two intangibles can't be had {dars}

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two intangibles can't be had {dars} Sept 18, 2014 1:49:49 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Sept 18, 2014 1:49:49 GMT -5

cody {♔} bowers-fox

Somewhere between Duncan’s incessantly loud snoring and the constantly heavy mood that hung over every member of the household, the thought of staying confined by the house’s walls became just a bit too much to bear. I took multiple routes in an attempt to solve either of the two problems, the first being to find the loose boards in the floor and step heavy upon them, hoping that the noise would somehow wake Duncan from a sleep deeper than that of a brown bear in the dead of winter. But, not to my surprise, yet much to my disappointment, there was only a slight break in the awful noise before it resumed normal pace, and a huff of annoyance escaped as loud as I had meant it to as I trudged across the house, flopping ungracefully upon the couch, and I reprimanded myself for even attempting to move back into the room that was supposedly both of ours.

Technically it still was, but with Tweed’s moving in, the room that had once been filled with childish joy and memories began to feel less and less like home. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place, for besides other rooms of the house, there were little to no places I could stay. I hadn’t talked to my cousins since Owen’s death, and neither Drew nor Noah had really offered their home as a place for me to take up residence, so I decided that their condolences simply did not extend that far. It was understandable, for I suppose they were coping in their own ways, and those ways did not include my moping around their homes and eating their food.

The couch had been more of a bed to me in the past few months than the object by which it was called, and to count, I had only slept in my bed twice to the day, and both were instances in which Tweed and Duncan had left for the night. It wasn’t that I minded Tweed, in fact, I found her to be decent enough, and she was probably the reason my brother was still breathing (well, one of my brothers still had a beating heart due to her, I suppose).

But Duncan’s mood had only changed in the fact that he was bit more reserved, unwilling to meet my eyes any time our paths crossed, and the only time I could get this matter to change was the one afternoon in which I took hold of his shoulders until this sudden halt of motion caused him to involuntarily look up, and then I saw what my brother had been hiding from me for the entirety of the previous year. He was hiding fear. Fear of my hatred, of the anger that burned in my heart harder at every accusation (whether false or not) I laid against him, and this one time when my brother’s blue eyes met my own I saw the change in attitude I had brought about.

I was proud of what I had done to my brother.

Owen wouldn’t have been.

Owen would’ve been ashamed that I had refused to hold the family together, and this thought lay somewhere in the back of my mind, but I refused to acknowledge it, for Owen couldn’t hold blame against me. If anyone was at fault here, it certainly wasn’t me, for Owen broke his promise because he had a heart too big and it was all because of Duncan.

I fell into this equation only as the victim, and I would refuse to hear otherwise.

It was the same denial that settled in my heart during Owen’s funeral, the casket sitting deftly in front of me like a carving set in stone, yet I couldn’t bring myself to believe that anything other than illusion was there, for it couldn’t be so. Promises lasted forever, but that extent didn’t reach six feet under.

Duncan had gotten up to speak a few choice words about our brother, and the second he stepped down he had been embraced by Tweed’s small arms and patted on the back by our mother and father, words of encouragement being tossed around like dust in the wind. I had told my parents that I would not be doing the same, that no words I could speak would bring to justice to Owen’s untimely end, and while they did not force me into the task, it was easy to see the displeasure that was evident on their faces and that which lingered on words spoken under their breath, loud enough to be heard, but quiet enough to make one ponder on whether it was intentional for their thoughts be known.

I had left the room with words of praise falling upon Duncan’s shoulders, and I had walked until I could hear them no more, and only then did I stop and look back. My feet had led me home, and furthermore up the stairs and back into our room, and I found the box of Owen’s belongings right where I had put them in one of my outbursts at Duncan, the lid still hanging half open and the contents spilling out. His clothes laid on top, and among the first to catch my eye was an old, grey flannel, worn on those crisp, winter nights in which Drew would take us on some new escapade, and the world that seemed to so quickly spin on would slow down for a moment.

But a moment was all we needed.

That was all I needed now, as I pulled the same grey flannel over my hunched shoulders and pushed out the door, no thoughts of where to go or what to do lingering in my mind, only knowing that for now, I couldn’t stay here.

At least now it was a bit more pleasant, the humidity not biting quite as harshly as in the dead of summer, and with ease I was content to wander about, pretending that maybe the world would slow down for just a moment more, and once again I’d be with Drew and Owen, casual words and amused smirks lighting up the faces of two boys and a girl who knew no harm in the world.

It seemed that I knew nothing but this harm now.

If it wasn’t for Duncan’s unrelenting snoring and my spirit of arrogance, I might have returned home after an hour or so of mindless walking, but a combination of the previous factors kept me out, and as I passed house after house I did my best to recognize one in hopes that I could beg for a place to stay, if only for the night. And this wouldn’t have been a trouble, had I been what one might have called more social and put myself out to find what one might call a friend.

Owen was a friend; anyone else was simply an acquaintance.

It was because of my lack of friends that I ended up on the doorstep of Imogen, a girl from school who hated everything about life just about as much as I did. It was this reason that I chose her in particular (other than the fact she seemed to be one of the only homes within a five mile radius that I recognized), hoping that maybe her discontent with life could be shared under the stars or something of the sort.

I suppose this accounted for the anxiety that settled in my stomach after my hand drew back after knocking against the heavy door, and I realized that unlike Duncan, who was at ease with impromptu speech and casual conversation, I may not have a credible answer that accounts for my tired eyes and heavy mood.

Maybe she wouldn’t notice.

Maybe she wouldn’t care.

umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]
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two intangibles can't be had {dars} Oct 7, 2014 17:42:38 GMT -5

Post by umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars] on Oct 7, 2014 17:42:38 GMT -5

imogen tarver

" i don't care
i l o v e it "

My fingers, each decorated with scars that doubled as proof of my hard work in the textiles, danced under the steady stream of water. It was cool, and somewhat soothing to my aching bones. When I turn the faucet off, I grab a large knife and a cutting board, and begin chopping vegetables and slicing mushrooms and shredding cheese. I set the ingredients aside an start kneading a slab of dough, eventually pressing it into the bottom of a pan and sprinkling the ingredients on top. I made this very same dish for my parents countless times before, and even a carnivore like my father had to admit pizza was even delicious when it was vegetarian. I guess Mom would have accepted anything, as long as she was able to keep it down.

I couldn't remember a time when she wasn't sick. Every time I tried, a memory of me wearing her shoes as a toddler, or her taking me to the park perhaps, it is plagued with the image of the ghoul of a woman that basically lives in her bed now. It's terrible that she is so ill, and even worse that Eight doesn't have the technology to find out what she is sick with. Healers have guessed Cancer, or perhaps Diabetes, or a broken spirit, or a number of things we don't have the money to cure.

I find a tear in my eye as I slide the pizza into the oven, and suddenly I am mad. Why the fuck am I crying? This has been my life for a very long time, knowing I could lose the woman who birthed me at any second, knowing it would become my sole responsibility to make sure my father didn't get into any trouble. My life was always a big "what-if?". What if my mother got better? ~~What if she didn't?~~ What if my father followed her lead? What if I got stuck here with the worry of making sure they were both okay? What if I never had a life?

What if I didn't want to live anymore at all?

It made no sense for me to be crying in that moment, but I did it anyway. I think the stress of it all just became too much of a burden sometimes, and since there was no one else for me to take my anger out on, I turned on myself. Which, of course, only pissed me off more. Everything was stupid. My life in general was stupid. It was a joke, in fact, and not a funny one.

A knock on the door was all it took, and my eyes stopped watering, almost like I was about to get caught doing something I wasn't supposed to do. Hint: I wasn't even supposed to have emotions in the first place.

I flung it open and was shocked to find Cody on the other side of it. "What the hell do you want?" I asked, trying to hint at a bit of humor in my tone and leaning against the door frame. Admittedly, I hated him a bit less than most, probably because he had lost his brother and every day could have been the last I had my mother. It was some kind of dark, twisted thing that made me respect him, though I never ever, ever would have admitted.

When we were younger we were decent friends. Dad would send me to play at his house on Mom's worst days, and since he only lived a short walk, we grew pretty close. But, time seems to do wonders to friendships, because with it, we grew distant. As of that year, e hardly spoke at all. I had offered him my condolences after Owen's death, as had everyone, and then we went back to being strangers that lived next door to each other.

ooc; very short bc how do long reply

^{I AM A GARDEN OF BLACK AND RED AGONIES}

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two intangibles can't be had {dars} Oct 11, 2014 1:43:20 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Oct 11, 2014 1:43:20 GMT -5

cody {♔} bowers-fox

There were paths we took and roads we wandered in hopes of finding what was lost. I suppose Owen found it somewhere along the way, as if he was able to pluck virtues of self-sacrifice and mercy like petals from flowers. If he and I talked on this topic of conversation, he alluded that I had not indeed altogether lost all hope of finding whatever it was that lay await in the world, only that I was still in the midst of the journey.

But then again, Owen’s tombstone wasn’t one to offer the best advice.

Yet time and time again it was the location at which I found myself wasting hours away, talking to a stone that was as dead as my own mind and soul, standing tall only because it had to and for nothing more, individual thoughts collapsing upon themselves as crumbling pillars, because like my brother’s flesh and bone, they were indeed vulnerable.

We were wasting away, only some quicker than others.

I had been called logical my entire life, but even now my mother looked upon me with a sympathy that was too condescending for comfort, my father only casting sideways glances in my direction, as if he couldn’t bear to meet the gaze of his now eldest son. They never told me they were sorry, but I never asked them to. I never wanted condolences or empty words tossed in my direction but this was all I did receive. And I’ll admit to expecting it from distant relatives and acquaintances known only by name, but not from those whose footsteps I had once yearned to follow in. However, Duncan was a different case. A week or two after his death he had come over and shaken me awake in the middle of the night, his body shaking every time he attempted to draw in a full breath as he fell apart at my touch. And though he spoke only two words repeated at regular intervals, there was much more definition behind each.

“I’m sorry; I’m sorry, Cody; I’m so sorry.”

(“But it’s not my fault and I’m sorry and there’s a world crumbling around me and I have no where left to turn so, Cody, for the sake of what sanity is left in my ever-collapsing mind please forgive me.”)

Now was not the time for apologies that would not change a single thing. And despite the fact that I never actually forgave my brother for his crimes against humanity, I put on a guise of affection (one that seemed quite genuine, considering the inconvenient time at which he woke me up) and held him tight, letting his tears fall upon my shirt and mark it in a way that no amount of scrubbing could bring out. My brother was broken by not only the unlikely circumstances that had come to fall upon his shoulders, but by my own misanthropic actions as well.

His apology might have been some sort of genuine, but my forgiveness had never been the same.

We had lived out the following weeks in a precarious state of comfort, and for a few days I had even believed that Tweed would leave, but this never came to pass. Indeed, the two occupied the room I had once called ours, and I had no intentions of disturbing whatever they were.

My mother and father called it a relationship, saying that it was “good for him,” and that it might “improve his general outlook and mood.” However, I knew that at least one of the two was not necessarily true. For though Duncan was indeed broken, Tweed did not strike me as the one to hold him together, for something about the girl told me that she was just as shattered as the mangled mess of my brother. But this didn’t matter, I suppose, for it’s been said that when you love someone it does not matter what negativity you bring along, only that you affect the other for the better. They tried to fix broken pieces with those that did not fit the same, uneven lines joined by a desperation unmatched by any.

Two wrongs didn’t quite make a right, and I was more than sure that Duncan knew this just as well as I.

But regardless it was the effort they put forth which I considered commendable. And though I told my parents they were nothing more than friends I knew that somewhere within my brother’s chest there lay a heart heavy with sorrow lightened only by his love for a girl who carried him over fire and water without a moment’s hesitation. It was this unfailing dedication that I longed for, though I would never admit it to myself, much less anyone else. Especially not to whose face I now stood.

Especially not to Imogen Tarver; anyone but Imogen Tarver.

And it was at this point in time, standing on the doorstep of a girl who I knew much better in days past than present, that I realized the importance of friendships, those lost and those that were to be gained.

“What the hell do you want?”

Comfort.

Consolation.

Friendship, perhaps.

But none of these ideals would strike a chord of positivity in her mind, so I remained silent for a moment to watch her lean against the wooden doorframe, taking in the air of sarcasm that seemed to so closely match my own. It was this that had drawn us close in the first place, two kids content to point and laugh at those who fell instead of trying ourselves, our negativity stemming together in what we believed to be a positive manner.

But in the same way two wrongs don’t quite make a right, I suppose it can also be assumed that two pessimists don’t tend to make an optimist.

“What the hell do you want?”

And again the question filters through my mind as I think of every possible answer, letting seconds more tick by as the answer seems to lay just out of reach.

“Can I—can I come in?”

(“Can I come in, even if it’s only for a moment? Can I come in, and lay my troubles upon your floor? Can I come in, even if there’s more to be lost than gained from the poison seeping through my veins?”)