#commissionless

[viratas-stase]

Mobility

The wheels squeak at every turn, reminding me of days long gone. Of days when I could go out, without being a visual attraction to the crowds. So many point, while others just look disapprovingly.

As if I’m less than human for something I had no control over. As if I am lesser. And yet, not one of them even fathoms that they are just one bad day away from being the person they find novel or offensive.

Not even those I could describe as more fortunate are free, and in instead looked upon worse. As if they are some sort of fence straddler, trying to get the best of both sides. I feel for them, for the people who block themselves off from what they need just to be left alone, left in peace like every human should have the right to.

I ask myself what I’ve done to deserve this treatment, and the answer is silence. I ask others, and those who answer flip between “There was nothing you could do” and “God has given you a trial”. If this is a trial, when does it end? When I somehow create a cure for the condition? When someone else does? How about when I die? Asking why I need this trial just goes back to if I’ve done something to deserve this.

Instead of a trial, all I had was a bad day and everyone else wants to add their own story to it.

[viratas-stase]

                A constant dripping could be heard down the desolate hallway, filled with tears at the wallpaper that resembled claws of a huge creature, paintings knocked at angles or even on the floor, some in perfect condition otherwise to being completely torn apart as if something tried to eat them. The claw marks looked almost like that of a cat, if the cat was bigger Kodiak Bear standing on its back legs.

Shining my flashlight around, I could see some of the marks in better detail.  If it was a wall with a room on the other side, I could see the room through the marks. From what I could see, the situation in those rooms was just as bad as the hallway but with one major difference – blood splatters everywhere. It’s almost like everyone in this section of the hotel had been taken completely by surprise, as there wasn’t a single trace of blood in the hallway no matter how hard I looked for it.

Reaching the end of the hallway, the dripping sound was much closer now than it was before. I could also make out more detail about it without the echo. It was a slow, heavy drip, so whatever it was wasn’t water. Feeling a lump form in my throat, I look towards the source of the noise.

“Room 410…?”

Slowly cracking the door open of the last room on this side of the floor, the stench of blood and decay assaulted my nose. Had it not been at least somewhat present this entire time I likely would have lost the contents of my stomach on the spot, but I had both fortunately and unfortunately gotten used to the weaker version of the smell, not that what I was smelling now was even comparable to that.

Slowing my steps, pointing my flashlight at my feet to make sure I didn’t step on anything that would create a lot of noise, I crept into the room. The entire hotel was pretty cheap as a whole, but it did have some comparatively posh rooms and this was one of them. A plush loveseat was facing a TV that looks like it was taken out of the early 2000’s, with equal height stands meant to hold ashtrays. No blood on it, so at least they weren’t killed while watching some TV.

Suddenly a low rumble, almost like a growl, comes from the direction of the bedroom, and the dripping noise suddenly stops. I slowly turn and see the bedroom door start to open, and behind it all I see is several rows of gnarled teeth, some with sections missing as if they had been shot at and broken, while others were blunted giving the impression they had bitten into an extremely hard surface. A woman’s face appeared in the middle, surrounded by dried blood on a skin as black as the night sky. I couldn’t see any eyes, nor a mouth, so all I could assume was it was the skinned face of the woman who lived here.

Each row of teeth opened to let out a hideous scream shattering the windows a few feet from it, with the woman’s face being sucked down a circular orifice that was just behind it. Knowing this was not the time to be concerned about noise, I ran out through the door, heading back towards the central area with the elevators. Mashing the button, I could hear the olden elevator clanking its way to my floor. It was at least 3 floors above me, so it’d take a few minutes to reach here.

Looking down the hallway to the wing I had just ran for my life from, I could see the full size of the creature hurtling down now that it was free from the small confines of the bedroom. What was worse, so I could see limbs from what I assume were its previous victims attached to it, each moving as if they were a part of it now. Tentacles and human legs, as well as a few odd hands, were what it was using to move down the hallway, with a mix of hands and heads aimed towards me and reaching out.

Time seemed to move to a crawl as I watched it come at me, pressing my body against the elevator door. It would only be a short time before it reached me, until I joined the list of victims.

(I have no idea if I'll finish this, meaning there's a new tag introduced; incomplete. Going forward posts will either have it or complete to show what state it's in, but I make no promises on ever making one that has incomplete change to complete. It might happen, it might not, dunno.)

[viratas-stase]

There is a description of being so apathetic, so isolated and abandoned that one says that they see the world as nothing but grey. The world loses it’s colour, it’ sheen, it’s glow. But is that really it? Does the world lose colour or do greyscale glasses get forced onto your eyes?

People often refer to seeing everything in a positive light as looking through rose-tinted glasses, so shouldn’t this be the same? You are viewing everything in a negative light instead, and the cause is the same. The only real difference is how one takes them off. Rose-tinted glasses are put on willingly - either by choice, or manipulation, but they aren’t forced and come from one’s emotions - and can be taken off when one sees the truth behind the glasses for better or worse.

But greyscale? You can’t chose to put them on, and might not even be able to properly take them off, but they are caused by one’s emotions as well. Why are these ones so hard to remove then? Simply because their cause is being unable to use any glasses, rose-tinted or otherwise. Some need to get help to attempt removing the glasses, some are able to tell themselves things and find their set becomes loose. Some require the aid of a specific person or item, and others need to get rid of a specific item. More simply cannot remove the glasses no matter what they try, so they resort to popping out a lens or two. More still find theirs coming off after some time has passed since what caused them to be put on.

So then, when one wears greyscale, has the world truly lost it’s colour? No, it hasn’t, but how could one tell when it might as well be what’s happened?

[viratas-stase]

Society

Tick and tack, tick and tack. Make the walls that protect us all.

Scribble and scratch, scribble and scratch. Make the laws that govern us all.

Mortar and mud, mortar and mud. Make the buildings that house us all.

Put the three together and you have society, a structure that protects us all.

Greet and greed, greet and greed. Money corrupts those who protect us all.

Toil and trouble, toil and trouble. Society starts to fall.

Clang and clank, clang and clank. Society no longer protect us, but those who hold the power. We are slaves to their will, for we will die if we rebel. They put forth trickery, always finding a target to blame. When it comes time, they out those from their own circle, for they had lost their use.

Rip and tear, rip and tear. All of us have lost our reasoning.

Rip and tear, rip and tear. All of us have come for them.

Tear and rip, tear and rip. All of us shall take them in their sleep.

Tear and rip, tear and rip. So that none of them may weep.

[viratas-stase]

“But you can’t!”

I stare at this little child inside of my mind. She’s scared - no, terrified. She flinches at the slightest hint of anger directed at her. She cowers when she thinks someone might hit her. She isn’t able to tell that not everyone looks to abuse her in some way.

She’s me.

But I’m not a child. I’m an adult. But what happened to me back then, what caused the permanent changes in my mind, froze a part of me in that place. Despite me working to get control over the little child inside of me, she controls me.

She told me I can’t leave. Why can’t I leave?

“Because they are the only one willing to put up with you! Because of what happened, nobody will want you!”

Maybe. Maybe not.

“He’s safe. He accepts us.”

No, he tolerates us. He abuses us too. We need to leave.

“I can’t”

Why not?

“Because I’m scared.”

Scared of what?

“Everything.”

Well, so am I. But he’s using us to make himself feel strong.

“And what’s wrong with that?”

Everything.

We go back and forth, forth and back. We can never agree, so we can never act. I’m stuck here, and so is she. And here we will stay, because we cannot get out on our own.

[viratas-stase]

A Hero

“What is a Hero?” is a question quite often asked. And to be sure, it is a hard one. What defines a hero? Is it their strength? Their magic? The role they play? Their sacrifice? Or is it something more?

In some media, Heroes are heroes due to a title they have been given. In others, for a deed they have done. Others yet still quantify Heroes as a type of job, and is something anyone can do.

None are right, yet none are wrong. Heroes are all of this, and more. But what makes their core? Why do they become Heroes? Each tale spins a different story about the right source of a Hero.

But Heroes need not always be kind - some Heroes are that because they were not kind.

But Heroes need not always be just - justice is something that changes from person to person, and even laws change as well.

But Heroes need not always be the epitome of selflessness - a dead Hero protects nothing but memories.

So then, what is a Hero if there is no true criteria for one? And it is quite simple. A Hero is what you think they are. Even Villains, under the right circumstances, could be seen as a Hero.

Villains are often seen as killers, whom kill without reason. That is not always true however. There are those who kill with good reason, and yet are detested by society. But do the Heroes not kill to get to the Villain as well? Does that not make the number of Villains the same? Does that not change the Hero?

Are there not Villains whom one agrees with, but would not act the same as? Is that not just a misguided Hero? Do the two even need to clash? Does the Hero winning make the Villain truly bad? Or does the Villain winning means the Hero failed?

So instead I ask you not “what is a Hero” but instead, “What is a Hero to you?”

[viratas-stase]

Drop by drop, the rain fell. The sound of it hitting my roof relaxed me as I lay there, staring up at a blurred ceiling. I lived in this room when I was young - young and able to see without aid.

I remembered those days, and I missed the leisure of being able to see all the time. Often I would think and be told that ‘at least you can see’. And they may be right - I can still look outside my window and count the stars in the sky with some assistance.

But is that all? Should I really not be allowed to lament that I have aged, and that my body has changed, just because others may have it worse? I say no, for just because their problems exist does not mean mine don’t. All humans have problems - and it is no one’s right to say that because others have a worse version of yours that you shouldn’t feel bad.

And when you think on that, what is their point? Are they saying only the worst people should be allowed to have problems? Are they saying that one should only be able to despair at their problems once they have confirmed it is the worst in the world?

Happiness cannot come without first feeling sorrow, just like sorrow cannot come without first feeling happiness. No matter how negative the memories one may be able to recall, in order to know you have felt pain, there must have been a time where one felt joy.

So I say let people have their problems. Let them cry, scream, and be angry so long as they do not harm another person. Let them be, so that they may live a fine life in time. But never let one be alone, for that is as bad as telling them their problem isn’t a problem because someone else has it worse.

These are the thoughts I think as the rain shatters itself upon a concrete wall that protects me from the outside, while I protect myself from everything inside.