner, would be forever stuck there, in the eternal grasp of the rye field.
And only she would know what lied in store for him.
"YOU'RE INSANE!"
"Why is she here?"
"Arceus save her soul."
I stare onward at the scene in front of me. The absol continues to preach, as she often finds herself doing. I'm not sure it is ever on purpose. She smiles. The man in front of her continues to shout in confrontation as the others around make their shallow observations. Every week, I find her here. In another banter. She smiles, and I stare on.
"No legendary would condone the sacrifice of living beings. There is no reason for a god above to give life below only for it to be taken."
"Are you suggesting the OVERTHROW of BALANCE?!"
"She really is insane!"
"Poor dear must have been dropped as a child."
Her face a little closer, I now see the contours of her smile. Unchanging, but it is somehow less genuine than I first observed. Her voice, again calm, in comparison to the man standing before her.
Her logic is sound. Her words hurt no one. More sense has she than the man who screams in front of her, red in his rage, not fully understanding what it is he is defending. And she, here, smiling, calm, still works in defense of this creature. She still hopes to make the man understand. Perhaps this is her flaw. So soft is her face that I could never see this woman's flaw, except, perhaps, that her kindness is too great for such a disheveled pokemons.
The comments beside me prod at my ears. I suddenly find myself in a croud of pokemon, and I feel my pulse quicken.
"Every week, she talks about this garbage."
"Do you think she'll ever learn?"
"Salvation is too far for this creature."
"What a freak."
I tense. I've overjudged my distance. Near the front of the crowd I hear nothing. But voices. They ring inside me. They deafen my senses. They go on. And on.
"She'll burn in hell."
"Perhaps He'll save her."
"Just die already."
"Oh arceus!"
The crowd suddenly engages in a simultaneous reaction, and I feel my heart stop. The man. Enraged. Fist back. I stop. I stop the madness.
Next I know I hear her surprised breath behind me, as this man lunges his fist into my lungs. The pain I feel is numb, as my senses go dark until I hear his jaded voice faintly.
"Y-YOU AREN'T WORTH MY TIME."
A murmer of a crowd surrounds me. But now suddenly the words fail to appear in my mind. Instead I find in front of me a soft face, a touch, and my body grows rigid. Eyes. Two soft eyes. Never had I needed breath more than now.
The crowd seems to dissolve, little by little, as the pain in my chest slowly crawls back to the surface of my mind. I clutch myself in pain. She looks at me. My eyes meet hers just long enough for me to see her smile once more. Somehow, her smile feels far more genuine than the moment before.
If only I had words. If only I could open my mouth and speak to her. Let her know she's right. That her heart is in the right place. At least ask her name.
"Aulani." I feel myself breathe in for the first time. "My name is Aulani." She smiles.
Again my instincts take hold as I pull myself from her eyes and push my way through the silent crowd. I abscond. I hide. And I soon discover the large buise at the center of my breast.
If only I had words, perhaps. Perhaps then I could speak in more than bruises.
After that moment the words of the villagers seemed to dissappear from my vision. When she stood again, defending her thoughts, the only word that came to mind was her name, Aulani. And the words she spun became more song than noise. I would always stare, and listen, from a distance, but every time the crowd disappeared I always found myself standing where they used to be, and I would always find her smile waiting for me at the end of the battle.
She would always catch my eye to say thank you. And I would only hope that she could hear my I love yous. Someday.
-- 1:27 AM
"I-It's okay Mimi, really, I just--"
"Stop talking."
"Really I--"
"Shut up."
"....."
"Was that so hard."
"Yes."
"Stop."
He's heavier than last time, I think. Or perhaps he is simply weighing on me more than the last. I can't recall. His body feels like a tote of meat resting on my shoulders.
"Miyuki--"
"What."
I can tell I cut some of his brain cells short. He remains quiet as I rest him on the mattress. The same as last. I breathe gently. He's staring back at me.
I remember very clearly the last time he was this weak. Three bullet wounds, one with a bullet still halfway through a muscle. Two large incisions to his abdomen. Several uncounted bruises, and a gash three inches above his left brow. And an incessant, cacophonous noise coming from his mouth. Very loud. Very obnoxious. Very Kamil.
And a struggled three words before he lost consciousness.
What a fool.
I prepare the needles cautiously as his train of thought continues to chug towards lost and confused words. He's in no position to think, the imbecile. But yet he continues to try. I avoid eye contact. I must be precise. I must be perfect. Excellence and precission. I must not be nervous.
I turn back with waiting needles to find him still staring at me. I'm not surprised.
"...It's okay."
"Of course it is."
"Miyuki."
He meets my eyes for a moment and I look back at him impatiently. My work is waiting. He mustn't stop me now. There is no room for error. ...If I didn't know more about his condition I might go as far as to call him intoxicated already.
"... I trust you. But, try not to get too carried away, okay?" And so he speaks.
He always does that. References something from far too many years ago accompanied by his droll signature grin. He really does need to stop that.
I press the needle to his skin in preparation. A jerk of his own pushes the needle through as I suddenly feel a hand on my face and his skin on my lips. The moment seems cut slightly short. He soon begins to loosen his grip as I place a hand on his shoulder to help guide his fall back onto the mattress gently. I need to remove his hand from my face myself.
These must be his struggled three words. The same as last. Except, perhaps, not so struggled. And not pressed into three small words. I could almost regret putting him to sleep. Just like last.
There is work to be done.
-- 1:48 AM
I pull my books from their places and keep them readily at my side, should I need their reference. I shouldn't. I know this. I'm an Oshiro. This is obvious.
I flip to a page on stitching.
My tools feel colder to the touch than usual.
-- 2:05 AM
One bullet and shrapnel. Four knife wounds. Fat seems to be pussing out of an incision below his left shoulder. Twelve bruises, all on his chest alone. A larger bruise covers his left hip. Possible internal bleeding.
Suddenly I'm beginning to remember what an autopsy report looks like.
-- 2:32 AM
I seem to have run into a spot where I have previously cut and sewn the tissue together. The mark appears approximately 8 months old. I've paused my work and have taken a minute to dive back into my books for reassurance. The second book I pick up touches the subject in firm detail. I pick up another.
His skin has become all too fond of my tools, I believe.
-- 2:57 AM
The shrapnel isn't as bad as anticipated. Or at least, that's what I've come to believe. I still have yet to attempt stitches on the left arm. As I switch between tools, I can't help but notice how the silver utensils feel warmer the more often I use them. His words still can't seem to leave me.
I reach for the needle.
Instead I find myself reaffirming the existence of my gloves.
-- 3:57 AM
A warm, thick needle finds its way back to it's home. He appears to be breathing normally. I reassess my stitch-work a third time. I run my fingers over his arm. Why must blood be red.
Come to consider it, reassessing the rest of my corrections does not seem an improper decision.
-- 4:13 AM
His vitals seem in proper order, but he has shown no signs of movement or consciousness in approximately three hours. Another hour and he should wake.
Suddenly I realize how good it feels to sigh. I may have been holding my breath longer than anticipated. Perhaps.
I find myself staring at his strangely peaceful face.
Why must he have chosen my bed to sleep in.
-- 4:31 AM
All there is left to clean are my bloody sheets. I select a book from my shelf and read.
-- 5:18 AM
The clock appears to be mocking my impatience. I need sleep. I cannot sleep. I wait.
-- 5: 24 AM
The sun appears to be coming over the horizon, and still he rests. I have long since stopped tapping my fingers to the sound of the clock. Time appears to move slower as I flip the pages of my books. I read the head of the next chapter. Wait.
I check the page. I check the book.
No, this was it. This is where I referenced from most scrupulously the first time I gave him stitches. Come to think of it, I doubt he was trying to save his own life in that moment. He was probably saving mine.
-- 5:59 AM
Perhaps the jerk of his arm caused him to inject too much into himself. Perhaps it was my mistake. No. It couldn't have been my mistake. It must have been his. The fool. The imbecile. The idiot with a wry smile.
This is all his fault. It always has been. It's always his fault when he jumps into these frays and expects me to fix them, his body half-broken and in pieces. He really must learn to stop making so many mistakes. He's a fool that way. Insane, really. What does he ever expect from these fights. They always end the same. He always finds himself injured somewhere. And he always finds his way back to my front doorstep, bleeding from separate orifices. He was bleeding from the nose last week. He couldn't stop laughing as I cleaned his face. And there was his grin again. It never leaves him does it.
His breathing feels distant. I turn the page.
-- 6:08 AM
I've checked his vitals a fourth time. His pulse seems slow. Time feels slow. I grow more impatient by the second. Each beat feels farther from the last. My hands appear shaken. Am I nervous? Why would I be. Excellence. Precision. I dropped medical school. Perhaps I am simply anxious. I've worked on him several times before. This is no different. His blood is no different. His skin is no different. His face is no different. Why do I shake? I've checked every book. I am correct. As usual. As always. Why won't he wake. I am frustrated. I must be. My head hurts. I need coffee. Chocolate. Black. Damn you, idiot. Wake the fuck up.
-- 6:09 AM
The coffee I prepared earlier is cold. I don't care. I stare down at the lame mug and feel the cold morning air though the shut window. The sun is up now. I breathe.
Breathing. A part of living. Right.
I'm obviously right, my incisions were precise, excellent, but I can't help but consider what tomorrow would be if perhaps there weren't a piece of purple trinket from a sad kitten on my doorstep. What would tomorrow be. Somehow, I believe the sunrise would be a colder memory than before. I despise the sunrise. I much prefer the early hours of the morning.
Perhaps I would get used to it. Often I forget how the years I had climbed to success were filled with nothing but my own company. Life was not too terribly harsh. But that was only because I knew better. Life was more than the Oshiro's approval. Life was more than the textbooks and the success. Life was more than agony. Life was more than fun. Life was more than the cold coffee and the sunrise. It was the moment at 3AM the hours before, too.
The cold black coffee staring back at me seems to say it all. It's true. I can live without him. But that doesn't mean I want to.
-- 6:20 AM
I enter the room to find his breathing thicker than the moment before. He almost appears to sigh. I approach cautiously. I set my coffee on the side table and sit next to him. I reach to check his pulse.
Suddenly I find a pair of dark eyes sleepily glancing back at me. Drowsy, but calm. I must have a slight expression on my face.
There it is. That droll smile.
"Hey."
My arms seem to be full of him as my lips touch his.
Fool.
I might be from the future, but I was born in the shittiest, poorest part of the shittiest, poorest town. The streets were dirt. I never knew my parents. To be honest, I never fucking want to. My bitch-ass whore of a mother was probably hiding her species; she couldn’t afford me. So she chucked me in a damn dumpster like every other bastard brother and sister I probably had, but I was found, some-fucking-how. A tiny-ass Indian kid of a species no one wanted to fucking deal with. So I was taken in by the only pokemon that could even take in shit like me. The gypsies.
Yes, the fucking belly dancing kind. No, they don’t fucking belly dance anymore. If they wanted to get money like that they’d join a whore store, unless they were too ugly even for that. Kinda like you actually. But I was raised by gypsies. Traveling con artists. And they didn't know it, but I was solid gold. Fuck, the pranks I’d pull? Gorgeous. You know, actually, there was a gypsy classic, where we’d give a guy a “fortune" on his cash, and all the bastard had to do was leave his wallet. The next day he’d pick it up and the money would “double," so the bastard would bring in more dough and it’d fucking double. Until one day he brings in his life savings and we fucking book it! The fucking stunts, queenie. But, they didn't know about half the shit I’d on my own. But then again, I’d have to do something pretty shit to get out of that gold-mine gig.
Well. Guess what. I fucking did.
My species is actually perfect for the gypsy lifestyle. We trick, we laugh, and we have a strong respect for loyalty. The community makes gypsies capable of the way they live. You don’t fucking mess with their own.
But, I… You know what Miyuki, I fucked up. Yeah. I’m a fuck up, too. Big fuck up party. Where’s the fat-ass “fuck up" cake.
…. They banished me, too. A fuck up to even the worst of fuck ups. To be honest, I considered my life pretty fucking over. I lived on my own for a few years. Almost starved, found a good place to steal from, and then almost starved again. It wasn't a life. It was fucking survival. I almost fucked that shit up, too.
But, I was moving cities. The last gig didn't end off so well, so I had to ditch town. But, on the way to nowhere, in the middle of nowhere, there was this… tiny orange idiot off in the distance shouting like crazy to… something. I… my curiosity got the better of me as I turned around to watch this figure, and the tiny orange idiot soon became a huge orange idiot as he slammed right fucking into me, called me by a name resembling a prostitutes, and lifted me into the air as if I were his prostitute. His shit was utter nonsense. And he wouldn't quit following me, no matter how much I ignored the little…
But, you know. I had no idea who he was. But some part of me… felt like I did. And for some reason, everything changed. Things got better. I protected him, and I had a family now. Eating felt a little less like surviving and a little more like living. I had a brother, and... I was happy.
… Call me whatever you want, queenie. But you don’t know shit about living. You don’t know shit about beauty. You don’t know shit about Charley and you still don’t know shit about me, so I suggest you shut your fucking FAILURE ASS MOUTH and bet your FAILURE ASS MUG that I am NOT failing this time. You think I’m a fool? Well damn, I’m a fool. But guess who gives a rattata’s ass. You don’t know me. You don’t know shit.
But, it was as customary as it was necessary for her to visit my land. After all, if she was going to rule in it, it was best for her to know it. So on that day in March a royal guard brought her down with the use of Dive, and she did come to follow my day around the castle. But, a solemn silence seemed to overwhelm her when the children came to greet me. The young mistresses and maid's daughters all welcomed me as they do every morning, and I had asked each one of them what they had done the day before and if they had helped their mothers. And after some time they did notice Miss Emily and proceeded to compliment her and her beauty, before scampering off to play as their own princesses. And after that moment, Emily refused to say a word, or give a smile or frown, or acknowledge her own existence at all.
She followed me the rest of the evening as I went about my usual day, though I tried to avoid my reading as not to bore her and walked around the more beautiful areas of our castle instead. At the end of the day she did come to meet my... well, "my mother", though "my queen" may be more appropriate in this case, and my father... though I do think she noticed the cold between us, and how we refused to look directly at each other, for when my father bid her return home she asked to borrow me for a few more moments and, much to both of our surprise, he said yes. She tagged against me for some time before asking-- and I remember this very well-- "Dorian, where /is/ your mother?" And I caved-- after all, if she was going to rule me, it was best that she knew me-- and I brought her through the corridors and hallways to the room where my mother's chest was hidden. And I did open my chest to her. I gave her everything, told her everything of my mother and my father and the fates under which I was born, and her silence returned to her as she went on her way home, but after that moment there was something different about her. The following day, she did nothing to torture me; nothing to put herself in danger or bid me fuddle myself, but simply kept good company. And suddenly our days were pleasant. The following day she took me to her own secret, for "if I know you, it is best that you know me," and she showed me where she would sometimes run to when she needed to escape: her own kingdom, where she would pick her flowers and rest in her trees. And after that, I found that when she fell from trees and I didn't have the strength to catch her, we would both giggle, and when I would sometimes slip on the stones in rivers, we would both laugh. And I discovered that in her lied a grace, a gentle balance of beauty in each leap she took and step she would take, so that each adventure was like a dance in her eyes. And I fell.
I believe I've figured out the date, but its slightly difficult to tell. It's in the middle of fall -- I can tell by the warmth of the waves -- but the stars appear to be in a stranger position than I remember. But I suppose it really doesn't matter. I have no idea what year it is, however, though considering it was spring when I left, I'm going to assume it's not long after.
I find myself on the beach again, staring a little while into the horizon as the moon's glow reflects on the surface for the hundredth time, and I snuff out what could perhaps be called a "kindling" in the cold sand below my boots. The days are warm here, but the nights still feel cold. The waves have seemed to soften and I feel a little uneasy here now, as if something is wrong. Or perhaps something is yet to be wrong.
A presence holds me still. A soft wind chills the sky and I try to move forward but it appears that I can no longer move. A hard sound breaks my veins as I begin to feel myself flow again, and I look under myself to find a letter, buried in the shore beneath my feet, and I bring it to my eyes. There is no address. There is no stamp endorsed on either side. All that appears on the letter is a letter -- "A" -- and there is no hint of any romance beneath its bone white surface. "A." That is all the letter whispers, and nothing more.
I would almost take this as an invitation, but no part of the letter appears inviting. It is simply cold, shallow, with yet containing an infinite deepness in the ink beneath it that could fall forever into a bleak open sky. The letter is black. And the back, folded with clumsy fingers, appears to me again adorned with salt and watered stigma. But these are not the ocean's waves. These are not the ocean's stains.
The letter ripples the sand as I drop it on the cold hell below, and I see it for what it is now. The letter no longer drips with my curiosity but falls dry on the stone white sand as all the tears and blood have left from its black, hollow letter "A." I see now where I stand. Below my feet lies the lost tears of a loved one, the shattered life of someone loved even more. Yet the air prevents me from moving yet again, as I am forced to stare at the letter afloat in the sand. "A." I see now where that letter stands, and ---
The letter is written in a child's penmanship. In ink, and likely with a quill, but with the breadth or a child's wide sweeping emotions. The letter is not simply written in black, but in a red. The ruby red of a lover's tears and eyes and lips and veins. I know this child, this lover's hand, and my knees can't help but give in to the waves that sweep me now. I touch the letter's soft surface. "A." I see where this letter stands now. Adrian. The lover's ode. The lover's ballad. The lover's desperate attempts to reach the dead.
I've left the letter beneath the sand where I have come across it. The warm earths now embrace the heart of the young "A" like it was meant. Part of me begins to wonder if perhaps I should leave this letter here with them, too. Because then, perhaps, the soft warmth of the moonlight and the ocean breath can carry my far overdue messages to you, too.
There has always been a predetermined course of nature; a path in which all are set to follow. It is straight and it is narrow, and we are tied to it by bonds that can never be broken. Roads merge and break, travel up and downstream, and occasionally, can lead to the most bizarre and magnificent endings. However, for each road that is made, there is a second, carved into the earth since the very beginning and born never to be traveled or trodden. It is kismet; proof that there is ever only one way. Though through some divine windows, these paths can be seen. And only in seeing them can we understand the true meaning of fate.
To find these paths, it is important that we turn back time to the moments which have turned our roads most sharply. There are many twists in our paths, and for each there is a parallel bend which we shall never explore. As for the fates of our Riley and Adrian, we may unwind and find a time in which the two did not meet, in which bread was never broken and hearts never spare, but some connections are so strong we are blind to the opportunities around them. Instead, let us look at the moment that truly changed their lives, and the moment in which the gods most certainly posted detours in the direction of despair. Instead, let us see what the man was truly capable of, had not the goddess of time interfered for her own selfish gains.
Adrian did not die at the hands of the illusioned Zoroark. The true Blaziken was no real match for the pokemon's heroism and, although fainted, Adrian was never to leave the side of his Riley there. Instead, a tattered, strained, and soldiered Adrian did make his way to Riley's doorstep at the end of their war. And there was rejoice.
"Trust me, will you?" He smiled as Riley held in his embrace. Riley, choking back her tears, fell silent in the warmth of his still-beating chest. And hers ever beating still.
Though Riley was never one to take Adrian's lessons lightly. Oh no. For the time, when Riley's fate was still set in its stones and she did escape with the souls of her friends on her shoulders, death was believed to sit at her doorstep. None could have predicted fate's shrouded turns, and a fire still burned inside her. Riley can learn that "one does not appreciate what one has until it is gone," and with such a lesson comes new wisdom. And with new wisdom comes a choice.
The two stood at the end of Sharpedo Bluff, staring out into the expanse of ocean that reflected the quartermoon above them. The night was dark, save for the stars that complimented the moon so kindly, and the radiance of his halo's glow. Riley stood, in slightly confused and flustered silence, as they gazed, almost as if waiting for... something. And, soon, he spoke.
It would be perjury to say this question did not kindle in Adrian's heart as well. We both know how sickeningly distraught these two are in their pinings for one another, though words were never thought to have existed. However, it was impossible to ignore the feelings now. Reality had come to shake them too soon, and one can never know when good things are to die.
She held her breath, taken aback by the words she could hardly bare to hear. Somehow, she knew this would come, but not here. Not now. She held herself together by the single string of the moment, unsure whether to be furious or to burst into childish sobs, but she straightened her voice and allowed herself to reply. ".... Leaving...?"
However, this was not the first thing on the soldier's mind. After death, it is always natural to question one's life, and the purpose behind it, and so too were Adrian's longings for the truth rekindled in his heart. Never would he have wanted to die leaving behind so much, and never without finding the answer to his only true question. Granted, it was only the natural course of history for him not to discover his answer; by challenging this truth, he was very much toying with the line of fate. But, so was his very existence.
'You can't' is all she wanted to say. But a part of her couldn't bring itself to let it out. Never again was she willing to risk this much of herself for the sake of truth. For the sake of anything. But she could tell from the melancholy in his eyes that there was nothing that could let this go. "... We can go together."
And so our hero set out on his journey with Riley at his side: a scene they had both witnessed before. But, instead of traveling in the sense of adventure, they traveled mostly in the sense of fear. Riley in fear of her emotions -- as often was the case for 13-year-olds, and especially one of her tortures -- and Adrian in fear of his truths. Though, through sacrifice, they were both to reach what they truly desired.
They reached the end of their road, a fork splitting their paths in two. They stared, first at the roads, and then at each other, unsure of where to go from here. Riley, ever feeling Adrian's gravitational pull was blind to the true pull of the path's full moon, as Adrian's pull towards Riley seemed waning though the passing seconds of their nights. Forward, he stared, the pull of the oracle leading him towards his left. And so did Riley head towards the Right, their souls truly split in the moment of destination. "I have to try.... we'll meet back here. I won't lose you."
As he was never to understand the true horror of his lie.
Riley traveled -- bare in the wilderness of the cold night -- but yet still accompanied by the warm light above in their winter night. Though she had split from his presence, she could still touch his soul like a god does upon his own oracle on that very night.
And as she marched, looking for nothing but a warm place for their protection, she did find the exact opposite of their warm salvation.
The oracle herself, standing in the snow of their peak as a ghost in the hardened moonlight, breathed heavy in the cold. Riley, unsure, did what her senior had taught her and offered kindness to the woman, but it was not received before realization did hit her. This woman, white haired in the dark snow, was the mother of her Adrian, unmistakable in her handsome likeliness.And now she was to offer her kindness instead.
The Oracle knows all of her gods work: the paths in which lives do take and the detours in which the divine do create for us all. The Oracle is aware of the twists and offshoots of fate, and of the actual truth behind their existence now. She does not know the future, nor the past, but she does know the truth. The honest truth. The truth that Adrian did ever search to hear, and the truth that Riley could not bear.
Riley collapsed, the visions of the truth shaking her heart. Adrian did die at the hands of the illusioned Zoroark. The true Blaziken was never to challenge the pokemon's heroism. And, gone from existence, Adrian was ever to leave the side of his Riley there. No words were spoken. The flame in Riley's heart burned with anger now, and fear and sadness and a true compassion that only lovers can find. She did turn to The Oracle there, and, heart broken, asked to trade her life instead.
And so as an offer to mercy, The Oracle did take the life of Riley there. Riley did find the hero in herself to sacrifice for her love, as she had desired on her true path of fate, and Adrian did find his truth, in the end. And when he later did discover his Riley, cold in the winter snow, there was nothing left of her in his heart.
"I will give your life for the chance to let Adrian live his." She asked. "Is this what you want?" She paused, shaking, hesitant, but ever sure of her answer. "Yes." She cried. "If he only has one left to live..."
Adrian did find his truth. His truth that, without her, there was no life left to live. And so he did allow himself to heaven. And so their road did end.
Don't mind my run-on sentences it's just 1 AM and I'm spilling feels for AUs that'll never happen shhh.
But I was just thinking how Dorian's background would even work with the whole domestic setting, but I would still think that his mother died at a young age due to a gang-related accident and that Dorian's dad still beats himself up over it even though he wasn't even involved. But he's still not the only person he would beat up over it HAHA oops-- *SHOTDEAD*
BUT BECAUSE OF HIS DAD'S MYSTERIOUS LINE OF WORK HE AND HIS FAMILY HAVE JUST THE HUGEST AMOUNT OF MONEY, AND THEY LIVED BY THE SEA BECAUSE DORIAN'S MOM ALWAYS WANTED TO-- oops I'm using capslock.
BUT ANYWAYS, he was totally a nerdy, lonely kid until he met Emily one summer vacation, and their parents worked together but Emily's mom was always home much more often than Dorian's dad was, but they had this little summer love going on as Dorian would always go over to her house and she would just try to convince him that there's a bright side to everything and everything was just really cute between them until Emily's dad found out, they totally pulled an asian-parenthood-lesson on her, Emily tried to run away to Dorian's for a little while and just a whole series of bad events including an injured Emily let Dorian go fuck this I caused all this I'm a bad person and I'm moving away, and he used Dad's agent to find him a place where he lives by himself and goes to public school.
And then he met Charley and they just became the best of friends, and he got Dorian into online gaming and video games and every thursday is just game night where they play on live together as bros and occassionally MMO with Riley even though she's younger but she's still p cool and they are just the BEST OF FRIENDS OK I'M JUST SITTING OVER HERE GOING "DAMN I THOUGHT ALL OF THIS IN A MATTER OF MINUTES WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE" BUT I LOVE THE IDEA SO MUCH IT HURTS HELP ME IT'S 1:22 AM.
I'M STILL DECIDING IF EVERYONE SHOULD BE IRL BROS OR JUST ONLINE BROS THOUGH, because I have this headcannon of Dorian giving Riley his jacket as momentum once and she secretly wears it when no one's looking sometimes but only because it's just a really quality jacket and she'd never want to waste something like that baka-- *SHOTDEAD*
Okay I need to stop why am I having these feels someone kill me ok.
