running into the fire | abra + hannah

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я𝑜𝓈𝑒
Mentor

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last seen Nov 23, 2023 2:34:11 GMT -5

anyway don't be a stranger

running into the fire | abra + hannah Sept 1, 2015 9:20:35 GMT -5

Post by я𝑜𝓈𝑒 on Sept 1, 2015 9:20:35 GMT -5

There is an earthquake, rumbling throughout the nightclub and reaching to my bones, rattling my rib cage and all of its contents. Its source is the stage, where a band beats on gargantuan drums and plays various instruments, harmonizing to create a wild sound that sends a crowd of teens almost hypnotically into a frenzy of dancing. Fluorescent stars among the blackness flash purple and red and blue and green and yellow. In the lights, constantly flickering from color to color, I can see the outlines of teens, people like me, with bodies alive with adrenaline and hungering for something - rushes of excitement, alcohol, sex - to fill the gaping void.

Nightmares and past pain have molded me into a hollow and restless girl, a phoenix with singed feathers and broken wings. I am a bird that flies no longer.

(I wonder, not if, but when I will burn again.

And not when, but if I will rise from the ashes.)

Burning is what I do best.

But in the midst of teen anarchy and the intoxicating fragrance of alcohol, flooding my senses, I am the fire, unstoppable and kindled by the raging chaos. The spirit of rebellion ricochets off of the walls of the nightclub, hitting others like heavy rain but lightly tapping me, gentle as snowfall. It is natural to me, and seeps into my system so easily through my lungs, full of air thick with vodka and sweat.

Tonight, I am free of alcohol's constricting embrace. There are no hands to push me to wrong decisions - but then again, I make them on my own just fine without the influence of alcohol. There are wrong possibilities all around me, each one of them bearing a soul and a heart.

Behind the prettiest faces are the darkest intentions, left to fester beneath the skin. Lurking in eyes glinting with flashing lights is a number of things, different for each person. But we all have something in common: none of us are good people.

If any of us were, we wouldn't be here.

The sickest part is that the darkness and wrongness is a magnet, drawing me in.

Bad people are more toxic than my beloved alcohol. They weave their way into the system faster, feed their victims dreams and hopes from a fantastic land long lost. And when they are finished, they hollow them out with their claws, tearing apart everything they gave them and everything they had.

I don't like pain, or getting hurt. And yet I cling to those who would, ultimately, hurt me.

But when I am broken, when I have fallen, alcohol has been my life jacket. It is there when people are not. Numbness is comforting, and when the numbness wears away,

just numb yourself again.

(Burning and drinking - the only things I've ever been really good at.)

Almost subconsciously, my hand reaches out for a glass on the platter, carried by a young female server in a small, tight black dress. It slips into my hand, second nature, and I quickly dart toward the opposite direction, a table, where the group of girls I came with sit in a circle with drunken smiles on their faces.

My eyes avert to a cluster of familiar faces - more girls from school - who whisper and look my way with narrowed eyes. As my ears strain to pick up their conversation, my feet drift along in the path ahead of me.

And suddenly, I collide with stone and warmth. My drink flies out of my hand and shatters, the high-pitched sound more audible than I thought it would be in all of the background noise. A river of whatever the hell that was is spilled onto a pair of shoes that are not my own.

My stomach turns over and ice sinks in.

There is a boy - though it doesn't look like he will be a boy for much longer - with ebony hair and captivating ebony eyes to match. He is taller than me - a rare thing. I wait for the rush of bitterness or the inclination to immediately dislike him, just for being taller than 5'9. I wait for the intimidation to grip me - I just spilled my drink on him; he is bound to be angry.

But there is nothing, only my heart, ceased for only a moment, and the flutter of a butterfly in my stomach.

I swallow a "Fuck you, watch where you're going." It scrapes down my throat like a wad of sandpaper, reluctant to go without stepping a foot into the spotlight.

"Um," I say instead. "Sorry, I - I get distracted easily and um . . . yeah. I'm a klutz. I'm also Hannah."

Heat surfaces in my cheeks, and with it, rose.

shadows settle on the place that you left
our minds are troubled by the emptiness

❧

{ table: zoë }

Last Edit: Sept 27, 2015 20:39:56 GMT -5 by я𝑜𝓈𝑒

"even stars burn out."

admin dars
Administrator

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last seen Apr 25, 2024 23:18:48 GMT -5

— 🥀 —

running into the fire | abra + hannah Sept 7, 2015 23:33:15 GMT -5

Post by admin dars on Sept 7, 2015 23:33:15 GMT -5

A B R A X A S
i'll use you
as a warning sign

Night gave him a sweet taste of what was always there. When he was little, he wondered where the stars went to play when the sun came out. Perhaps somewhere better, somewhere where more people appreciated them. IT was a nice thought, wasn't it? To be somewhere and feel appreciated?

Abraxas Morrigan had never felt that satisfaction. At most, he was valued for his combat skills and his silent tongue. A quiet helper is much, much better than one who voices their own opinions. Abra was no power. Abra was no wealth.

Abra was the person that belonged to the power and belonged to the wealth.

But just then, in that specific moment, he only belonged to the sky and the bottle of spirits in his left hand. Take a sip, take a trip, enjoy the ride and wake up where he was when he woke. A beautiful yet completely tragic cycle he often found himself trapped within the confines of. Ah, and it never seemed to give him any better satisfaction than the moments like those, when he could see the stars and they could see him and there was an unspoken promise that, perhaps, some day things would be better for him.

And of course, for thinking such foolish thoughts, the universe gave swift punishment. She was tall, though nowhere near as tall as he, and slender, with the same hollow look most wore in District Nine present in her eyes, so present in fact, he could see it using only the moon's delicate silver. Her drink now covered his boots. He watched as it cascaded carelessly off the sides of his foot, glittering against the night and pooling together as a unit.

Her name was Hannah and something told him she was used to things like this occurring, as were a group of girls nearby who pointed and laughed. He offered her a careful hand and once she was standing as tall as possible, he looked back over at the girls who still laughed. "Pathetic," he made out, and he decided he didn't like it. Before she could object, he swooped in and locked his lips against her own.

He had to crane his neck and practically look completely toward the ground to catch her lips, but when they connected it was a sort of shock to his system, something he wasn't used to feeling. The rush that filled his veins was different from his usual rush. This was not a result of malice but of spontaneity. He instantly looked back at the group of girls who had grown silent, threw his arm around his new friend and started walking her in the opposite direction.

"Sorry, they were annoying even me."

^{I AM A GARDEN OF BLACK AND RED AGONIES}

я𝑜𝓈𝑒
Mentor

2,890 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her/they/them
last seen Nov 23, 2023 2:34:11 GMT -5

anyway don't be a stranger

running into the fire | abra + hannah Sept 13, 2015 22:45:03 GMT -5

Post by я𝑜𝓈𝑒 on Sept 13, 2015 22:45:03 GMT -5

I am steadied by a gentle hand, torn away from the sudden chaos of a clumsy mistake. Every muscle in my body tenses, transforming into a wall of stone, bracing itself for the wave of bitterness, the aftermath of the slip of a finger.

I wait for the words -

but there is nothing.

He is silent, but his eyes speak for him as they avert to the table where derision and laughter rise into the air from the foul mouths of petty girls whose words are nails against my head. I can see the irritation in their dark depths that mirror mine, clear as day.

(But I don't see the intentions in his eyes.)

Words boil on my tongue, crescendos of fuck you's and caustic diatribes. X's are burned into their sly faces -

His lips are chaos, crashing into mine like the ocean waves against a rocky cliff. And chaos waits for no one, not even Hannah O'Leary, the girl who is practically chaos herself.

I expect myself to reflexively shove him away in an outrage, with eyes that burn with how dare you, but my lips melt into his against the sudden flames ignited in my blood.

And I am not left throbbing in turmoil, I am electrified, for once, in clarity and not a haze of whiskey. Locked in a whirlwind of intoxication or in a mind clear as day, kissing strangers is no odd or undesirable act to me. It's as casual as a handshake.

So why is my heart left fluttering like a manic dove?

His sudden kiss is a blow that leaves the once giggling and jeering girls utterly silent and almost grim, with fallen faces and turned down lips.

(Thank Ripred.)

He drapes his arm around me like an old friend and steers me away from the group of girls. He seems so confident, the way his strides are so easy and graceful. He is walking through air and I am trudging through thick black tar.

"Sorry, they were annoying even me," he apologizes.

A pearly smile, followed by a rush of pink to my cheeks, stretches across my face. "Lucky your ears didn't start bleeding the moment they opened their mouths," I joke. My eyes travel from his face, gracing across their smooth planes, drinking in his beauty, down to my feet, and then back to him again.

"It's okay, though - the kiss. I don't mind being kissed by strangers - especially cute ones."

Thump, thump, thump, taps my heart in a frenetic rhythm.

(And there is no alcohol humming in my veins talking for me.)

destroy the middle it's a waste of time
from the perfect start to the finish line

❧

{ table: zoë }