stop this boat from {sinking} // chelsey

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stop this boat from {sinking} // chelsey Jun 23, 2013 3:27:09 GMT -5

Post by Python on Jun 23, 2013 3:27:09 GMT -5

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D A R I U S V E N T U R A

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Three weeks ago, Darius Ventura saved a life.

That life belonged to a gentle soul by the name of Lorraine Mercier - a girl that had narrowly evaded the claws of death as she teetered on the edge of that bridge, arms splayed and prepared to take the final plunge into district four’s treacherous waters. The image of her elegant silhouette leaned against a starlit backdrop was embedded in his mind, the flash of her red hair whipping in the wind’s icy grip glued into the insides of his eyelids. He had hauled her away from temptation in the nick of time, having emerged victorious with both a miracle and a friend. Everything after that moment was a series of blurs merged into one path leading to one captured moment, when a ball of light soared parallel to the moon and Lorraine settled in his arms as the waves brushed their shivering chests until they were a beacon of fire and ice. He had asked one simple question, ”What would ya wish for?” in a rare display of emotional sincerity, the curiosity evident in his playful grin. Seconds had ticked before he had felt her shift in his arms, ”Something I can’t have.” There was a hint in her tone that implied a deeper meaning - maybe one of sentiment - that brightened his spark of curiosity into a flare. He would’ve pressed further for more information had she not tilted her head and kissed him into a state of sweet surprise right then and there.

Dating was not an idea he had ever considered plausible

(I’ve always been a one-night stand kinda guy) but Lorraine was not the average girl he could lure from a bar or a club. She was special in a strange, unique way that he couldn’t comprehend or translate into words. He couldn’t even describe their relationship without dumbing it down to the words “girlfriend” and “boyfriend” - names that felt foreign and bitter on his tongue yet held a certain amount of honesty that he could not deny. They were in fact “dating”, and had been for the past three weeks; possibly the longest relationship he had ever managed with a woman. Their mornings consisted of strolls along the shoreline, fingers entwined and smiles always exchanged. Afternoons were saved for treats, when Darius would knock at her door and spontaneously invite her on a visit to one of many cafes around the district (I’d take a bar over a café any day, but she seems like the café type of girl). After the sun dipped beneath the horizon she would entrance him with the melodies of her piano, and he would always sit by her side to observe and absorb. He would listen to her songs but mostly he would watch her, completely enchanted in the way her nimble fingers danced across the keys and the way the corners of her lips would twitch into a faint smile at the sound of her own masterpieces. Again, he could not describe their relationship and the details of it - he was just Darius, and she was Lorraine, and somehow they suited each other so imperfectly that their flaws and strengths could piece together and form one perfect puzzle of harmony.

It was this invisible, indescribable connection weaved between them that summoned the magnetic pull and lured him to her doorstep. There was no need for a swipe of his hand to know that his nose was bleeding, the iron’s odor obnoxiously potent in his throbbing nostrils, and there was no need to taste the blood trickling from his swollen lip to know that his opponent’s knuckles had earned itself a lucky shot. He was fortunate not to have broken a bone or lost a tooth, but that was courtesy of talent and experience, not luck. The fighter had been quite a feisty bastard, but too predictable to pose as an equal. Darius had subdued him within minutes, leaving him with broken ribs and shattered pride. He had been the one with the audacity to pursue him for vengeance from a fight that had occurred months ago (he was talkin’ about my sis, what was I supposed to do?). All Darius had done was deliver justice to a deserving criminal, and this was his thanks? A bloody nose and a cut lip; he couldn’t return home in this condition, not with Dahra already worried sick about her own stresses. She had enough piled on her plate, he didn’t want to add another burden. He also didn’t want to pester Lorraine and frighten her with the darker aspects of his life, but what choice did he have? It was now or later; she would find out no matter what he did to try and hide it. He might as well let the cat out of the bag sooner than later.

Tasting blood on the tip of his tongue, he combed his fingers through his disheveled hair and tried to clean the crimson from his lips. Will she still kiss me if I have a swollen lip? I kinda like the little butterfly kisses. He chuckled at himself and wiped blood away from his lip, hoping to tidy himself up a bit before he knocked at her door. Would she even be home tonight? He saw no reason for her to be wandering outside in the late evening, but what did he know? They were still warming up to one another, learning each other’s habits and mannerisms. Darius was still trying to break his cigarette addiction so his clothes and his breath wouldn’t reek of smoke when he visited her, but so far he was finding the task difficult to accomplish. Withdrawal was beginning to settle in his system, and it made his skin crawl and his lungs ache for the bittersweet pollution to return. He craved a cigarette even now as he approached her door with his hand extended. He had tossed his last pack of cigarettes into the garbage, so there was nothing he could do but distract himself with pain and affection until the irksome symptoms subsided. The sooner I’m cleaner the better, I guess. He grimaced in self-loathing (it shouldn’t be this damn hard to quit smokin’ for one girl) and prepared himself for the inevitable - though he wasn’t sure what he expected to see once he knocked on the door.

Through his perspective his condition was a mere case of mild disfigurement. To someone else he might look like a bloody wreck, but that was for Lorraine to decide. As soon as the door opened, he mustered the friendliest smile he could and spoke almost too cheerfully. ”Hey there.”

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Last Edit: Jun 23, 2013 3:33:43 GMT -5 by Python

chelsey
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stop this boat from {sinking} // chelsey Aug 30, 2013 0:47:51 GMT -5

Post by chelsey on Aug 30, 2013 0:47:51 GMT -5

[presto]

L O R R A I N E
M E R C I E R

_______________________
"I WOULD SHIFT
THE CURRENTS
IF YOU HAD TO ROW."
_______________________

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_________________________________________

THREE WEEKS AGO, I was on a ship anchored in the middle of a storm.

I welcomed death like an old friend - spreading my arms out to jump into the familiar territory of abandonment, and leave my withered father alone, like so many before and after me had already done. My body would plummet through the cool crisp atmosphere, drink in the last of stars my eyes could absorb, and join the unfortunate ones at the eternal graveyard of sinners anchored to their guilty confessions. I was ready to die the death of a sinner, ready to pay the price of a murderer (because the burn of Rachel's last breath on my skin still stung in my arms - the last place I held her heaving lungs before the currents carried her away) until someone dragged me from the railing of the bridge, and until someone pulled me from under the black waves.

Three weeks ago, I met Darius, and I learned three things since then.

(One.) Guilt and self inflicting pain can evaporate a whole sea within me, and dry the entirety of the oceans coursing through my veins until my tongue is parched from retelling a story about a drowning mermaid and the consequences she had to pay. But, either way, my limbs will stretch from their rusted binds at the smell of salty seas because they were made to swim - no matter how many times I drowned since then - and, maybe if they were made to swim, they could also be made to rescue.

(Two.) Even though I was too late to save Rachel (and even though the thought of it makes my eyes burn with waters more treacherous than the ones that filled her lungs) maybe it's not too late to save myself, yet.

(Three.) Refuge can be found in the darkness, in the kisses that still taste like his cigarette smoke, or the rough callouses patched between the valleys of his knuckles. I collect his smiles like how others collect flowers - sweetly pressed between the pages of an old brazen book, to flip back on when I need a reminder that my story hasn't ended. And when the rain from the hurricane collects so much to point where the cracks in my dam begin to deepen again, I know I can rely on his grip to carry me from the flood.

But, the purples and blues that dance along his face remind me of a hurricane that I'm not sure even he could weather.

"Hey there." A shy smile graces his swollen lip, as I slowly raise the back of my knuckles to brush against the raw cuts on his cheek.

"What happened to you? You look like the tide beat you up."

Last Edit: Feb 23, 2014 16:40:31 GMT -5 by chelsey

"Isn't this the point of being young?"

^ bless avalon's soul ^

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stop this boat from {sinking} // chelsey Oct 5, 2013 21:36:20 GMT -5

Post by Python on Oct 5, 2013 21:36:20 GMT -5

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D A R I U S V E N T U R A

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A feather soft touch grazed the scrape across his cheek as the worried mask of an ocean’s angel reached his bruised eyes. This was the very moment he had dreaded; her skin wrinkling with concern, her tone wavering with panic, her eyes pleading for the truth. Darius knew he could not deny her that truth. Of all people, she was the last person he wanted to feed lies, but he knew this loyalty would make speaking honestly all the more painful to bear.

”What happened to you? You look like the tide beat you up.” He only wished it was that simple. When he was down and dirty scrapping between suffocating alley walls and behind decrepit buildings in the withering neighborhoods of district four, where poverty struck the hearts of the undeserving, everything appeared simple. Words were exchanged and fists were tossed until the inevitable victor reached an end, and with scraped skin and cracked bones they would part ways and turn their back on the past. The rules were perpetual, easy, and followed by all who understood this lifestyle. It wasn’t until he found contact with the rest of the world that he realized nothing was that easy. There was money to be earned, people to protect, and now there was Lorraine - somebody he wanted to hold tight for as long as possible.

”Wasn’t exactly the tide,” he murmured sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck as a nervous gesture. When she stepped aside as an invitation, he wandered into familiar hospitality and found his way to the couch, eager to replace the odor of iron with that of her home’s alluring scent. Now that he was situated, it was time for the reveal. How could he go about this as gently as possible without damaging their relationship? He didn‘t want to mend something he had tried his best not to break. ”I, uh, got into a scrap. Got a bit roughed up,” It really wasn’t as serious as it could’ve been. He had escaped the fight with minimal damage: no broken bones, no scars, and nothing that required medics. For a boy like Darius, his injuries were a sign of success. However, she might despise the idea even more if he said something like that. He wasn’t quite sure how she would react, after all. His sister always seemed to grimace as if disappointed, yet not surprised. That’s how it always was, but here there was an entire spectrum of emotions Lorraine could wield to her advantage. He just didn’t know what to expect, though he was experienced enough to realize that the conversation could spiral into something wicked if he didn’t tread carefully.

Learning forward, he licked the blood from his swollen lip and smiled. ”You should see the other guy. He’s a lot worse. This ain’t much, really,” he continued, and maybe it wasn’t the smartest thing to say at the moment, but he wasn’t talented with this whole relationship business. Coughing awkwardly, he grabbed a tissue and wiped the remnants of drying blood away from his nostrils. He knew he looked terrible with a swollen lip and purple under his eyes, but relationships weren’t supposed to be about looks, right? Yet he couldn’t help but feel the chill of self-consciousness creeping up his spine. It was an unfamiliar feeling lingering in the dark, and he willed it to vanish as quickly as possible before he grew too fidgety from the discomfort. ”This kinda stuff happens to me a lot, actually. I’ve been tryin’ to stop, but tonight was different.” His smile twisted into a neutral frown, and for protection he activated his one and only defense mechanism against women: his puppy-dog eyes. ”I’m sorry.”

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Last Edit: Oct 5, 2013 21:40:22 GMT -5 by Python