mcmlxxxiv; cody

Goddamn how the system collapses.

An infrastructure ever-failing I do not see the silver blade of lost cause martyrdom strike, but it grazes my flesh and soon a sense of failure overwhelms the atmosphere, settles over my chest and compresses my lungs until they gasp for second-chances no longer allowed.

I’ve played the card of a lost cause one time too many; the deck is no longer shuffled in my favor.

But an ace of spades is still pressed to my palm, still waiting for a moment of revelation that is only to come in the final seconds before the draw— poor timing is the greatest sin the dying can commit.

But oh, how I am a sinner.

Thinking for myself before the definition of thought was allowed, I have always struck a chord of disobedience before it could be defined. My mother attributed it to the death of a brother worshipped. I thought it was simply internal wiring, the pieces of my mind being placed correctly for the first time that I could remember. She told me that she did not approve of having a son who did not understand what rules should be followed and what boundaries should be crossed. I told her I would not apologize for feeling something more than shallow grief. She called me rebellious, said I would be killed by the same system I hated, said I would be crushed under the weight of standards I could not tear down with my own two hands.

Unapologetic.

I told her that the system better have an arsenal at their disposal because I would not be simply target practice. There would be a bullseye painted upon my back but it would not be painted in simple red, rather the blood of my own cause plastered to my flesh. My battle cry would be one of civil disobedience— I’d print the propaganda and cry for like minds on my own accord.

My battle cry would echo off my brother’s tombstone, reverberate against the hollow space of his bones and be magnified by the space of his grave.

He told me that he hoped to die in peace.

I knew that there was no such thing, but I held my tongue and nodded, promised him that he could find peace in the passive war. Instead, he was set alight, kindling for a flame he did not wish to fuel. He was the match I never wanted to strike.

He believed in something greater than human nature. He believed in genuine people and sound morals; he saw a world of color. When his hand ghosted over pure white paper, he saw art. He could find security in beautiful sights, in the moments when the sky was about to fall he saw greatness. He watched history scrawl itself upon the pages of his skin and he called it a classic.

I called it a tragedy.

I see nothing more than a polarized world of black and white. There is nothing beyond the last action one commits— all things end, buried and broken. There will be no difference in my final resting place— buried and broken, ended with resolve still left dangling from the end of a silver blade of lost martyrdom.

There is no ground left unstained.

If only the good die young then I must be a fucking saint; worthy of worship and praise— I wonder why they do not build monuments with impure material. There is no path to righteousness that is not marred; no cause personified that is not bloodstained. My flesh is defined by the morals that have carved their names into my skin so that I cannot forget them even on the days that I wish to have a quiet mind. It screams, no rest for the righteous. It pleas, do not fall victim to the system you have devoted the last two years to destroying. It crumbles, says this task you have undertaken is scratching at your ribs— collapse it.

Collapse it.

I’ll tear the structure apart, bloody my hands for the cause and write lost names upon the walls. The sword in the hand of the boy from twelve is a source of momentary conflict, something only existent at the moment of time at which it strikes, but an idea lingers far longer. A spark alight in an active mind for two years and counting cannot be extinguished by anything momentary.

I’ll burn far longer than burial can define.

My brother was extinguished at death like that axes that struck his skin because he believed that he could best the system; change it; model it into something great but he failed to realize that there was nothing put in place to bring progress to the people it ruled. He believed change to be for the greater good; that if you just placed power in the right hands the rule of thumb could change from desperation to dynasty.

His world was drawn in color; his thoughts were always lined with gold.

He never found a fortune.

I have never struck a vein of gold, but I pick up my sword, press it to my hip and shiver when metal meets skin. I am dying; I am damned, when in this lifetime have I been neither? Fighting a battle is only hopeful when the upper ground is occupied but I have learned to define existence by how much further I can bury myself, the things I love, and any hope that dares to break the surface.

Bloody ground is not a catalyst for expansion.

But the guns keep firing, the trigger has been pulled one time to many and my chest is still characterized by bullet holes. This body of lead and lost chances has been poisoned too long to find clarity in the single moment when the sky is clear.

Burning red is the only shade of color I’d like to see in final moments, because for once I’d like to see something other than my own body burn.

What other than hollow bones is there left to set alight?

But my body will only burn until flesh has charred and bones have turned to ash— this truth was temporal, after all.

Beyond my body there is a city of hollow promises and barters made in back alleyways speaking of an ever-shifting truth. The minds of the people here are moldable— tell them the wealth of a new world lies in the sky and they’ll build skyscrapers to scratch at the silver lining. Tell them that steps to a pristine white building are never to be marred by civil footprints and they’ll lay down their bodies on the stairways because they’d rather bleed for a cause they cannot define.

Tell them hope lies in the dying heart of an eighteen year old boy and they’ll use his ribs to rip a stilled heart from his chest.

I’d rather not fight the passive war.

Muscles quivering I stagger, grab the boy from twelve by his collar and hold until my knuckles are white. My breath heavy, “Hear that?” Silence on my tongue I pause, let the wind whistle past and chill the warmth seeping from my body, “Silence is never the predecessor for anything good, kid. Better hope hell doesn’t get you first.”

I release an iron grip, watch color flow back into tense skin only to shake with a cold only defined by the last seconds left. I pull an envelope from my back pocket, rip apart the failing strands of confidentiality and unfold paper with shaking hands.

“Don’t read this until you’re alone. As in after I’m gone.”

Gone, going, I have reached the final destination and I still do not know where I am.

“Hey, I love you.”

It shakes, stumbles in front of eyes that cannot comprehend and crumples between heavy palms. Falling to the ground beneath my feet the edges tint red, burning, my body is on fire. She was kindling, heat in winter and promise in spring.

“We both know I am not one for promises, Imogen Tarver.”

Goddamn, how the system collapses.

Infrastructure failing I watch paper bleed, turn red like flesh long gone and falter, ink blurring into the scrawl of a lover whose name I cannot speak when it catches in my throat and refuses to be swallowed— I want to choke on a love I could not define until it rested in my heart before it beat a final time.

I did not deserve to be loved by someone who did not have spare heart to give.

I do not want her heart, her desperate sense of something great.

I do not want his eyes, his world of something besides black and white.

I do not want this mind— where is silence when revelation is so violent?

My brother always said that he wanted to fight the passive war.

I understand why he enjoyed the still of night.

I crumple, press my face to the dirt as the quiet wraps itself around my throat and holds, promises somewhere where a word of wisdom cannot be bought by skyscrapers promised to scratch the silver lining or back alleys striking deals in free thought. I see this world, and my god, it is steeped in color. There is no gray spectrum here, only vibrance and grace to shield my mind from the red tinging my vision. My body is burning, on fire, ignited by a hand reaching out to grasp my wrist, holding tight with the cold and pressing its thumb to my veins.

Unzipped.

I have only felt this once before.

I buried my brother with open wrists, lines of regret from the hollow nights before when I believed his body could be seen with life in his veins if I did not have the same in my own. My brother’s lover had found me staring at the broken glass from a shattered frame and taken the shards from my palm, promised me death was not the answer to this equation.

She was wrong.

It has been solved by the time it has taken me to watch myself begin to bleed.

I pick up the sword discarded by dismay and watch my image distort in the blade. That night is all too familiar now, shrouded by the morning sun but remembered by a mind still screaming— this quiet is violent but what ending of the damned is anything but complex action of the simple minded?

It takes two hands to lift the glaive above the waist as I steady myself on legs that quiver with each second taken to remind them the system has not been bested. This battle has not been won— it never will be. I steady my gaze on the boy from twelve, watch him from the place from which I shoved him away after my knuckles had turned white with second-hand regret. He will not live long enough to tell the tale— I suppose that is the most disappointing moment of the passing minute.

There is no legacy in a name that will not be remembered.

And so I place a sword of lost cause martyrdom against my throat, quiver at the sense of failure that catches in my chest before swallowing any pride that could be deemed a choking hazard before keeping my attention focused on the boy from twelve, his desperation still exposed in torn flesh and bone.

“I told them that the system would be the one to beat me.”

I twitch.

“My brother, it’s been some time.” He places his hand upon my shoulder, light, reminiscent of a sunrise we saw together the morning before he left. That night, the sunset had not been beautiful, only burning.

My flesh is on fire now when I stare into eyes blind for two years time, “I promised you that we would not be apart long— I do not take promises lightly, Owen.”

word count: 1,966; graphics: rook/elegant

a c k n o w l e d g e m e n t s ;

wow. what a ride crammed into a short period of time. this time around was something else, definitely much different than any games experience i’ve had prior. i can’t really categorize it as good or bad, but i suppose labeling it as unique is the best way to go. unique does lend itself to something learned, and this has definitely been the case.

rook: for the gorgeous graphic, and more importantly for the insane amount of support you have provided— thank you. our friendship has grown incredibly in the time since the 69th, and i’m very grateful that we have gotten to know each other so well. thank you for reminding me that bad moments are not equivalent with the defining moments, and that there is no end to the progress that is to be made with writing. thank you for continuing to help me push my boundaries as a person and a writer; i look forward for all that is to come.

rave: god, where do i start? you are such an integral part of everything i do, and without you, i don’t really know where i’d be going. thank you for continuing to love me even after we squared up (never doing that again). thank you for always being there for me; for continuing to pull my head out of my ass when the need arises, and reminding me that i am loved. to the threads to come— i look forward to them.

pogue: wow, wow, wow. i find it some kind of ironic that you’re coming back on the night i’m posting this, but it’s the best kind of irony there is. you mean so much to me, and throughout the time you were gone you continued to support me as a writer. that in itself means more than i can describe, but outside of this site, thank you for everything you have done, from comforting me with wyatt to comforting me with cody. the list goes on and on— you’ve pulled me out of some rough times and continue to do so. you are an inspiration, as a writer and a person, and i look forward to the ventures of the future. i love you, thank you for everything.

avalon: i’m counting down the days to july 7th. thank you for showering me with affection, for being such a kind soul, and always being someone who is there to listen. you are an incredible writer and a stellar person. i look forward to watching our friendship rapidly grow like it has in the past few months, and even more to the time you’re coming down to spend with me. love ya, dude— stay flawless.

dars: it’s been a journey. i’m disappointed we didn’t get to spend more times together this games actually writing, but the fact that you’ve come back after such difficult circumstances speaks for itself. you are strong, incredible, and a phenomenal person. thank you for playing imogen and playing such a big part in cody’s story. i hope to write together again soon.

briar: my smol lumberjack oh my god i love you. thank you for spending the day with me earlier and rambling and raving about all things writing styles and games alike. you are an incredible young writer with a huge future, and i cannot wait to see that come to fruition. never stop writing; never stop pouring as much passion into as you do, because it’s beautiful.

squad(s): i’d cry if i tried to make this long, so i’ll put it at this— thank you for putting up with me and for continuing to prove yourselves as the funniest people i’ll ever meet.

to everyone who said kind things about cody— thank you. the journey was one-of-a-kind, and without you it would have been way too generic for my tastes.