glimpse into the future [Azaleah]

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kousei ♚
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Pronouns: He/Him/His
last seen May 7, 2022 17:23:18 GMT -5

now and forever

glimpse into the future [Azaleah] Nov 20, 2016 16:59:27 GMT -5

Post by kousei ♚ on Nov 20, 2016 16:59:27 GMT -5

M e r c u r y

Breaking, spinning,

falling.

How the fuck am I still breathing?

"Fuck, fu-" My throat's hoarse and cracked and it feels like fireworks have gone off in my skull a billion times and just won't stop. I can't take a single damn thing in, I can't even curse properly or crane my neck around to check where the fuck I am. Hell, it's too hard to even open my mouth and take anything in; from the air to the fucking lesson.

When will I learn my damn lesson?

Books, morals, masculinity; I haven't learned a damn thing from when I fucking woke up. I open my mouth to breathe but the air just gets stuck.

Am I finally dead?

I can't strike the possibility through just yet. After all, I've smashed, cracked, broken more than one nose around these parts (sober and drunk) and the threat of a knife being drawn across my throat or a bullet going through my skull is unlikely but not impossible. With the luck of a Scoff slung over my shoulders and two dead boys hanging over my head like a cloud, I wouldn't be all too surprised if it finally happened.

Hanging by a thread, there's a possibility that life itself could just-

"Snap."

My eyes flicker open and given the choice between the air and a hard lesson, I decide to take in air.

And punishment comes in the form of dry, rasp coughs and sputters. Agony like this has got to be reserved for the living.

Lost under grey clouds paired with a frosted breeze, I suppose I've really outdone myself this time. "Where the fuck am I?" It's a mystery too complex, too important for my clouded brain. My mother warned me that's what happens when you waste your evening pouring poison down your gullet instead of working or studying or living. Too bad I've been half dead for almost a year now - I might as well have never woken up. Standing along the taught rope that marks the boundaries between the living and the dead (limbo) before being tugged from one side to the other; I still drink to remember the dead but forget the living.

I may as well have never woken up, at least then I never had a home to lose.

Sporadic, arcane, unfamiliar - a shudder passes down my spine and my muscles twitch, and tense, and stutter. I swear, every unneeded movement only intensifies the hangover. Poison down my gullet, consequences have never felt more dire. A familiar situation in a familiar setting, how long until this Scoff finally crosses the boundaries I wonder?

I miss the feeling of divinity in my sturdy hands. When I could clutch a glass bottle to my chest or hold it to my eyes and watch the liquid swirl and glint in the sunlight. I could never remember their faces but I their names would remain etched into the palm of my hands when paid the prices with my soul. Every little drop, every slow sip.

It's evil, it's poison and it breaks every single rule in the book of what my mother told me about masculinity but what's someone to do when they can't distinguish between a graveyard and a family reunion?

One broken promise branded across my back ('I'll be sober), and two dead boys hanging above my head like a cloud , I finally manage a sigh without coughing and sputtering. Fumbling around and frantically moving my eyes from one surface to the next, panic no longer sets when I realize I'm not in a ditch or on the ground, I just passed out on a bench on the side of some kind of path. Relief floods my veins when I realize it's nothing out of the ordinary; I don't want to cross the boundary from purgatory just yet.

I don't even bother straining my mind in a futile to remember; I remain content when their faces and the events of last night remaining a secret drowned in liquor.

"Fuck this."

Footsteps, movement. I hear it, I see it.

I've lost the will to even sit upright, I just pray they don't open my throat. I want to draw breathe for just one more day - I'm not ready to cross the grey boundary and see them yet.

d4 tati pelotte [azalea]
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glimpse into the future [Azaleah] Dec 28, 2016 18:46:10 GMT -5

Post by d4 tati pelotte [azalea] on Dec 28, 2016 18:46:10 GMT -5

ellerie tibideaux

Grey skies knit themselves tightly together creating a screen that hides us from the blue which lies underneath. There are spots of rain which fall swiftly to the ground, cutting through the air like a knife to meat. The wind calls, and a tree watches silently as her leaves fly the nest, leaving her lonely, rotten and decrepit. Delicate paces down the path and up the street, I find myself facing the cold unarmed.

No scarf, no coat or mittens. Bare skin that is already broken and surely, can't break any more.

Could I ever be fixed? I walk with the thought, absorbed by the question of whether or not a band-aid or plaster would work. Several streets go by, the chill against my cheeks getting stronger with each step. My heart droops like a wilting rose at the possibility of being lost, but the feeling is something I'm used to.

I've learnt not to think twice about it. Not thinking twice about everything was difficult, and it's proven when the wind blows in a figure because I can't help but wonder. He sits several feet away and appears to embody the word grey—loose limbs and tired eyes, it's a sight I've seen before.

A drunk.

Memories of arms tipping back small glasses until they appear empty, memories of notes and pennies being taken by the hands of merchants in exchange for tall bottles of red venom, memories of the dark and never the light; but childhood was really the calm before the storm.

I take a single step towards him, noticing the dark hair that falls onto his pale cadaverous face. My breath gets caught in my throat and my heart skips a beat upon recognising the man before me—it's the Scoff boy.

The half-dead Scoff boy.

He murmurs through the cold but the words are lost in translation when they are swept away by the breeze. I imagine it's a warning telling me to get away and save myself, but he's the only person at the scene who needs saving. I walk towards the bench, taking a seat beside him because it's no big deal. It's no big deal.

My hands dive into my pockets, feet rocking back and forth in the air that divides them from the ground. I look out to the world, to the people who have passed this man by and not batted an eyelid. Perhaps they are afraid and have a right to be; perhaps I don't know what I'm getting myself into.

"So this is what it does then... alcohol. What a life to live." I say, inhaling the scent of liquor which stains the man like blood on a person's hands.

I look at him: half-dead, and heavy, and heartbroken. There's a chance that he can get better, that he can be helped and recover from this all time low. But if I'm honest, I don't think the odds are in his favour.

coding : elegant

Last Edit: Dec 28, 2016 18:46:51 GMT -5 by d4 tati pelotte [azalea]

kousei ♚
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Pronouns: He/Him/His
last seen May 7, 2022 17:23:18 GMT -5

now and forever

glimpse into the future [Azaleah] Jan 5, 2017 17:14:00 GMT -5

Post by kousei ♚ on Jan 5, 2017 17:14:00 GMT -5

m e r c u r y s c o f f

If they were to produce a blade and slice and tear through flesh and sinew, I wonder if I would bleed red or whiskey brown.

I've been half-dead and hanging on the edges of purgatory ever since I dared wake up from my white plane of dreams - a safe haven to the reality. A medical marvel they called me, with technology even an infant could replicate, it was only through through some kind of divine intervention that I wasn't killed by the impact of a wild kick or during the months of suspense that followed that kick. And fuck, now the bottle has every limb of mine on tight strings and my weak chest runs on nothing but scrambled memories lost in my passing wind. I do not remember their faces, just their names, but I've been slowly shattering pieces of myself for two dead boys lofted over my shoulders.

With the truth laid bare for all to see, the only one who will witness it is this enigma who just happened to stumble onto the trail end of a poor binge drink session. I can't even remember what slurs my words devolved into or what meaningless promises I made while intoxicated - everything's just a white flood, static fuzz. I never wanted this, to be a slave to something as fragile as porcelain, I could've had dreams, thoughts and wishes upon stars - it's all pointless anyway.

The grey knitted sky in combination with the the ever encroaching footsteps causes me to stifle a raspy groan, each clack of shoe against concrete a thunderous gunshot against my ears. I'm too weak to defend myself, too nihilistic for the thought of caring to pass through my hollow head; my troubles and hangover remain planted against my chest and I let out a sigh cold sigh, alcohol-soaked breath fogging right before me.

('you're just a boy')

A boy too concerned with imagining what faceless dead boys look like because he is too afraid to even contemplate glancing at a picture, a boy who has to beg the owners of bars to let him back in because he doesn't know how to raise a white flag when he agitates one of their well-paying customers. A boy who's too nihilistic and half-dead to even care at the countless people who pass by into blurs as he sits hungover - some boy I am.

I suppose I can be called a waste of a medical marvel, and when I'm too hungover to even contemplate the idea of arguing that fact I think there's no choice but to grudgingly agree.

They pass with each heavy pounding, milliseconds, minutes, ages - they haven't shown any signs of aggression so I decide I can look at them. "So this is what it does then... alcohol. What a life to live." The words fall from pink lips far from the coming of age and form a tattoo in the air between us, strands of blonde forming curtains around rosy cheeks, eyes devoid of the possibility of reading; I can't tell if she looks at me with contempt or disappointment - I'm used to hearing a marred mixture between the two, never stable, never familiar.

I've been half-dead for almost a year and I don't know what words devoid of passion or feeling even sound like.

A hardened exterior houses a soft, heavy hard and is shielded by knuckles branded in shades of black and blue, I've never been one for dwelling on rugged beatings or people with swords for tongues who would pierce and stab at me with insults and test how the solid exterior chips and shatters. Perhaps the only reason I haven't yet shattered like porcelain is the fact that I can't seem to stop reinforcing my solid protection by numbing my insides with alcohol so as to not cry out when everyone tried to face me with the hard truth.

(sober up, you are a mess, real men don't get drunk, real men aren't violent, youneedtostop)

Like she is right now, just veiled under a different string of words and sentences.

But she doesn't have a sword for a tongue and from what I can tell, she isn't chipping and hacking away at the exterior to see if it cracks. Hell, she must know of me because I'm the violent hurricane that sits on every drunk storyteller's lips and places with the edge of their tongues - ('did you hear about the Scoff kid that cracked Jace over the head with a bottle, barman had to hit him and throw him right out'). In a bar, I can hold narcissism in the palm of my hand and be the center of the world for the length of time it takes for me to get so drunk that I blacken someone's eye and get thrown out.

I do not need reminding that I am a waste of a medical marvel.

I slowly sit up, gripping the wooden railing of the bench before slowly pulling myself up and letting out a dry laugh. "Sounding a bit like my mom right about now," I pause, looking her up and down before resting my unflinching gaze into the eyes of the storm of judgement, "did you come her just to mock me? If so then you can piss right off cos I've got a killer hangover to deal with." I say simply, running a hand through hair matted with dried blood and dirt.

Hoisted onto the shoulder of astral intervention before being shattered by the hand of a bottle, my worth is not up for question to a simple stranger.