b o m b shelter // Onyx & Cass

Cyprian Noah Soren leaned back on his paint covered chair. He ran a thin, pale hand through his paint covered hair before placing his paint stained hand down onto a table smeared with paint. There was a lot of paint in that room. The fumes of the countless opened tins had become so strong that his head ached as did his chest, but he persistently ignored them, fingers moving deftly over the canvas, hands swaying, tipping and moving with a rhythm unnoticeable to those who could not feel it. It played in his mind and he danced to it, hips swinging ever so gently, legs shifting from left to right, eyes mimicking the lyrics to a song so confusing that it was a ramble of words simply strung together. His hands seemed glued to the paint brush, but there was really nothing exceptional about eh things he created. They were boring, dull and something seen by a million eyes. There was nothing unique about them, nothing to make them stand out, they were simply there, like an image that illuminated the spread of the mind, nothing more than a way to express his deepest, darkest thoughts.

His bite his lip, his movements drawing to an end. The paint brush slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor, another smear of ruby red paint was left behind before it rolled away and under the nearest table. Cyprian didn’t even seem to notice the loss of the paint brush. Instead he just stared at what he had created and he wondered at the purpose behind what he had created. He always did this. There was always something hidden beneath his artwork. For a moment he glances away and he stares numbly at the ceiling. Over a thousand different paper cranes hand from the ceiling. Each one of them was a different colour and each held a different pattern. If you looked closely they showed the markings of a similar design to his painting. But then, it was hardly similar. The way you noticed was by the exact way you knew his painting was pointless. Every splodge was random, every streak there because it was meant to be.

It was any wonder anything fit on that ceiling. Every inch was covered with the presence of a paper crane. Some were so thickly covered in dust it took no longer then five seconds for a person to realise that Cyprian had been at this little hobbyof his for a very long time – a hobby was what his family called it, hobbies were safe little things that kept you distracted when you weren’t busy. They were good things, like swimming, climbing trees or flying a kite. And with time they eased off and you slowly grew up and left those behind. Sometimes you developed other hobbies; sometimes you kept the old, but mixed it up a little. No what Cyprian did was not a hobby, it was consistent and instead of filling the time when most searched for peace his “hobby” filled ever second of the day, every moment that the clock ticked he was in the basement, hands either grasping paint or holding paper, deftly twisting it this way and that way until moments later a paper crane appeared in his hands. It was more of an obsession, of you were keen to use the term.

Obsessions were dangerous things. His family should know that, though.

Smiling silently to himself he tugged the page down from the board he had pinned it up from. The pain was still wet, thin streaks of light bounced off of the glistening paint, but Cyprian did not even hesitate. His hands moved rhythmically, twisting this way and that, folding the paper with an ease of a person that had done it for a very long time. There was no lie in that statement. It had been two years since Cyprian had gone outside; it had been two years since he had last stopped himself from making another crane. The cranes were far too important for him to stop them, though. Each and every one of them was a wish he had made, a dream he had clung to and he was determined to see each and every one of them come true. But then he wasn’t sure if any of them had. One of them had Ivy Soren’s name on it, pleading with the Gods for her to come home alive. But he was still unsure as to whether or not that wish had been granted. His siblings rarely spoke to him and when they did he ignored them, mind filling with a numbing tune that spoke no words and yet his lips would move as though singing to a tireless song.

With the paper crane finished he got some strong and pinned it up. It hung in the far left corner, and as he stepped back he let his eyes stay glued on it, as though hoping his gaze alone might embed the dream he christened it with. After a few more seconds of staring intensely at the paper crane he slipped back to his board. His hands fumbled over the table, but draw up short when they were struck with the unfamiliar touch of wood.

There was supposed to be paper there.

His eyes glanced downwards, as though seeing for the first time the problem that had arisen. He stared blankly at it, his mind slowly spinning, slowly, ever so slowly drawing the conclusion that he feared.

He needed to get paper.

Paper meant going upstairs and out there.

After a few more seconds of waiting he slowly stepped forwards. Part of him was willing to wait and wish that the paper would come, but his instinct told him that fate had decided he must go upstairs into that world. And so slowly, as though each step upwards was like a step closer to hell, he climbed.

We all learn to make mistakes
And run
From them, from them
With no direction
We'll run from them, from them