Get Discombobulated

[creativeusernamethe3rd-blog]

The King Of All Things Gone

Light cascades down the mountain tops, and lands upon a clearing in the trees. Once, a great castle had stood, but now, reduced to ashes and rubble, it's lost to time. An old man stands, bony fingers entwined with vines trailing up a crumbling wall. His face holds a withered smile, like a fading memory, and his eyes look cold and dead.

No matter how hard he tries, he cannot escape the tragedy that flashes behind his eyelids, the images haunting him, chasing him, like a rabid animal chasing him through a forest of what once was.

The man slowly moves away and sits himself, with a sigh of exhaustion, on a large rock. The light around him begins to dim, and the trees cover the sun as it sets. Orange is what he sees now - just orange, no reds, no blacks... just orange. As the sun falls, he begs it one last time to take him with it. And it does, pulling him under, away from all the he has lost. He cannot gain, but he cannot lose.

The unmoving time he sits in becomes bliss.

He closes his eyes, and smiles, the smile withered, like a fading memory, his eyes look alight and happy. Content.

There, he goes. The king of all things gone.

[creativeusernamethe3rd-blog]

HOLL

The car shook with every bump it ran over, jolting him out of his thoughts. But every time he'd go back to his own world, completely isolated from reality, if for but a second. He sunk into the chair, basking in the calmness that was the drive, knowing he didn't have to worry about anything for hours.

Houses grew into fields that grew into houses which eventually formed into towns, and the process repeated itself. Only when a sign saying, "Welcome to Holl," but the a had been crossed out, replaced with an a. Despite the villages disturbing background, houses were cheap. Bryson had never believed in ghosts, neither had his older or younger brother.

It was a dark place, Holl, with quiet people, a graveyard ever few miles, and fog that hid almost everything, leaving suspicious sillouhettes. Bryson held his breath as th ery passed the sign, clenching his eyes shut as the delved into the unknown. Oliver, his older brother who was next to him, driving the car, turned his head and smiled, but Bryson didn't see it. He only saw the figures. Figures.

Noah behind him didn't look at the town, or what he could see of it through the fog. He didn't even look at the ominously vandalised sign. He eyes focused in front of him, but it was as though he was looking everywhere. Then, like nothing had ever happened, he turned and smiled seemingly at nothing, but you can see into his eyes as you stare back.

Bryson recalled the conversation they'd had with their parents the previous night, "All three of you should go on a trip, just you brothers," Dad had said, a strange look in his eyes directed at their mum. Like some kind of inside joke their parents had between them. "That's a great idea!" Their mum had clapped her hands together once, and walked past them merrily. "We should get packing."

They'd had no say in the matter, but Bryson was really the only one with concerns. Holl was... Holl was different, and Bryson was no stranger to different, always sticking out like a sore thumb in his family, friend group, but Holl was a... bad kind of different. The kind of different that sends shivers down your spine, the kind that suffocated your lungs from fear.

The car parked up beside a cottage, one in the middle of a particularly eerie street, the centre of all things wrong with Holl, it seemed. Bryson opened the door, stepping out on the stony ground, and breathing in the new air. Thick with the remnants of smoke. An old industrial town, one of the best, but all mills and factories closed down because of the alarming amount of casualties due to the pollution and machinery.

He slammed the car door shut, turning to walk to the front door of their home for the next month, when he froze, his eyes meeting Noah's glassy ones. His little brother was staring blankly at nothing, everything, but Bryson is sure that it's not him. Noah looked different from usual, shaken up over the town. He was only nine.

"C'mon, let's go look around," Bryson said enthusiastically, lightly grasping Noah's arm to pull him along with him, just in case he wasn't feeling well. "Sure, look around!" The younger echoed, following eagerly. Oliver huffed a laugh, standing to the side to let the two pass. It seemed all wariness had faded away with the fog. Now it was easier to see through it clearly. See everything. Everything stared back.

[creativeusernamethe3rd-blog]

I literally have nowhere to put all this crap, so I'll just dump it here. Wrote this a while ago, probs not very good, can't be arsed reading it again~~~

He thinks he sees her, through the water, and the waves. He thinks he sees her reflection, staring back at him with unwavering eyes, and a deathly pale face. But all he does is blink, and she's gone, lost beneath the ocean.

Sighing, he took a step back, avoiding the vicious waves that attacked him at the shore, as if they were trying to pull him in, too.

If he thinks hard enough, if his heart aches more than usual, he still feels her presence, like a memory overlapping with the present, something you can never quite catch. There are so many words on the tip of his tongue that he never got to say, so many things he wanted to do.

There a phantom feeling of someone's hand on his, of someone's mouth pressing up against his lips, and that voice, that laugh, that's carried in the wind, despite never actually being there.

There's a ghost of a wedding ring on his finger, and a ghost of a smile on his lips, too.

[creativeusernamethe3rd-blog]

The air is bitter for such a nice day, though it's never been particularly clean for a place like this. There's always something... wrong, picked up and carried in the wind, be it a peice of rubbish uselessly tossed to the side or a fellow human, withering away on the streets with their only company being their self pity and jealousy. The lines between the two blur.

There's a man sat on one of the doorsteps of an abandoned liquor store, his clothes rugged and his appearance disheveled. He looks as though he hasn't had a decent showing in years, and his beard almost reaches his lap, clearly not a choice to have been grown, and he looks frozen half to death. He's one of the cleaner ones of this area.

I'm cautious to ask anything of him, you never know when someone could blindly attack you, but he doesn't look the type. It's all well and good anyway, I've done a lot to survive. Killing a pitiful homeless nan out of self defence isn't below me. I kneel down to his level, my knee joints popping as I do, and his eyes meet mine, glassy and lifeless.

"The cleaners are coming soon, old man, you best leave," I say, but we both know I'm not asking; he doesn't have a choice. He either leaves and dies, or he stays and dies. I've grown numb to the knowledge of it.

"Got nowhere ta go," He mutters sadly, but I've got no sympathy for people like him. I've met thousands the same, some even cried, begged, for their lives. I've grown numb to that, too. I give a brief nod and stand up as I hear the familiar ruckus of the cleaners, on their merry way to do their job. And what a nasty job it is.

I tend to ignore the screams these days. I have enough repeating in my brain as it is.

It's only when everything is over, and when I've tuned it all out do I realise that, once upon a time, I knew him. Somewhere, at some point. It doesn't make much of a difference. Dirt is dirt, and that dirt is gone.

I continue on my way home, a shabby place, but it protects me from the cleaners. That, and the fear they all have for me. They can't do shit, but they delude themselves with thoughts that they can. Everyone does that, but dirt is dirt, and diamonds are diamonds. They're all made up of the same thing.

Nothing.

[creativeusernamethe3rd-blog]

Wrote a sad lil story:

Everything is fine. You are fine. You are next to me, you are smiling. You are fine.

I can't seem to function if you're not beside me, not because I know you could be anywhere, but because I'm scared of what happens when you're nowhere.

I parade down the street and dance into your arms, the biggest smile on my face, because I know you're here. That's all I need. Until you aren't, and the whole cycle repeats itself again.

♤♤♤

It hurts to breathe and I struggle to turn around. There's a suffocating fear that maybe your not there. I've never been so terrified.

Promise you won't leave me again. Hug me and hold me and say you'll stay forever, through broken tears. Cry for me when I have to see it again, just this once. Cry for me one last time.

I find myself hugging air again, maybe the ghost of where you once were, where you will be again, and where you are. Somewhere. Somewhere, maybe, you're right here.

Maybe when time itself collapses, and the only things left are us. Maybe.

♤♤♤

Looking back on it now, it was the smile that caught me off guard. Usually, it's tears, but today, today you smiled. A big, wide, knowing grin, like you were happy you got to see me before you left. Isn't that just wishful thinking? I wish you'd know. I wish you'd know that everytime you die, there's one less of you.

One less of you to love and treasure. One less, and I'm still here.

I can't even leave.

♤♤♤

Polar opposites sounds like a nice way to describe it. I'm always here, you're always leaving.

Swap it just once? Please? Why can't I be the one to leave this time? Would it hurt you like it hurts me? I hope not.

I hope I don't come back. I hope you can live, even if I can't be there with you.

♤♤♤

Everything is fine. You are fine. You are next to me, you are smiling. You are fine.

The smile has a particular bitterness to it, but I don't dwell too much on the thought.

You are fine, that's all that counts.

You're not and you're gone again.

I hope you don't find this. It explains too much.

I don't want you to know.