To the eyes of a casual observer--or mayhaps even a typical patient--these whitewashed hallways are a place of last hopes, of desperate times, of deep struggles. To Death, they might be paradise: an endless supply of souls, where He need not travel far from one mark to another. But to the young woman who cradles in her arms a newborn, who cries with joy as she whispers its tiny name, who thanks her doctor profusely, and whose life will be spared today, these halls are a godsend. The occasional strips of flowered wallpaper, too, coloured in a favourable blue, help remedy the sterile aires of this unsavory saviour.
In the crystallized silence of this malevolent wurld, a man comforts his wife, shielding her eyes from the nearby door, now open, through which a body bag is carried. Her loud sobs echo through the institution, picking up wracking coughs and whelming tears as she falls to her knees, nails clawing at the wall before her, forehead roughly smashing into it. Her husband turns to acknowledge a doctor, thank him for the concern with a handshake and a forced smile, his other hand remaining in its place on her shoulder, attempting to soothe. One step at a time, they carry the boy that used to smile up at her in wonder and love when she said goodnight. One step at a time, her hopes and her prayers are chipped away, leaving her to crumble in the wake of this unfair cruelty.
There exists an irregularity within the bounds of this isolate island: a single face shows little in the way of pain or joy--instead sporting a single-eyed glare for those who step in her way. Large scars muddle her complexion, carving their way down the side of her face, even seeming to shred the eye-patch that now rests where her other eye used to lie. The edges of her lips, even, contort sharply in the depressions left by this monstrosity of a battle wound.
Her booted gait, unperturbed by the surroundings, is only remotely slowed by a limp; she walks brusquely between sobbing families and nearby practitioners, interrupting conversations with little more effort than a well placed boot or a well situated glove. With a quick backward glance, over her epaulette, gold-fringed and ensigned with a crimson band, she retakes inventory:
To the keen observer, those faces that bob behind her, wonder and annoyance flashing in eyes, could only be given the distinction "hobnob." Choosing to disregard sizes of shoe and body, however, might provide the observer another delineation: "kin." Indeed, by the way each casts a glare singularly redolent to the next, they perhaps could be considered thusly.
She turns back around, and sharply a corner. Ahead, the hall deadens with the dead-end; not a soul in sight, and only a single door leading onward. It is to this door, wooden, latched and locked, that she is bound. It is to this door, as well, that her mission guides her, if only to open it.
The door opens inward, into an alcove cut neatly between great shelves of books, fitted and neatly organized. One shuts, in the hands of a man, back turned to the door, who sits with his legs crossed neatly at the knee. His chair is leather, black and sleek. A smile, cruel, menacing, creeps up his cheeks as he slowly rotates his chair, watching you file in. The door shuts behind you with a click.
Wooden furnishings, mostly burgundy, but some a lighter shade close to tan, decorate the large office of one Councilor Mathews, whose name-plate is chipped lightly at the corner and losing its gold finish. @Five chairs form a crescent shape just beyond reach of the desk, all straight-backed and four-legged. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, providing light to the room, and flickering only rarely. Two candleholders rest symmetrically on the wall just behind Mathews, framing a fireplace.
The Councilor stands politely, masking his emotions with a well-rehearsed nod of greeting, and generously offers you a seat with a wave and a gentle, "Please."
Returning to his luxurious armchair with a loud sigh, he opens a desk drawer and slips out a letter, tied closed with a small red band. "I have been asked to read you this: a message from my fellow councilman unto you. I can assure you, the words held within reflect the opinion of the Council of Bellaria. With that," and with a small flourish of his hand, removing the seal and unrolling its contents, "I shall begin:
"To whom it may concern:
"Several hours ago, two great tragedies occurred: the theft of what might be the single most valuable object in the world, and the brutal murder of a woman in cold blood. These happenings took place at the crossroads of Thane Road and Bank Street, at noon-thirty-seven sharp, one within the National Bank of Ballaria, and one without.
"It should also be mentioned that the guards stationed inside were found unconscious, as were all other spectators and observers of these events, including you. No gun matched the bullet lodged within the female, Jane Do. Similarly, no prints were found within the bank, or on the metal case, magically sealed inside the vault, that was found opened, its six locks perfectly intact on the ground beside it and its protections avoided.
"The spell-wards were checked by the Association of Magic-Users, who determined no spell was cast in or around the vault fixture, including the curses that had been placed on the titanium-alloyed briefcase.
"You wonder, no doubt, why I write of these occurrences to the @five of you, when each was found lying in the crowd outside, and will no-doubt profess innocence. We understand."
The man coughs lightly before pouring water from pitcher into glass. He sips, and continues:
"However, the @five of you are also the least-connected within this city. None were born here, none raised here, and none here more than a week. Therefore, you are perfect scapegoats for this atrocity, and such a group is needed, in order to keep the peace within this nation. I regret to inform you, but the blame shall be entirely yours. You will be tried and executed, and your families dishonored and exiled.
"That is, unless you can find evidence that points to the true organization behind these acts within the next seven days. I, as well the majority of the council, wish you luck, and hope you understand our actions in this matter."
It had been two months since his injury, and the visions weren’t fading away, as his shrink had promised him. They were getting worse.
The world had turned a fiery shade of red earlier that day, in English class. To the amusement of his classmates, he had stood up and shouted, “Fire!” A panic, of course, was the result. And that was how he found himself in the interrogation room of the local police station, feigning listening to one very amused officer of the law. His parents sat on either side of him, occasionally nudging him to pay attention to the nice officer whose job it was to discuss options with the first timers and their parents.
The officer slammed his fist on the table, instantly bringing him back to the present. Around him, expectant stares awaited him in the midst of the flames. His answer was a simple one, and one he had said many times through the lecture.
“No, I won’t do it again.”
But the looks did not let up just yet.
“It was wrong of me to do it, and I’m sorry. I know better now, and won’t do it again.”
They bought it, and resumed their conversation about how best to fix his behavior. He blocked them out.
But it didn’t matter, really. He’d be expecting more hallucinations, and would not let them scare him to wits’ end again. This whole business would mean seeing the shrink again.
He laughed to himself. A child with a monocle and a toy would be a better shrink than Doctor Damon, as his patients called him for his resemblance to a demon. All he did was sit in his chair, asking pointless questions and then denying the legitimacy of the answers given to him.
“It’s all in your head,” he would say, as if that explained it perfectly. Well, maybe it was all in his head, but that didn’t mean they weren't real.
And the promise he would get better with a few drugs in his system? All they did was make him too tired to work during class. He still had his visions, and they were getting worse!
The sound of chairs being pushed back meant he was free to leave. He stood up, too, and muttered a general thanks to the officer. He would have used the man’s name, but he had forgotten it before it had even reached his ears, and it had not been mentioned again.
He followed his parents out of the station, and to the car. He stole a glance at the sun; likely, it was to be his last.
A bright meadow, skipping through dewy grass. A new day. Happy, content, more than ever before. A break from endless misery and reality. Hopeful green.
But the daydreams would never be true.
I think this is one of the weirdest of stories I've started writing… I hope that you thought the writing was good. But if you don't understand it, don't worry… You really shouldn't just yet, since this is only a prologue/chapter 1. Anyway, some insightful responses would be nice! Please let me know what about it you think is good or bad… please don't just say "it's awful!"
kthxbai! <3
In the beginning, there was only one world. There was nothing else; there were no other worlds, or dimensions, universes, or realms. On this world, humans simply appeared. For what purpose, or what reason, nobody knew. By the power of the gods, some thought. But this is a tale better told at another time.
Our tale begins with a child coming of age. A child whose name was best spoken then, and now forgotten; his name was Demetri.
It is the sixteenth day of my birth; I am a man, now, thought Demetri as he strode through the graveled streets of Valanosth, his hometown. He crossed an old dirt road to reach the local tavern – a place he had been visiting, illegally or not, for quite some time. He didn’t plan on drinking until he passed out tonight, as he often did; he intended to experience manhood drunk, but awake, and so he kept some of his better belongings with him, knowing he could best any man in a fight.
He reached for the swinging doors, praying silently that there was a lush maiden awaiting him inside. Opening them, he noticed with much remorse that there was no maiden; his prayers had gone unnoticed. Sighing rather loudly, he sat in his usual spot at the bar. Flicking his fingers, he motioned for the bartender to give him his usual drink. The bartender obliged.
He sat there, motionlessly, except to take a swig of his ale every half-minute or so, or to motion for another. Little excitement went on while he sat there; he nearly passed out from boredom.
And then the maiden he wished for entered. She stood in front of the swinging doors, beautiful and lush, seemingly taking everything in as she gazed around the room. Her golden eyes flicked past him briefly, and then came back to him. She walked towards him, and towards the bar. Sitting down next to Demetri, she smiled at the bartender, as she motioned Demetri closer.
The only thing he could think of to do was to follow her wishes. He leaned forward, closer to her.
“I hear you’re a man now, Demetri, my love. Would you like to see a few things?” she whispered in his ear, seemingly eager. He nodded quickly; his luck has finally had a turn for the better after all!
Tossing his coin on the table, he walked out on her insistence, arm in arm with her. It was raining now. She led him around the corner of the bar, to a dark alleyway. He didn’t care; the prettiest woman in the world was in his arms.
“Let’s do it right here,” she said, and ripped off her shirt, exposing a bare, well-rounded bosom. Hastily, he did the same. Grabbing his shoulders, she pulled him in for a kiss. He leaned forward, closing his eyes, praying it would be a good kiss.
Their lips never met.
I fight 'til I win,
Or I fight 'til I die,
Because that's the way the bluebird flies.
Over the mountains,
And over the seas,
Because that's what the bluebird decrees.
I pack up my camp,
And ride through the forest,
Because that's what the bluebird implores.
It says:
Pick up your lance and
Pick up your shield.
Charge your enemy
All through the field.
Master them all,
Says He to I,
The Earth and the Air,
But foremost, the Fire.
Allow it to enter
Your body and soul.
Into your Center,
To achieve your goal.
By the grace of the sun,
To empower your arm,
You will strike down the man,
And invite within Garm.
What do you feel when life's not so real?
What do you hear when life's just a leer?
What can you say to make Them go away?
What can you do to make them come for you,
To set you free from these days of misery?
You want to go, but your body just won't––No.
The voice tells you so, caring, yet just so slow.
It whispers in your ear––Beautiful, but mere.
You greet it–Hello!–but it's gone out the door.
It's always there to meet your glare.
But always gone, when you want it along.
You know your life sucks when not even your friends believe or listen to what you have to say. When you tell them a secret about your messed-up existence and the first sound out of their mouth is a laugh, followed closely by an only slightly more serious "You're joking, right?" as you stare them down for their initial reaction. And then comes the ever-popular "I'm sorry," as if they can apologize for life hating you so absolutely… Oh, and then there are those people who try to tell you the moral of your own life's story––something YOU did wrong that made you deserve the crap you got. News for you, the moral is: Life SUCKS.
Have you ever said something you shouldn't have? And I don't mean something nasty and snide––just foolish. Probably you have. Well, every time you do, there's ALWAYS some stupid, ignorant bitch there who only catches those very words and then proceeds to misinterpret them. Shortly after, she takes those words and tries her hardest to shove them back up your ass by telling everyone what you said. Happen to you? Well, it's even worse when you spread your arms out as you say it, taunting everyone around you, like I did once upon a time. 'Cause then it's a hundred times worse.
But neither of those compares to the groups––the LEGIONS––of people who will call you self-serving or self-centered, or even selfish, when you explain to them that you derive NO pleasure from the mundane world, and would much rather be either dead, or better yet, deceased. Me? I don't do that. When someone tells me they want to die, I do everything in my power to comfort them, and then when they decide they want to go, I'm still there to help. But, oh, how many times people have called me a liar, or have run though hallways screaming that I'm an "emo" or that I'm suicidal, or insulting every aspect of my being. And what for? Because they still think I'm a liar, or because they want attention. Hell, maybe even to make sure the way they view the world remains entirely pristine.
After that, I think you're ready for a little secret about me: I wear all black on most days. Why? No, it's not because I'm a "goth" or an "emo"–-neither of which should you call someone, by the way. No, it's not because I'm mourning––actually, the color white is typically used for said purpose. And NO, it's NOT because I want attention––that's the biggest one. I wear black because I want people to know the truth. I don't like manipulative lies or people who cover themselves with facades. And I wear black because I have a deep psychological problem whereby I actually believe that I might be doing someone a favor by saying, quite bluntly, "there's more to life than you think, you stupid fuck" to all those who still live on the lighter side.
And the reason why I wrote this piece of crap little blurb about how much life sucks? Because I can't think but to imagine cutting myself, slashing my wrists open with the razor that sits next to me, or performing various gruesome suicides, the most messy of which involves a shotgun, antihistamine tablets, sleeping pills, rope, a balcony, and razors, even though I still have 7 hours of homework to do tonight and it's 11:07 PM.
The first things you see, as you enter his domain
are the scratch marks that line the walls. Each one tells
of a heartbreak, a painful day, a broken promise.
Next is blue, the color painted on the walls
Not soothing, not serene, it's a cage of control with
bonds that scathe from a struggle for freedom
Books tip the shelves––the colorful children's tales and
those of a darker sort, filled with rape scenes and lustful fantasies––
screaming of the future, shouting out to be read.
Sometimes, you can almost hear them in the silence of Dead Night,
that hour where the whole world sleeps––the whole world without
that revolting child. But who cares? He's just another ant,
one of a billion, just waiting to be shred by the mower.
The half-smiles in photos seem out of place
amidst this other world––this room on the other side of life––
where tears become a mark of joy, and smiles become
nothing but an idea, lost and never to be found again.
The unkempt bed, the piles of clothing, textbooks, trash, and jewelry,
all drenched in blood or tears, just further the story
of a twisted childhood, riddled with attempts of murder,
of a thousand lies that haunt memories forever,
of a loneliness from a lack of anyone who cared,
of a meaningless existence without hope of escape,
of a loss of any care once had for a messy room or for happiness or even for life itself.
But who cares? A death would be insignificant.
And behind the childhood mementos that everyone keeps––
That's where he keeps it all, just in case those two,
whose names he's inscribed on the walls, on the desk, on paper,
and carved into his wrist, his ankle, and his hand, should ever disappear
and leave him behind.
I would really, REALLY, appreciate some thoughts!
