X (fin)

Deleted 0 POSTS last seen Apr 25, 2024 8:27:28 GMT -5	X (fin) Apr 5, 2015 20:35:56 GMT -5 Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by Deleted on Apr 5, 2015 20:35:56 GMT -5 X Wanderer "Hunting is not a sport. In a sport, both sides should know they're in the game." I'm feeling sad and reminiscing about shit so here's Thistle 2.0h and a semi-plot. Fucking yay Odair
	Last Edit: Apr 6, 2015 22:57:29 GMT -5 by Deleted

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last seen Apr 25, 2024 8:27:28 GMT -5

X (fin) Apr 5, 2015 20:52:23 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Apr 5, 2015 20:52:23 GMT -5

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they haunt me

Gone

Eighteen

Male

Odair

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Paper planes and paper boats, to my surprise neither of them could withstand the water and now i'm sinking in this sea of carved trees and broken branches.

He called us survivors and I called us a scam; broken cracked shattered pieces held together by duct tape, with cheered up paintings smeared onto it's skin, broadcasting pictures of happier times and even happier people

Age eight, my mother called us two peas in a pod, and with cracking fingers and drought palms she traced a path down my cheek as if to reassure herself that the toothpick boned boy in front of her was truly there, and not just another ghost of her past come back to haunt her. But those cracked, crumbling fingers felt something with life underneath it's boundaries, with blood and bones and memories and hopes.

Age twelve, my broken cracking crumbling hopes became smudged lines on a page and tear spots on my pillowcase, sounds of broken things coming from my parent’s bedroom as my brother kept eyes on me from behind torn book pages.

I swear, that worn down graphite pencil I found swallowed by dirt and dust wore my skin into nothing, but I still loved every moment that I could trace my life onto a piece of paper, into some fucked up symbol for how I felt. Torn out pieces of paper lined my wall, murals dedicated to no one, drawn for nothing but meaning something. Ripped, I used to fold them into paper airplanes too, and just leave them sitting there on a broken down table because I didn’t think I could throw them hard enough for them to fly.

Age thirteen, my brother asked ”Can you draw me?” and I looked at him as if he’d had four five six heads. Head nod, lip bite and one trembling finger touched graphite to paper, tracing outlines, blowing dust away with cracked lips, shaking trembling stumbling my way into a portrait of a fifteen year old boy that I thought I knew.

Time passed with the hand of a clock, tick tick tick it counted down the seconds until my damnation, until one gold plated question slipped from his lips with the offer of heaven and hell tied to it’s limbs.

”Have you ever thought about running away?”

Tick tick tick the line i’d been drawing goes haywire and with a sudden shout from my parents the clock hits beats strikes twelve, and a little bird popped out on a faded, breaking plastic branch. One, two, three times it tried to sing, but the soundbox had given up long before my parents had, and so it’s mouth opened but no sound came out. Instead, the sound of springs and gears and nuts and bolts could be heard rustling inside the wooden contraption. I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Voiceless, wordless, mindless things, the pencil laced between my fingers finds it’s home on the desk and I slide a finished picture of my brother’s face underneath and in between the book he’s reading.

I shook my head, but the words still rang in my head, alarm clocks sounding inside my skull as I sat there, perplexed by the fact that he had thought about

just

leaving.

”I love you, Xev.”

One tick, two tick, three ticks four. My words replaced themselves with braindead thoughts swimming inside my head. Moments passing that piled on top of each other, seconds lost but nothing gained.

”I love you too.”

Age seventeen, the moonlight cast our room in light and made our monsters that hid in the shadows even more threatening, because as the moonlight illuminated my face and blinded me from the horrors of my household, each corner became darker, and every demon and devil that’d made it’s home within my family could be seen lurking in the darkness, graphite silhouettes splattered against splintered walls.

Bed early, lights off before my parents had a chance to make their voices known. The clock hands ticked ticked ticked as time went by, and as cracking fingers tightened their grip on mothball pillowcase and as words swam inside my mouth and thoughts in my head

The clock strikes twelve and a bird pops out too many times, sounds scratching at it’s throat before it gives up and retreats back to where it came.

I nearly swallow the words in my mouth, as if they were dangerous.

”I want to go”

I swear I heard a tiny squeak from that clock.

Age nineteen, the moonlight played a different purpose, because instead of it hiding demons and devils in corners it exposed them as they clung to the skin on our backs. The night after reaping day, when the crowds were too busy mourning or relieving. We carried our lives on our backs and in my hands I carried a sketchbook and in my pocket I carried a graphite pencil.

Ripred, it’s all a blur, that night. Fences and tree branches digging into my skin, holes in the fence and holes in my memories, to think that a plan plotted out for months could be so forgotten.

Running running sprinting through the woods until our legs couldn’t carry us anymore, until we collapsed in the brush from exhaustion and until we slept our worries away.

Two weeks out in the wilderness and I don’t remember being scared for one moment of it. I just remember it feeling so freeing, to be surrounded by trees and wildlife instead of broken houses and broken relationships. Every night he’d tell me he’d love me, and every night there’d be five seconds of dead silence as the words struggled to pour from my lips back to him.

Maybe we became survivors like he said, because we really did learn how to fend for ourselves out there, becoming wild things and killing others, we were wild and free. Two weeks.

Two weeks, and on the beginning of the third he told me that ”We should split up.” And I looked at him as if he had three four five heads, and brutal explanations and apologies and four minutes later we stood face to face and dream to reality.

He hugged me and told me he loved me, and even though five seconds passed by I didn’t say it back, and I wish it could of all been a blur, but I watched him go with a rusty pocketknife in my hand.

I think i’m happier now. There’s birds that sit on branches that sing to me when i’m bored, and there’s always natural beauties out here. I guess I never realized how fulfilling being alone could be.

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X

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Last Edit: Apr 6, 2015 23:01:04 GMT -5 by Deleted

Deleted 0 POSTS last seen Apr 25, 2024 8:27:28 GMT -5	X (fin) Apr 6, 2015 22:56:33 GMT -5 Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by Deleted on Apr 6, 2015 22:56:33 GMT -5 hopefully claudia doesn't slICE THE HEAD OFF OF THIS ONE haha what what fin, done, omfg I dont even know it's late im tired i've been roasting these hoes in cbox all night im done bye
	Last Edit: Apr 6, 2015 22:57:14 GMT -5 by Deleted

Python Head Librarian 4,515 POSTS Pronouns: She/Her last seen Apr 24, 2024 22:29:50 GMT -5	X (fin) Apr 7, 2015 22:48:28 GMT -5 Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by Python on Apr 7, 2015 22:48:28 GMT -5 (ง︡’-‘︠)ง accepted