ophiuchus. d7 fin

calla RP Tutor 2,120 POSTS Pronouns: she/they last seen Apr 17, 2024 0:08:40 GMT -5 just a litle creacher	ophiuchus. d7 fin May 6, 2018 21:27:15 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by calla on May 6, 2018 21:27:15 GMT -5 ~~ophiuchus~~ phi parallax 16. petty legend.
	Last Edit: Jun 24, 2018 23:30:14 GMT -5 by calla ⇀ tracker ↼ ⇀ 2024 upat ↼

calla
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2,120 POSTS

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just a litle creacher

ophiuchus. d7 fin Jun 4, 2018 20:55:08 GMT -5

Quote

Post by calla on Jun 4, 2018 20:55:08 GMT -5

⭑ ⭑ ⭑

A window breaks and
you know, fuck it, it's probably for the best.

Better than my face at least; alternate escape route, path of least resistance, the road less traveled. All that jazz.

Pull up a chair because it's kind of a cliché - lying somewhere I shouldn't be, lying all sugary through my teeth. Misconceptions; because c'mon it wasn't me I swear. But then the old man always shows up, drags my ass home like it's the biggest inconvenience in the world, but I think it's the only time he actually fucking sees me so whatever. I'll take what I can get.

Some kind of bitterness, the world spins too fast, tilts like a bitch, and he's busy grooming my brother into his image. Sitting with the short end of the stick, mismatched mirrors, I told important people important things and broke windows, found better ways to get dad's attention.

Except our dad isn't actually our dad and he's got the kind of face I want to drive a fist into - but I'm not supposed to say stuff like that anymore. Because yes sir-ee, he's the perfect father figure you know; strong and understanding and full of shit -

Maybe it's just 'cause he figured out how to tolerate my brother before I could, hit the ground running with some kind of owner's manual in his back pocket while I was busy squeezing my way into cupboards and writing p h i over and over again in the space under the stairs while fake mom absolutely lost her shit.

Ripred forbid I try to fix her godawful design choices but she still goes all ballistic on me. And damn? Because it's not like I was floating three feet off the ground while my head did a full three-sixty or anything, fuck.

Let a kid express himself.

Or maybe it's just because there's some kind of swan song when the bastard spits out my name, syllables of hot coals, consonants crawling like fire ants on my skin, "Ophiuchus-" he says, like he hasn't been ignoring me for a week straight, and it seeps molten into my skull.

"Listen old man, that's not my fucking name." Because it's goading something dangerous, temptation, and you won't catch me blind, following all sheep-like with a hymn in my throat. This is what they don't tell you - a gospel of identity and careful steps and other pretentious bullshit.

His frustration still tastes like pennies, cherry pits and ethanol in a wine glass, something sweet watered down with poisons of "Language." and "It's the name your mother gave you."

Damn, like he actually knew?

But, yeah sure, what a fucking beautiful story - Local Man Takes in Two Orphans to Combat His Own Struggling Sense of Manhood, Even Though He Knows Jack Shit About Parenting. Sell it to the paper at least. Make a profit y'know?

And I mean come on, we pretend everything's all good and rosy but mom must've be a real piece of work anyways if she named her son Ophiuchus. It's like she was high out of her mind on bath salts and wanted the whole world to suffer - because what kind of kid can even pronounce that?

If Aries can't spell it, why should I have to, right? Anyways, I'm like, seventy-five percent sure that our parents were crackheads for that alone.

Not that it matters.

The only thing that matters is some kind of reminder, salt wounds, tongue in cheek, and you're not theirs. It's taking kitchen shears to your hair and then growing it out again, week long tattoos fading into shadows. A pair of liar's hands, smooth because fuck labour and talk's too cheap these days. It's the distance between father and son, light and dark, blue and brown. Three syllables shaved down to three letters, normalcy, rebellion - it's not a phase, mom.

But everything else kind of is.

It's the hunger that drives me - because we can't all run on familial love and candy hearts. When your name gets shit on often enough, something's gotta give.

I'd really leave this place if I could (and fuck, I definitely could), pack up my nonexistent shit and go, but then they'd be off the hook, winners of some subtextual game and free to go back to easy living, perfect family portraits on perfectly boring walls.

And really, where's the fun in that.

I dunno though, it's kind of just easier to power through it, force eye contact and sell secrets on the school roof, press my ear to a door, listen in for a lifeline because porch swings and sweet tea afternoons only last for so long.

And sometimes Aries is real shit at keeping his door closed.

See, I've got a list of all the places my brother's stuck his axe, haha yeah fuck you, and it's almost too easy to mess with him.

"Fucking idiot - " Snitches get stitches or something.

(Only if you get caught.)

It's like when he'd stay out, spend all his time splitting wood like some macho freak with a chip on his shoulder, and I had simply commented, suggested, implied that his work was maybe, possibly, perhaps compensating for something.

I had to sleep with ice pressed to my face that night, but Ripred, I'd do it a million times over again just to see the look on his face. Because attention was always like fucking heroine, a million spotlights that mimicked sunlight and I'd get high by riling him up, chain-smoking the sound of crunching bone and clenched jaws.

I remember dumb childhood ideals and wanting to be him for all of three minutes - y'know before he punched my lights out, an embarrassing phase of shadowed steps and unanswered questions. But then he grew up and fucked off, walked through pristine pollution and got up to whatever angsty teenagers liked to do with their spare time in a shitty place like seven.

Like coming home with watercolour bruises, angry marks on his neck, steady collarbone paintings under the leak of a faucet, and the girl-of-the-week's name would magically show up on the door of a bathroom stall the next day.

And I could definitely leave, I think. But then something rusts and turns my vision all red, world cracking through copper lenses.

(Newsflash attention whore - you can't slip out of this one.)

Because I'd grown up on starting rumours behind broken bleachers, rode that mill long before I could ride a bike, scrawling something obscene on a paper airplane and watching how far it'd fly.

And if the week ended in some bitch sobbing on the grimy tile floor of a local haunt's bathroom - well, then there's something poetic there.

Except really there's no hiding it, might as well have signed my own name next to hers - xoxo for a good time call - because there'd be screaming, social circle drama, some kind of "Ophiuchus Parallax, you fucking snake" and I'd draw a forked tongue on my wrist, blue ballpoint bleeding, and laugh in their faces because yeah.

Sometimes it's just that simple.

A window breaks
and it gives me that warm fuzzy feeling.

Last Edit: Jun 24, 2018 23:31:14 GMT -5 by calla

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calla RP Tutor 2,120 POSTS Pronouns: she/they last seen Apr 17, 2024 0:08:40 GMT -5 just a litle creacher	ophiuchus. d7 fin Jun 24, 2018 23:34:25 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by calla on Jun 24, 2018 23:34:25 GMT -5 take him away boys
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ghosty Mentor 2,134 POSTS Pronouns: he/him last seen Dec 5, 2022 12:52:02 GMT -5	ophiuchus. d7 fin Jun 25, 2018 10:12:44 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by ghosty on Jun 25, 2018 10:12:44 GMT -5 "like coming home with watercolor bruises" very nice <3