I know a crossroads [Mercury series]

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kousei ♚
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now and forever

I know a crossroads [Mercury series] Jun 5, 2016 11:11:13 GMT -5

Post by kousei ♚ on Jun 5, 2016 11:11:13 GMT -5

M e r c u r y

{I know crossroads where I see them, see them
I want it to be over, I want it to be over
So I swim to you while I'm sleeping
Through sage green rivers of England}

My mother branded the notion of crossroads and decisions into me from my waking moment. Her morals of masculinity conflicted so greatly with my father's but her's seemed to take a deeper root.

If what I've heard is true, Jordan Scoff-Reye was a poor follower of my mother's morals of masculinity. A follower of the reckless things, he spent his life (and last moments included) filled with rage and violence. Mother didn't approve, I can tell by the way her nose wrinkles when he's mentioned. I don't hope or pray -I never could quite find the belief- but I hope I don't spend the rest of my days as Jordan Scoff-Reye (apparently) did.

Mother's morals to masculinity came with key instructions and ways of life. One of the key instructions came to facing crossroads and living with your decision with no complaint.

Another one included keeping your promises you made like a true man should.

I don't need to be told anything to know that both Mantel and Jordan Scoff failed in that regard. Promises for hope, promises for vengeance were both empty in the end.

Faced with the daily crossroad, I made my decision and now I'm drowning with no complaints.

Every footstep is a stumble through the grass, the neck of the bottle clasped between my sweaty palm attached to an arm hung limp at my side. The weight of my choice is worth a thousand tonnes - unbearable to be exact. Eyes wild, darting left and right, up and down until I give myself the mental all-clear. I swear with every step I sink deeper and deeper. After all, it's quite difficult to stay afloat when you're worth a physical tonne but contribute absolutely shit all. Still, even when drowning, relief tastes bitter sweet as the shadow of my house shrinks with every step forward and every meter I sink.

That's the consequence of being given a choice; you make a decision and you drown. Relief can never be quite pure, the hint of the bitterness will forever linger like the clouds of two dead boys hung above my head. No matter how deep I allow myself to sink the cloud can never fade. Death by drowning is a typical of a Scoff anyway. It's not easy. The number one requirement to dying with the name Scoff - it's not allowed to be a peaceful passing.

Sat down at the daily crossroads, I knew I would be forced to make a choice at one point or another. The allure of the liquor cabinet was strong, it was worth drowning for. I passed over one (too small), passed over another (half full) and another (tastes like shit) and with a morbid glee I found the golden brown I was looking for. If I'm going to drown I will drown with a smile on my face.

Every footstep's a stumble and every meter crossed is another meter down under. My eyes stay locked onto the ground, watching it slowly drift from under me. Today is as good as any to drown. Golden sunlight weeps from the sky, clouds remain hidden from sight and the air has a purity that not even a white angel has the hope of reaching. I'm going to drown today, at least it'll be with a smile on my face.

('I want you to promise me.')

People that makes promises are stupid. But people who break promises drown.

"Mercury Scoff!"

Mother's voice booms down the stairs at such a volume that I almost drop everything I'm doing. I tense at the sound of my own name being called down the stairs. I tense further at the sounds of stairs creaking and footsteps getting closer. My eyes stay locked onto the wall because I could never face my problems - already I've broken one of my mother's rules of masculinity branded into my head at my awakening.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" Her hot command burns, searing her broken rules of what is it to be a man shut. I force myself to turn; facing your problems like a man.

"Yes?" I ask, looking her straight in the eyes and resisting the urge to allow a shiver to crawl down my back. I feel myself getting warmer for ever second I spend looking into those eyes. I inherited those eyes but I cannot make my gaze burn hotter than a supernova itself - mine are too hollow.

"You were out yesterday, drinking," it's not a question of a speculation, it's a fact, "and you said you wouldn't." She finishes, scowling.

Her fire is only met with ice silence but already it begins to melt between us.

"Why?" She asks and the silence evaporates.

"I have to, you know I've got to." I respond but she won't have it.

"So you can be like your father? Do you want to waste away?! Her sudden eruption strikes me like a whip and I'm speechless. I don't know how I managed to will my neck to move so I could shake my head. After all, the sinew and muscles feel like ash underneath the fiery gaze.

"Oh, Merc," she says before pulling my into an embrace, as if the blaze of a protective mother can be snuffed out by a shocked expression.

"I-I-" fire has my tongue in an unbreakable death grip.

"Promise me, promise me you won't do it again." She says, putting me back at arms length.

"I just-" She cuts me off massively.

"I want you to promise me." She looks almost on the verge of tears, it's a wonder how eyes of such heat can produce tears.

In that moment we're both as weightless as air. The morals of masculinity that conflict with my father are in the front of my brain - slowly edging their way to the tip of my tongue. I can recite such words like the back of my hand.

Don't hit women.

Make your decisions and stick with them.

Keep your promises like a true man should.

Despite the conflicting morals of masculinity resting upon my shoulders, I feel as weightless as air itself. My mother's morals fall off the edge of my tongue in a single ice cold sentence. "I promise."

It doesn't melt in the heat.

You cannot heal burn scars, people wear them like armour but I choose to ignore mine. My mother's hot headed gaze burns into the back of my head deeper than the heat from the sun's light from above. With a soft sigh I step and allow myself to drop, planting my back against the tree. I've never prayed or hoped for much - I never could find the belief. Still, there's the silent hope that this tree can protect me from the storm that comes with two dead boys who I never remembered. I unscrew the bottle cap and wince. I swear, I can hear the a crackling of flames and the charred scent of my mother's morals hangs in the air with the noise.

Keep your promises like a true man should.

A rule of my mother's morals of masculinity finds it's way into fire and feeds my flames. I press the bottle to my lips and let it pour down my throat.

It burns and tastes like ashes.

Morals never tasted great, even when thrown into my self-destructing fire. If following my mother's morals of masculinity means living out the rest of my days with the false hopes of Jordan and Mantel Scoff then I would rather die a sinner with a broken moral compass. I told myself the bottle was my escape route but I don't think I'll ever truly protect myself from the storm of the two dead boys who evade my memories.

When I feel myself begin to blur I drown without a smile.

The ashes of keeping my promises taste bitter, but escape from the forgotten has to be better than living by branded morals.

Last Edit: Jun 6, 2016 6:59:53 GMT -5 by kousei ♚

kousei ♚
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I know a crossroads [Mercury series] Jun 12, 2016 17:21:10 GMT -5

Post by kousei ♚ on Jun 12, 2016 17:21:10 GMT -5

M e r c u r y

{It's in your stare and at your core}

Drink induced sleep melts away and my eyes flicker open to see not the sunlight piercing my sleep but the stars weeping from above. Promises are a double-edged sword and the words 'I promise' cut deep, splitting my skull like it's an egg shell. My head pounds, the high of euphoria abandoning me after what feels like years after I begun to blur underneath the alcohol and the weight of the bottle. I let out a horse groan, it's simply too strained to sound like anything viable. My voice feels useless, simple as that.

I'm sprawled across the ground like a corpse. A puppet cut loose from it's string and left discarded, isolated from its owner. As much as I hate to admit it, I'm a puppet going through the cycle. The bottle cut me loose from my strings and left me to dry in the grass and in a bed of my broken promises. 'I promise.' The double-edged blade cuts deep, splitting the flesh and spilling the blood. I made a promise and now I'm paying for it.

I'm motionless without the bottle to move my limbs for me. Hours of inactivity has left my muscles stiff. I'm so cold I shiver, isolation from the bottle has left me cold. I allow my head to roll to the side and my gaze rests upon the half empty bottle clutched in my hands. I'll never be able stitch together the gashes from a double edged sword (I was stupid enough to self inflict myself the promises after all) but there's nothing a drink can't fix. The bottle is the best escape route I can hope for and even though I can't fix the wound or stop the bleeding, I can numb the pain.

The strings wrap themselves along my limbs. No longer isolated from the puppet master, the puppet can move its limbs. My body moves on its own, I drag myself up and prop my back against the tree. With a strangled sigh of relief I press the glass to my lips and take not one, not two, but three gulps. And it goes all goes

south.

My innards twist into a knot and my arm drops to my side. I lean over to the side and retch, spewing the contents of my stomach all over the grass. I never had any will of my own anyway, I keep retching until the my stomach is empty and the knot loosens. So weak, my arms drop to the ground and my hands catch me from falling face first into my own vomit. I never had a will of my own, so to do something extra of my own initiative that didn't have anything to do with pouring liquor down my gullet is amazing in its self. A spectacle to be exact.

Oh, how mother would be tearing her hair out right now. From my awakening moment she shoved her morals of masculinity right into the pit of my chest and branded right from wrong into my forehead. An impressionable and worthless boy I am, one set of rules set for my path and I've already taken the rulebook and torn it page from page with my bare hands. If she was to walk up here from the bottom of that hill she would pause and stop, looking at me with the shadow of tears in her eyes and a simple 'Mercury, why?'

Whenever she asked me why, I could never give her an answer. Like a riddle, it's remained unanswered for what feels like centuries.

Why is Mercury such a terrible son?

Why does Mercury drink so much?

Why can't Mercury just follow the damn rules?

A case study for the damn ages, three questions to tear down my worth and shove the ashes of guilt down my throat. It seems I'll never have a clear conscience, because fresh ashes will always be there to take the place of the burned promises I poured down my throat. Not even I can answer the questions directed at my own behaviour because I've never had a will of my own. Puppets follow the strings just as I follow the bottle.

The bottle wills me to take a sip so I take my damn sip.

The ashes of my promises and the former contents of my stomach aren't exactly the best tasting combination but they'll have to do for now. I lurch up, slowly dragging myself to my feet and praying I don't flop to the ground.

"I promised." One sentence to mark me for a fool, two words confirm that I'm a damn fool. My hands are tight fists at my sides and the half full hangs loosely at my waist.

"I pro-" I cut myself off, I've never liked repeating myself.

Sorry promise, but there's no time for a fucking funeral and no time to mourn over the time we spent together. It would be hypocritical for me to cry over what I destroyed when I was the one who destroyed it in the first place. No, this did. I look down at the half full bottle. Without thinking I take another sip and the pounding basically multiplies by at least ten fold. My stomach does another back flip and I double over and retch.

It was just a dry heave.

I lift myself back up, the night is still young (at least I think) and I can't go home yet. I'm still bleeding from the numerous gashes decorating my flesh from the double edged sword I was stupid enough to wield. When I walk in, mother will look at me and the ghost of her tears will glare at me from the depths of her sockets and she'll ask that dreaded question as she looks me up and down, observing the wounds her double-edged sword inflicted upon me. "Why?"

So, without thinking, I turn in the opposite direction and drag my wounded self along. For all the wounds promise left across my flesh and all the ashes shoved down my throat, I will damage myself irreparably if I hear that dreaded word one more time. I didn't think it was possible, but the sight of my mother will cut me down even more. Just remind me how much of a terrible son I really am.

Besides, it's not only me who's been running from that word for as long as he could remember. Promise is not the only double-edged sword that I've had the misfortune of wielding. According to my father, asking why is a prompt for him to find the nearest bottle. Any question was cuts deeper than the skin is too deep. Any question that involves the names of the dead or the memory of a death rattle cuts just that slight inch too deep. He could never stitch together the wounds, only numb the pain (along with his senses) with alcohol. I suppose that's where we're similar. Except, he was always a violent drinker and not every irreparable bruise is from a random stranger at a bar. All I can ever do is stare defiance into his face until it burns and he punches me again.

It's funny, you would think that after wielding questions I would know to stay away from double-edged swords.

I spit into the grass and turn away from the direction of my house. The strings tense and my legs move, my movement automatic yet sluggish. When the bottle tells me to find the nearest bar I don't scoff and turn away, I look for the nearest bar. I need a drink. Besides, crippling alcoholism is the only part of my essence untouched by that double edged sword.

(WC: 1271)

Last Edit: Jun 12, 2016 17:22:31 GMT -5 by kousei ♚

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I know a crossroads [Mercury series] Jul 20, 2016 17:55:02 GMT -5

Post by kousei ♚ on Jul 20, 2016 17:55:02 GMT -5

M e r c u r y

{I know crossroads where I see them, see them
I want it to be over, I want it to be over
So I swim to you while I'm sleeping
Through sage green rivers of England}

The ground jolts and tilts and I'm already spirally down the drain of worth and morals. Still, despite it all I still know the directions like the back of my hand; right, left, right, left, it's all automatic. Strings are attached to my limbs, dictating every movement and lurching and churning my stomach. I resist the urge to dry heave again, I lift my head up and tip my vision up to the star blotted sky and they stare back as if judging me. I turned my back on the house and refused to follow my head, I followed my sins and demons.

I suppress the sudden urge to scream and cry out in frustration of my weakness but the inevitable truth hangs over me like a cloud overcasting my every thought. I need the drink, even after emptying half a bottle and almost downright emptying my guts onto the grass I still need it. Perhaps it's because I've never quite been able to forget the two dead boys that are already forgotten, perhaps it's because the remnants of what is forgotten clings to my figure like ashes from a bonfire. Maybe it's just because I'm fragile.

I don't care why, I am what I am.

I may as well be bleeding along the endless grass in this field. Every footstep away from the house and towards the seam (where all the cheap liquor is) is like another wound inflicted from the double-edged sword I was stupid enough to wield. I tore through muscle, bone and sinew until I could only be marched along and supported by strings tied to my limbs and demons rooted into the heart of my soul. My mother ingrained the idea of crossroads into my forehead at my very waking moment but I've never felt like I've had a choice.

Time blurs before my very eyes, black and white of the star blotted sky merges with each other like paint before my very eyes. I dare close my eyes to suppress the screams of frustration and desperation. When I dare open my eyes I find that I'm no longer in a grassy field and on dusty path. I don't even have to think to know that if I walk forwards and take a right I'll be at the cheap liquor store that the owner somehow keeps open 24/7. He has to be, any less and he won't be able to feed his family.

I'm faced with a crossroad but I don't have a choice - not really at least. The path was already predetermined. I guess some promises where not supposed to be kept, I hope Mother understands.

The exchange is short and sweet. He doesn't think to ask that maybe I'm a little young to be purchasing alcohol from him or that I already reek of cheap liquor already.

"The usual." I demand before putting my money on the counter.

"Coming right up, Mercury." He replies with a plastered smile, but I see the bags under his eyes and the cracks in his voice. He hates this as much as I do.

He disappears to the back and re-emerges with a small bottle of the cheapest liquor in the store. Golden brown liquid sits and sways calmly in the bottle and I nod in fake thanks and turn.

"You're Mercury Scoff?" A gruff voice breaks the unformed chain of thought. No time for a fucking funeral or to mourn the burned morals and ashes at my feet that I left scattered along the ground with this damn bottle. I notice the stranger, must be in his thirties or late twenties but I know that he's a definite stranger. He doesn't even sound like he's from around here but he knows my name. For a split second I think he's karma incarnate, come to rob me of my addiction and leave me stranded with nothing left.

Now I'm just talking insanity, I need a drink quick.

"Yea, so what?" I answer his question and fire one back of my own. I want him out of my face and for me to be alone. With each passing second I get second thoughts and with each second thought the weight of the bottle grows heavier and heavier. I cannot bear such a burden clutched in my left hand, with my worth and morality spiralling down the drain and all. After all, what worth does a man with no self control have?

"I- I have something important for you, I think you'll want to see it. Please, just come with me."

I scowl, time wasted means seconds passed and seconds passed means more second thoughts. I cannot bear the weight of this bottle in my left hand for too long - I can't have any more second thoughts.

"You know nothing about me, you don't know what the fuck I'll want to see. Leave me alone!" I retort but before I can go to push past him, his words make me freeze and my heart leap to the back of my throat.

"I know a lot more than you think, kid. Aren't you the one who just came out of a coma?"

He's got me there.

My next sentence comes out as a tumble, a ragged mess of words strung together and letters stutters. "Who are you? How do you-"

"If you follow me, I'll explain it all." He cuts me off and just like that I'm trapped. String after string is cut right through and I find myself stranded with a new puppet master. I have to follow him.

He leads me past buildings and back over the field, leading me through a smokescreen of confusion and insanity. I'm clueless in the face of this man. Still, if he tries anything I'll smash the bottle over his head and run away, I'm on the tip of my toes and alert jumping from one to one hundred. He's led me to complete isolation before he stops and reaches into his satchel.

"It's important, from Six."

He thickens the cloud and smokescreen of confusion that's clung to my skin and clouded my brain. Impossible. I don't know anyone from-

He pushes the papers into my hands.

"Just read the damn thing and it'll all make sense."

Last Edit: Jul 20, 2016 18:12:37 GMT -5 by kousei ♚

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I know a crossroads [Mercury series] Jul 20, 2016 19:00:56 GMT -5

Post by kousei ♚ on Jul 20, 2016 19:00:56 GMT -5

M e r c u r y

{I know crossroads where I see them, see them
I want it to be over, I want it to be over
So I swim to you while I'm sleeping
Through sage green rivers of England}

Clutching the paper in right hand, my vision lifts towards the sky as I fill the air with my slurred laughter. My thoughts (no longer blurred and incomprehensible) are crystal clear and organised into two. Firstly, this isn't possible people don't just contact each other cross district randomly, even if they do have some sort of suicidal sailor on their side. And to manage to find out about me and decide to risk their lives just to get a letter to some violent, sleep around, drunkard boy who can't even make the right decision when faced with crossroads. As humans, we're all given choices; I just could never make the right one.

Secondly, this has to be some sort of trap. Maybe it's some trap formulated by the peacekeepers to see who would dare stray away from the social norm, people who might be dangerous. The moment I give him a letter to give back to her, he'll just arrest me and this 'Seladore' would be revealed to be a fake. It's possible. After all, I've never heard of someone who lives surrounded by the blue ocean - surely no one's teetered over the edge of insanity for that long.

The whole idea is amusing.

"What's so funny?" His question is cold and cutting, however, it fails to break me out of my trance of amusement.

"None of this is real, but nice try," I proclaim, stuffing the letter into my right pocket and wiping the smirk off my face.

He raises an eyebrow in confusion.

"This Seladore girl ain't real, some kind of joke or trap. No one's crazy enough to do this," I explain, shaking my head. We're all caged animals, trapped to die in our own filth and do our jobs in all our different cages. We're not supposed to interact with each other, that's why they're cages; everyone knows that.

"You're wrong," he says coldly, breaking my half chuckle and stopping it in its tracks. He hands me a folder. "This is her."

I flip open the folder and read and amusement dies right then and there.

A file so elaborate, detailed and intricate. I don't even know what half of the words in this file mean.

('We're all faced with choices Mercury, think of them as crossroads. A real man makes the decision, sticks with it and knows it's correct.')

The whole notion was branded into my forehead from my very waking moment. My mother would never let me forget them and she made sure I always knew I had a choice. I chose to drink, I chose to fight and I would choose what happens next. I was always faced with crossroads, I just always took to the wrong direction.

There's no excuse now, she's real, she has to be. Just like that, I'm faced with another crossroad.

"I'm not writing back," I state, handing the folder back to him and shaking my head. I haven't teetered on the edge of insanity to risk sending a letter cross district where I could get caught and shot for it. I'm not doing it, not after I spent a month dancing with death, teetering on the edge of life and death. Not after I've been through all that, I can't go and get myself shot now.

('You always have a choice, Merc, make the right one.')

It's crystal clear, the wrong choice will get me killed.

"Why not"? He asks, taken aback by my sudden decision.

"I'm not risking getting myself killed for some girl who I don't even know, she should just go back to her 'blue world' and leave me out of this," I tell him, in all honesty, I just want to go drink. Each heart beat in the passing seconds makes the bottle heavier. I hate second thoughts and all this has done is give me a plethora of unneeded second thoughts. She knows too much about me, far too much.

Teetering on the edge of insanity and knowing so much about me while I know so little, only statistics, numbers and back stories. I've stepped into a dangerous mine field. Anything could happen to those letters.

"She took the risk, why can't you?" He asks and I'm taken aback.

"I'm not stupid." I answer almost instantly and he sighs.

('We all have a choice, Merc.')

I'm making the right choice, I can't-

"Well, the way I see it you have a choice. Either way, I'm going to go back to Six and tell her you got the letter, whether you bother to write back or not is up to you, but she will know you ignored her if you don't," he pauses, as if looking for the right poison to lace his words with, "when she finds out, she'll be heartbroken and go back to being alone and you can carry on drinking your life away, not my problem either way - I'm just a sailor."

('You always have a choice, Merc, make the right one.')

Burned ashes from the moral of masculinity and his final sentence makes me suddenly self-conscious of the heavy bottle of liquor in my left hand. I glance down at the golden brown poison that sits heavy in the glass and I can't help but bite my lip. Drinking my life away. That is what I've been doing isn't it? I was given a crossroad when I woke up. A choice of what to do with the second chance after nearly getting my skull crushed by a hoof and what road did I take?

Look at me now.

('A real man makes his choice and sticks with it because he knows it's the right one.')

"When are you leaving?" I ask him dryly.

"This time next week, you know where to find me if you change your mind." He tells me before turning and walking away, quickly becoming a silhouette then devolving into the shadows of my memory.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the letter, opening it up.

Seladore Maurer that name is already giving me a headache.

Fuck, I just wanted a drink. I didn't ask for this, or a crossroad to be planted in front of me, I've failed every single moral of masculinity my mother branded into my forehead and stuck on my desk at my waking moment. With each sip of poison I turned the damn set into ashes and she shoved them down my lungs in retaliation, that way I would never fucking forget what it is to be a man.

('A real man makes his choices and sticks with them because he knows its the right one.')

As humans we're all presented with crossroads. I could easily throw this letter into a river and down this bottle, empty my guts out in the morning and go back to drinking next weekend. I don't have to hear from her again or this sailor.

'She'll be heartbroken and go back to being alone.'

Fearing the crossroads, my head tips back and I scream out loud to the star blotted sky.

('We all have a choice, Merc, make the right one.')

I can do it, I can make the right choice - even if it's just once in my damn life I can make the right choice.

Heartbeats slur together within the passing seconds and I each passing second brings doubt and second thoughts. With each second thought an extra pound is added to the weight of the poison stitched to my left hand with sweat. I look down and raise it so it's eye level. I eye the golden brown liquid sitting and swirling within the glass prison, crashing and rising like the waves in a tempest. Every breaking waves brings a fresh wave of warm heartbeats and second thoughts.

As humans we're all given crossroads, choices if you will. It's an undeniable fact that my mother made sure stayed branded onto my porcelain skin from the day I dared win the fight for life and wake up from that comatose state.

('A real man makes his choices and sticks with them because he knows they're the right ones.')

In the tension between the poison I held up as if it was a piece of divinity I am as weightless as the air itself. Tighter than the string around my limbs, the air between the bottle and me is taught as tight as puppet strings around my limbs.

And just like that, they suddenly snap.

Fixations broken and hypnosis non-existent, my fingers loosen and I feel the neck of the bottle slowly slip from my fingers and hit the ground with a dull yet sickening thud. It sounds like divinity itself has shattered.

('We all have a choice, Merc, make the right one.')

I promise I will, even if it's just this once.