I’ve always been really adamant that I don’t have depression.
I have a massively growing anxiety bank, and I have a lot of shit wrong with me, but I don’t have depression. It’s the one part of the mental dishealth lotto I didn’t get.
But fuck. I’m not really sure anymore. If I’m around other people, I can be energetic, busy, perfectly ‘fine’ (in quotes because that’s not even it. I’m actually a wreck and want to cry all the time, but I can fuck around and pretend it doesn’t hurt to move every muscle, or that my thoughts don’t make me want to go to sleep and stop existing). But when I get home, when I stop being around people, I melt. I become useless. I have had food sitting in the microwave for like 20 minutes, beeping every two to remind me that its there. I know I should eat. I know I need to eat. I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning. But I am so fucking exhausted and typing this bullshitty, attentionseeking rant is more energy than its probably worth and fuck. I just... I want to sleep. I want to sleep and not wake up tired. I want to not be in pain. I want to not be worried about everything. I want to take what I’m given and be happy with it. I want to learn from my mistakes and just be content that I can’t fix everything. But no. I’m laying in bed, crying, because I can’t fix anything and the things I could fix, i have no energy for.
fuck mental illness. Fuck every aprt of it.
Writing Drabble: Something having to do with spies?
I have no idea where this came from. I assume a dream since I woke up in the middle of the night to write it, but I’m not sure. It also may have a fair bit to do with skyrim. oops. I may have been playing it too much this week. This piece is only 218 words, bringing my weekly count from last week to a total of 570. woo
No one I know has come close to my sister. There is not a person alive who could cause the chatter in a room to cease so utterly and completely as my sister when she enters a room. Only my sister could make a woman beg for punishment of her mistakes. Only my sister could drop a man to his knees out of fear with just a look. My sister is the sun, and the world, everyone’s world, revolves around her.
Except me. My name is Kiandra Rislet, and I represent a faction of thieves and assassins in my homeland who pull the most elite and powerful quietly from their proverbial thrones. (We also work for contracts, but that is a whole other thing that isn’t exactly well-fit into this introduction.) Ever since our foundation in the era of magic, so many years ago, we have been responsible for nearly every assassination, death or disappearance of a wealthy aristocrat who uses their status for unsavory acts or flaunts their coin as a replacement for wit or charm. We work in the shadows, use stealth with grace only possible to beings who were born into darkness. Most importantly though, we get the job done. We are the Organization of the Lotus. And we know everything. We have eyes everywhere.
Writing Drabble: Maia Cale (Started, not finished)
I just hit the word count I have to this week, and am having a hard time getting much more down. I had a worse falling out with my ex, and primary writing partner of the last decade, which has kind of affected me in weird ways the past 24 hours. I miss him, and writing is hard because we had the same mind as far as writing and stories go. Sigh. Word count at 352.
So, can you settle something for me? You never start telling a story at the beginning right? No, wait, that doesn’t sound quite right. I mean, when you’re writing one down. You don’t start at the very beginning. You start somewhere in the middle, maybe when someone is being chased by a murderer, or when there’s a yelling match going on- when something good is happening, and then you go back and retroactively explain how you got there, right? That’s what my dad always told me anyway. My mother was always in favor of a story having a clear beginning, middle, and end though. So I’m not ever sure how to start these kinds of things.
Oh well. I guess I might as well just get into it since you and I will be talkin’ for a while. My name’s Maia. I am sixteen years, four months, three days old, and yes, I am being that specific for a reason. My dad left about a year ago, and my mom got remarried, which was a big, dramatic scandal- but they aren’t really important to this story. What is important is that I am really into science. My dad was a scientist, but when he left, I took over the work in his lab. It’s been actually pretty great, all things considering. I always loved working with my dad on his various experiments, and he taught me how to rig bombs and junk when I was little- he probably wasn’t the most responsible parent, now that I look back on it.
Well anyway, yeah working in his lab has actually been great. Y’know. Except the part when I died. That kinda sucked. I always thought that I was going to die in a blaze of glory, some sort massive explosion where I take like fifty faceless opponents with me, ‘know what I mean? But no, I had to go and get run over by some truck or something. I’ll be honest, I wasn’t really paying attention to what kind of vehicle it was. I was too busy having my body crushed under it.
(This is the piece I just finished tonight. It is about my characters Liana and Nunnally, and was just an exercise in me being wordy, basically.) This piece is 590 words, and is the only piece I’ve written this week, bringing my weekly total up to a magical 590.
Step followed by painstaking step. Stride after arduous stride. In the large, airy room, a discordant symphony of monotonous steps and repetitive clicking of a pair of heels echoed off of the tall pillars that ran up to the ceilings, replaying the cacophonous sound until the melody hushed into a swift decrescendo. The pillars themselves were carved of dark wood, ornately detailed to depict entire seasons and a multitude of stories and tales. Delicate lines of gold and silver paint outlined the carvings, creating dimension in the art installations. The woman pacing every which way finally stopped in front of a westward pillar and craned her neck upward, surprised to see more artwork portrayed on the tall ceiling of the space. At the top of the post was a circle outlined in thin strokes of silver paint covering a thin sliver of another shape that was delicately outlined in gold. She turned her head toward the easternmost pillar, seeing a similar image with the sun in front of the painted moon.
“The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. Clever.” She said to no one in particular, in a voice that barely crossed the threshold of a whisper. She looked up toward the ceiling between the two pillars, noticing the crisscrossing of autumn leaves in bold reds and oranges, white pumpkins with dark green, twisting vines, and brown-tinted roses, with spring’s signature bright colored tulips, startlingly yellow sunflowers and cream-colored daisies, all painted in excruciating detail. “But only on the spring and autumn equinoxes.” She added, smiling to herself. “Twice as clever.” She said, running a hand through the dark hair that had fallen over her eyes.
“Yeah, well. What can I say? I am a sucker for the details.” Another woman said tightly as she approached the dark-haired woman from the doorway between the northward and eastern pillars. Looking between the two, it could have been hard to tell the two apart if not for a simple few drastic differences in their appearances. While one had dark hair that bordered on black in color, the other had hair so light blonde that it was nearly white. Their eyes, while similar in shape and placement on the planes of their faces, were radically different in color. Paired with the dark hair were shining ardent eyes with dark pupils that instead of starkly contrasting to the shining color of the iris, were a seamless gradient. Conversely, the woman with the white hair had bright aureate eyes that contrasted unnaturally to the darkened pupils.
“I have to say, Liana…” Started the dark-haired woman as her eyes glanced over the woman passively and onto the highly embellished and perhaps even ostentatious room around her. “I actually do like what you have done with the place.” She said, finally locking eyes with the woman stiffly approaching her.
“You’re dead.” The woman addressed as ‘Liana’ said quickly, her words audibly tense.
“Is that what I am, now?” Asked the dark-haired woman, walking toward Liana, her steps light, hips swaying. “Standing here in front of you, and not in the ground.”
Liana’s fists clenched, and she kept her eyes trained on the dancing woman. “I killed you, Nunnally!” She bellowed suddenly, rage filling her whole body, making her lurch forward a few steps, but stop abruptly before she came in physical contact with the woman, still skeptical and hesitant about what seemed to be the walking dead in front of her.
“A real shame you couldn’t even do that correctly, now isn’t it?”
(This is a piece I was writing about something that might happen to my GURPS character, Taylor Oleander, as discussed by myself and my GM. It is currently still unfinished, and not particularly accurate for the game portrayal of her, but I was taking artistic liberties.)
This piece is 211 words long, and was part of my 1185 weekly word count.
The chattering of the crowd gathering in front of the pedestal grew in volume as a disheveled young woman in a thin layer of underclothes was led slowly up the stone steps by two men. Each man held onto her with a hand on her back and one on each of her arms, holding her up as her head bowed deeply forward. Her feet dragged lazily behind the rest of her body, resulting in her heels being kicked by her escorts periodically. The sound of the crowd rang louder through the small square, the sheer volume of their jeering causing the sound to bounce off buildings and hit the woman’s ears forcefully. “You know,” she said in a hoarse whisper, looking at the man to her right. “You really must be a terrible performer. They’re booing, after all.” She said with a smile that was controlled, but exhausted. She felt just a tad of pride at the very slight twitch in the man’s lips.
At the top of the platform, the hands on her back moved to rest on each of her shoulders, attempting to push her down. She resisted, smirking with a nugget of triumph before she felt a blow to the back of her knees that forced her down.
(This is a piece where I started to explore a character I’m having a particularly hard time writing, due to a breakup and noncontact with my exfiance/best friend/writing partner, where I let her go, in a spiritual, closureish kind of way. These stock characters I write with have been in development for the past ten years, and are basically my children. It’s been hard to write them without the support of my writing partner, but I’m determined to push through it, I guess. /ramble.)
This week I had written this piece, which was 975 words long, and it was one of the two pieces I worked on during the week.
Darkness settled over the dining room table like a cloth, draping every inch of surface in thick shadow. It was hard to tell where the table ended and the matching wooden backs of chairs pressed against the tabletop began. Individual items on the table, plates set out so carefully and silverware placed with dainty fingers, were lost in the engulfing darkness. The house was eerily still, the settling of the foundation having ceased and the chirping of animals outside the walls having followed suit. Even the wind outside the sole window, the one that let in the slightest sliver of light that evaporated under the weight of the darkness surrounding it, was hushed and muted from the inside.
The gentle whispering clink of a porcelain teacup against its saucer was the only sound that echoed like a shot in the space, betraying the presence of the woman sitting just out of sight. Dark crimson eyes dully started into the darkness in front of her, and as her eyes adjusted, she realized that she was able to appreciate the fluttering dust motes that danced in the light above her head, and she was beginning to be able to discern the shapes in the darkness. “What am I doing here?” She asked aloud, seemingly addressing herself.
“I would say that you are moping alone in the dark.” Replied another voice said from the other side of the room, male in tone. The darkness concealed his presence, but the questioning woman turned her head toward the voice, a faint smile crossing her face before dropping the effort, her expression becoming impassive again.
“Not moping.” She replied shortly. Her hands pressed against the polished wood of the dining room table, and she tapped her nails on the top briefly before her palms flattened.
“Thinking too much then, perhaps.” The male voice offered. When no response was given, a sigh escaped the male. “Kathleen, you ca—“
“Damien. Don’t, please.” She begged weakly, her arms crossing around her middle. “I don’t belong here.” She said sadly.
Slow steps followed the sound of Kathleen’s voice, taking a seat at the table across from her. “Is this about Maur? He doesn’t hate you Kath. I mean, he misses you and is angry, I’m sure. But he doesn’t hate you.”
“It is not about Maurussus.” The voice replying was weaker than Damien had heard in a long time. He had known Kathleen for most of his life, and only a handful of times had he heard her sound so tired, and so distressed. “At least, not entirely.”
“Oh? Then what is it?” He asked, concern bubbling over in his tone.
“I do not belong here.” She repeated, taking in a slow, deep breath before she continued. “My story is over. I don’t have a reason to stay.”
Damien pursed his lips at this answer. It wasn’t the one he had been expecting. “Kathleen, that is crazy. You have me, your children, and your hus-…” He trailed off. “You have family here. You have more stories to tell.”
A soft chuckle left the mouth of the woman in darkness, and she smiled. “I have different stories to tell, not more.” She said, and then Damien heard the slight creaking sound that he could only assume meant that Kathleen was leaning back in her chair. He leaned forward and reached a hand across the tabletop, not sure if she’d be able to see his gesture. “Your story isn’t over.” He reasserted.
“Oh Damien,” Kathleen said softly, a touch of her familiarly maternal tone shining through her melancholy. “There are enough universes in which I have been killed simply because I stopped being useful, or because I was more useful dead than alive.” She explained and grasped the man’s offered hands from across the table. “I know that everyone else still has stories to tell, but I am so old. I am so tired. I have tried to give more inspiration, but every story I can tell keeps coming back to people I cannot speak to, or of.”
“You can though! Give them some time! Daggerfen and Maur will come around! They always do!” Damien insisted, squeezing Kathleen’s hands.
“Not this time, I’m afraid.” She said, squeezing back. “They have often been a source of reason, somehow… But I think that this time, even their breaking points have been reached.” Kathleen detangled her hands from her cousin’s, and she looked over his head, at the small trail of light from the window. “I will be fine, Damien. I am not afraid.” She said, smiling.
Damien’s hands clasped hard on the surface of the table. “You can’t leave us.” He said sternly. To which he earned a small chuckle. His anger grew at the dismissive tone. “You are not leaving, Kathleen!” He ordered, his voice a loud, and sudden bellow. The teacup chimed slightly, reacting to the reverberations from Damien’s voice.
Kathleen did not flinch. “Calm yourself.” She said easily. “You will be fine. You always are. Watch out for your children, watch out for mine, and be there for those you love. The rest is easy, sweetheart.” She said, finally standing.
A slight shimmer of green light circled around Kathleen’s fingers, trailing like water up her arms, attaching light to each of her veins, making them glow oddly.
Damien stood, finally illuminated by the green light. “Kath…”
Kathleen smiled as the light reached her face, making her lips glow. “I’m not dying, Damien. Don’t be so melodramatic. I’m just… not going to be accessible.” She explained. “I have no more stories, so I can’t stay here… But I’m not dying. Just… relocating.”
“Explain, please.” He said softly, only earning a slight headshake.
“Not everything can be explained.” She said, the light winking out, leaving nothing but the echo of her voice in the darkened room.
(This is a backlogged post since I am about to begin week 4, as far as my quota weeks go, but I thought that I would post this anyway. This was the first piece I’d written in a long while, so it’s a little stiff.)
This piece is 599 words. During this week, I had written 602 words total after writing this, and 3 words in another document for the beginning of a story I am meaning to continue, but couldn’t actually get down when I had the idea.
“Liana,” began the stately-appearing woman sitting behind a large wooden desk littered with pens, various types of paperwork and a potted succulent that appeared to be slowly dying. She regarded the fair-haired woman standing on the other side of her desk with just the slightest hint of anger as her crimson-colored eyes lifted off the paperwork in front of her to glance briefly at her, only to lower again, focusing on the words at the top of the page. Student Resignation Request it said, and the name under the title was not particularly surprising. Azale fa Sapheria. She turned the page, revealing several more identical papers that held names with the surname Daggerfen and she sighed heavily. “You’re pulling all of your children from my school.” She said simply, bringing her face upward.
The office was decorated in multiple shades of browns and reds. There was a plush, dark-colored sofa against the wall opposite from the desk which was littered with pillows in different shades and hues of reds. Two small, comfortable-looking armchairs were placed closer to the woman, Liana, as she’d been referred to, who stood like a statue in the center of the room. The large windows to Liana’s right were covered with thick, dark red curtains, blocking out all but the faintest stream of sunlight, and in each of the four corners of the room was a potted bamboo plant that looked as if they were beginning to brown. Even without the sunlight from outside, the room was well-lit with overhead lighting, making shadows in the room nearly non-existent. “That would be what those forms would suggest, wouldn’t it, Kathleen?” Liana said with a quiver in her voice that betrayed her nervousness in spite of her composed and faintly-militaristic stance.
Kathleen placed her elbows on the desktop, leaning her chin into her palm. She shifted her body forward just enough for her face to catch the thin stream of sunlight filtering in through the windows, her expression impassive. Her eyes made direct contact with Liana’s, holding her gaze. Where the light touched her skin, her complexion reddened, becoming rough and irritated. “Your sarcasm is refreshing.” She said evenly. “I was under the impression that you were afraid of me.” She said, smirking just a bit when Liana shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. After a fairly long pause, Kathleen spoke again, her posture relaxing. “You can pull your children from my program any time. It is your right as their parent.” She explained, pulling herself from the stream of light in favor of resting against the back of her chair. Her fingers moved to touch the left side of her face where her skin was painted with redness and blisters, and her eyebrows knitted at the slight stinging. Kathleen inwardly cursed her flair for the dramatic, and further cursed the stinging in her skin. Her healing factor would kick in soon enough to repair the damaged epidermis, but until then, she would have to deal with the soreness deep in the muscles of her face. Noticing how Liana was shifting her weight from one side to the other, Kathleen lifted the stack of papers, and a faint green glow from her hands imprinted her signature on each form. “Here.” She stated. She watched Liana take the papers and turn to leave.
Just before Liana was out of the office, Kathleen cleared her throat. “Oh, and Lianalla?” She asked, causing the young woman to stop in the doorway. “You’re fired.” She finished, a grin spreading over her face as the woman continued her stride, vanishing from Kathleen’s sight.
While this blog is fairly dedicated as a rant/bitch blog, I do want to post my writing here since I am trying to get back into it, with the encouragement of my friend who has given me a 250 words a week quota. So, I will be posting my writing progress on here, with my word count for the week, as well as posting the stories themselves on my main blog.
