the matador }} tate series
Feb 3, 2016 6:32:15 GMT -5
Post by ᴥ on Feb 3, 2016 6:32:15 GMT -5
TATE SERAPHIM
IF THEY GIVE YOU A NEW PILL THEN YOU WILL BUY IT
Teddy Seraphim was alive. I wanted to scream it from the rooftops, dance across the districts on feet that felt lighter than air. And it had been so heavy, these four months without my little brother was an ever present mountain tearing at the skin of my back, leaving it a bloody raw mess and yet- he was alive. Barely alive but if Nemo has taught me anything, it's to take what you can get and take it with a smile. And so I did. After the initial shock, after every sob had turned into some wailing ghost of an awful memory, I smiled. And Teva did, and Teddy did, and Tripp did.
Tripp, who has been so silent for so long.
Teddy was not the only brother I got back the night he returned.
I've told Nemo all about him, the bright little boy to which I take partial credit for raising. (And with that comes mistakes and consequences, with that comes the fault for every flaw he may have.) Of course my mom did most of the heavy lifting, doting on her littlest boy without so much as a complaint about how hard it must have been to lead a gang of rowdy miscreants and raise a child as fragile as he. Who clutched at his chest when he was upset or sad or happy, whose mere emotions were an enemy to his paper heart. But I think I've done a damn fine job since I've taken over. Oh, she would have loved to see what he's become.
Not now but, when he's better. When I figure out how to fix the heart whose gears are so faulty. I must chip away at the rust which coats the muscle, staining it a perfect crimson once more.
I haven't slept in three days.
I've been slaving over documents, medical papers and encyclopedias kept in the local library. Every book containing a homeopathic or medical cure for my little brother has been scoured a thousand times over. The whens and the hows are insignificant. For him - for my family - I will do anything. Even if that means I destroying myself in the process.
Because that is what Mom raised me to be. Their guardian. I was the eldest and I suppose it seemed a reasonable burden to place upon my shoulders (one that seems so much heavier now that that mountain has turned into nothing but pebbles which slide off my long sleeved shirts.) It has near become my identity, all that I can make sense of in this world. I am theirs.
And I would much rather be branded a love-struck fool than a murderer or a madman. Even if I just so happen to be every one of those things. Because I'm sure if my family knew what I did, knew of the lives I have so brutally taken for their sake, they would turn their backs to me. They would take away all that I have to keep on living and perhaps then all i would be left with is the suffocating hysteria that so often wraps its claws around my neck.
There is nothing I am more certain of: they must not know. Not Nemo, not Cal, not Teva or Tripp and most certainly not Teddy.
Perhaps Teva knows the most of what I do - he has stood with me in that room. Turned the man who violated Cal into a pile of foul-smelling ash upon the floor. And I do not think he cares how cruel I can become locked away in the basement of our warehouse. Teva is the least likely to abandon me (although had he known that a fourteen year old girl sat in that chair before a rapist, he might reconsider such a stance.)
I want to be to be good. To be the knight in shining armor that Nemo so deserves. Every time the younger boy's eyes fall upon me, captivate me with that mischievous glint, it hurts. It hurts because the man that he has come to love is only half the man that I am. I do not lie to Nemo, there is no front that I put up for his sake. He sees perhaps the most raw and weak of my being. He sees everything that I am when my chin is not held high and my teeth are not grit. He is the lap to which my head seeks after a long day, his fingers are what comb through my hair every night and send me into a fitful sleep. But the parts of me that are not me at all, the very nature that I defy at work, he knows nothing of that.
And I am sorry. I do not lie but I deceive, I shake my head and smile when he asks how my day has been. "Work was great." (I hadn't anyone to kill today.) It's not as though I am dropping ashes off of the bridge every week. Sometimes there are months that go by without any need of such drastic measures. It is a last resort, something I will only turn to when my family are in imminent danger.
That does not make it any easier. That does not make me any less a vile, evil thing.
Nemo is my Robin Hood, my hero dressed in all black. He protects a family I would have long since abandoned. Useless addicts whom stuck a needle in his chest and turned him into something wrong - something small and sad and dying. Something that was so Nemo and yet nothing he was supposed to be.
I'm scared, the nights I fall asleep with him in my arms and by the morning hours I wake alone. I'm scared that every time I kiss his neck, trail my lips down his collar bones and onto the sides of his chest, it will be the last taste I am ever allowed. One day my angel, my Nemo, might disappear and it will have been my fault. My fault that I didn't say damn what you want and pressed the barrel of the gun to his father's temple.
(He did it because I'm Nemo) He did it because he's worthless and cruel and preys upon a son who has given him his world.
It's hard, being second best. Second best to parents who so take him for granted but I am pathetic, I am desperate. I will take being any best to Nemo Klardie, as long as I am something to him. As long as he will crawl through my windows some nights at five in the morning, looking beautiful even though his cheek is bruised and his eyes are heavy, and will crawl into my arms. He may love me less than them, but at least he loves me.
I am so tired. My fingers are numb, worn from turning pages all night and I am thoroughly surprised they have not fallen off. That I have not stained this whole library with rivers of my tainted blood. (There are still marks, white gashes upon my palms; souvenirs of that night upon the bridge. The night I would not have survived if not for a cocky boy with a scar along his cheek.) Another night wasted - I've found nothing.
By the time I crawl through the second-story window, he is curled underneath the covers. Looking small, looking tired, looking much like I do. I wish I was here to greet him- these days have been so rough that every star I wish upon is for nothing but a break. A day with Nemo spent doing nothing but sharing kisses under the stars and feeling his breath against my neck.
It's as though I can't not feel some semblance of happiness with the small boy by my side.
"Sorry I'm late." I mumble, crawling under the covers and throwing an arm over my boyfriend's shoulder. "But I'm gonna do it, mark my words Nemo Klardie." and the world is already slipping away, collapsing beneath my fingertips. And then I am bathed in nothing but blood and stardust. "I'm going to save Teddy Seraphim.".
Tripp, who has been so silent for so long.
Teddy was not the only brother I got back the night he returned.
I've told Nemo all about him, the bright little boy to which I take partial credit for raising. (And with that comes mistakes and consequences, with that comes the fault for every flaw he may have.) Of course my mom did most of the heavy lifting, doting on her littlest boy without so much as a complaint about how hard it must have been to lead a gang of rowdy miscreants and raise a child as fragile as he. Who clutched at his chest when he was upset or sad or happy, whose mere emotions were an enemy to his paper heart. But I think I've done a damn fine job since I've taken over. Oh, she would have loved to see what he's become.
Not now but, when he's better. When I figure out how to fix the heart whose gears are so faulty. I must chip away at the rust which coats the muscle, staining it a perfect crimson once more.
I haven't slept in three days.
I've been slaving over documents, medical papers and encyclopedias kept in the local library. Every book containing a homeopathic or medical cure for my little brother has been scoured a thousand times over. The whens and the hows are insignificant. For him - for my family - I will do anything. Even if that means I destroying myself in the process.
Because that is what Mom raised me to be. Their guardian. I was the eldest and I suppose it seemed a reasonable burden to place upon my shoulders (one that seems so much heavier now that that mountain has turned into nothing but pebbles which slide off my long sleeved shirts.) It has near become my identity, all that I can make sense of in this world. I am theirs.
And I would much rather be branded a love-struck fool than a murderer or a madman. Even if I just so happen to be every one of those things. Because I'm sure if my family knew what I did, knew of the lives I have so brutally taken for their sake, they would turn their backs to me. They would take away all that I have to keep on living and perhaps then all i would be left with is the suffocating hysteria that so often wraps its claws around my neck.
There is nothing I am more certain of: they must not know. Not Nemo, not Cal, not Teva or Tripp and most certainly not Teddy.
Perhaps Teva knows the most of what I do - he has stood with me in that room. Turned the man who violated Cal into a pile of foul-smelling ash upon the floor. And I do not think he cares how cruel I can become locked away in the basement of our warehouse. Teva is the least likely to abandon me (although had he known that a fourteen year old girl sat in that chair before a rapist, he might reconsider such a stance.)
I want to be to be good. To be the knight in shining armor that Nemo so deserves. Every time the younger boy's eyes fall upon me, captivate me with that mischievous glint, it hurts. It hurts because the man that he has come to love is only half the man that I am. I do not lie to Nemo, there is no front that I put up for his sake. He sees perhaps the most raw and weak of my being. He sees everything that I am when my chin is not held high and my teeth are not grit. He is the lap to which my head seeks after a long day, his fingers are what comb through my hair every night and send me into a fitful sleep. But the parts of me that are not me at all, the very nature that I defy at work, he knows nothing of that.
And I am sorry. I do not lie but I deceive, I shake my head and smile when he asks how my day has been. "Work was great." (I hadn't anyone to kill today.) It's not as though I am dropping ashes off of the bridge every week. Sometimes there are months that go by without any need of such drastic measures. It is a last resort, something I will only turn to when my family are in imminent danger.
That does not make it any easier. That does not make me any less a vile, evil thing.
Nemo is my Robin Hood, my hero dressed in all black. He protects a family I would have long since abandoned. Useless addicts whom stuck a needle in his chest and turned him into something wrong - something small and sad and dying. Something that was so Nemo and yet nothing he was supposed to be.
I'm scared, the nights I fall asleep with him in my arms and by the morning hours I wake alone. I'm scared that every time I kiss his neck, trail my lips down his collar bones and onto the sides of his chest, it will be the last taste I am ever allowed. One day my angel, my Nemo, might disappear and it will have been my fault. My fault that I didn't say damn what you want and pressed the barrel of the gun to his father's temple.
(He did it because I'm Nemo) He did it because he's worthless and cruel and preys upon a son who has given him his world.
It's hard, being second best. Second best to parents who so take him for granted but I am pathetic, I am desperate. I will take being any best to Nemo Klardie, as long as I am something to him. As long as he will crawl through my windows some nights at five in the morning, looking beautiful even though his cheek is bruised and his eyes are heavy, and will crawl into my arms. He may love me less than them, but at least he loves me.
I am so tired. My fingers are numb, worn from turning pages all night and I am thoroughly surprised they have not fallen off. That I have not stained this whole library with rivers of my tainted blood. (There are still marks, white gashes upon my palms; souvenirs of that night upon the bridge. The night I would not have survived if not for a cocky boy with a scar along his cheek.) Another night wasted - I've found nothing.
By the time I crawl through the second-story window, he is curled underneath the covers. Looking small, looking tired, looking much like I do. I wish I was here to greet him- these days have been so rough that every star I wish upon is for nothing but a break. A day with Nemo spent doing nothing but sharing kisses under the stars and feeling his breath against my neck.
It's as though I can't not feel some semblance of happiness with the small boy by my side.
"Sorry I'm late." I mumble, crawling under the covers and throwing an arm over my boyfriend's shoulder. "But I'm gonna do it, mark my words Nemo Klardie." and the world is already slipping away, collapsing beneath my fingertips. And then I am bathed in nothing but blood and stardust. "I'm going to save Teddy Seraphim.".
IF THEY SAY TO KILL YOURSELF THEN YOU WILL TRY IT
[presto]
PILL DIET, PILL DIET
[/presto]
