Sinister Kid :: [Nino + Uma]

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L△LIA
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Sinister Kid :: [Nino + Uma] Oct 25, 2014 17:12:48 GMT -5

Post by L△LIA on Oct 25, 2014 17:12:48 GMT -5

baby don’t worry
after waking up
from the dream that was you
this morning of reality
feels so empty

She won't even see me and I don't know why.

I slept three straight nights in the alleyway beneath her bedroom window: tossing pebbles at the glass, casually hitting my head against the bricks, and talking to myself, because the only explanations I get are the ones that come from my own mouth. Harper kept bringing me cups of tea while wearing her sweaters and when he hugged me out of pity at one point, I didn't flinch away. I just closed my eyes and buried my face in his shoulder, pretending the softness into her. It's weird, I know. Literally insane. I'm so pathetic Jude can't even bring himself to yell at me over it or lecture me about coming to my senses, he just sighs and gives me a look. I hate that look. It's too much like the expression people gave me after Fitz and Noah's deaths, pitying me as I punched things and lost my mind for all the world to see.

I love her for real this time, I get that now. Before I was just a heartsick teenage kid revved up on hormones and rambling about white whales as if I were on about something other than fiction, but I'm damned close to being something like a man now and I don't miss her pretty face nearly as much as I miss the toiling hum of exasperation that lined her laughter around me. I want to keep all those little moments of us that actually belonged to me. There are a lot of people who have made some pretty convincing arguments over the years about my being a crazy person and okay. I'm a friggin' psycho, whatever. It's official. I lost my mind to Ursula Libertine in one of her deals and I don't know how to get it back because she won't see me or talk to me or acknowledge me in any way and —

I. Don't. Know. Why.

Not all that long ago I'd have lost my temper in an attempt to burn my body to ruins and find rebirth in the ashes. That's what I did after Noah was killed, but not this time. There's an incredibly annoying voice in the back of my head — the insistently squeaking whisper of a loose hinge — that tells me I'm grown now. I'm too old for petty fits. I'm too old to wallow. I'm too old to be this wrecked. Now, I know it's probably a bad idea to listen to strange voices that only exist in the dark, but when it says I should go home and shower so I can turn around and go to work, I do it because that's at least ten thousand times more sane than what I've been doing.

It's only been a couple of weeks since I was hired on as a barback at Bastille Styx's club. In times of depression, I guess it's not out of the ordinary for people to turn to booze and Jude agrees that pouring it into glasses for other people is a better life decision on my part than tipping the bottles into my own mouth. I'm trying to drown my sorrows vicariously through other people this time around, because I'm too exhausted for another round of self-destruction.

Ursula doesn't love me like I love her and that shouldn't hurt any more than it ever has before, because that's one piece of my life that has stayed consistent and unchanged. She never loved me. Ever. Somehow it's different this time though. Maybe she's the same as always, but I'm not. All I can think about is kissing her and her kissing me back and her telling me that I was worth something to her, a Libertine, a girl who truly wouldn't waste her time on anything or anyone she couldn't find value in.

I'm not worth her while anymore, evidently. That little fact puts a harrowed twist in my usual smile as I nod hello to the club bouncer and clock in for my shift at work. I'm almost as low on the totem pole of importance here as I am with Ursula, the new kid with the grand privilege of mopping up last night's vomit and digging crusted glitter out from between the cracks in the floorboards. Iggy Avé blows me a taunting kiss from across the room as I duck behind the bar to avoid her attention, so as to save myself from being sent out on another run to buy tampons for the burlesque dancers, like last week. That girl may have hips with their own gravitational pull, but I aspire to have a sense of pride someday and she's surely turned better men than me into spineless panderers.

Nobody here really seems to think I'm worth my wages yet and seeing as how I'm crouched awkwardly in the shadows, hiding like a child when Uma glances over at me, I suppose that's not the most unfair assessment in the world. I was hired on to be his apprentice so I could learn the bar tending ropes and generally be his right hand man, but I don't think he likes me. All I can do right now is look up at him with a nervously forced grin and gurgle with an unintelligent beat of nonsensical sound. "I was just, um, uh —" I glance left. Nothing. I look to the right. Nothing. The floor is uncharacteristically clean today with a particularly inconvenient lack of excuses for my current behavior. "— er, oh! Wow! Did you get a hair cut? You look so good you totally floored me. Ha... ha." I'm wincing at my own failed cover up, staring up at the ceiling as though waiting to be struck with lightning in retribution for resorting to such a cringe-worthy pun.

If only I were as invisible to Uma as I am to Ursula, but that's obviously not my life. I don't know why.

Last Edit: Oct 25, 2014 18:05:24 GMT -5 by L△LIA

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cass
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Sinister Kid :: [Nino + Uma] Oct 28, 2014 6:35:38 GMT -5

Post by cass on Oct 28, 2014 6:35:38 GMT -5

uma reinhart

I’m not sure I like the new kid that was handed over to me.

It’s hard for me to even think those words, seeing as my situation was just as shit as his probably is, otherwise he’d have no reason to be crouching down low like some beaten animal ready for it’s next bashing. I mean, I wouldn’t even if this job if it wasn’t for Bastille’s, well, peculiar take on people. It first I would have summarised it as kindness, but the word seems like far too much of a nice word to use to describe Bastille Styx. He’s not a terrible man, in fact, he’s a great guy, but when you think about him the word kind just doesn’t fit. Kind of like how the word stable or strong just won’t work with me. I’m anything but stable, I’m like a boat on the high seas ready to be upturned at the next big wave, as though my mast as been snapped cleanly in two and the crew are simply sitting on the deck waiting for it all too end. Yes, that’s how unstable I really am.

I’m not strong, either. I’m weak; I’m a fragile china doll sitting on a shelf ready to smash. Cracks run throughout my entire body, chips and bits missing here and there. Before I met Bastille I’d have used a lot more words to tell you exactly what I am not, but now I don’t have to say them all, because I’m slowly learning to think a little bit more about myself. It’s funny how he’s the man that has begun to slowly change my view on who I am and who I can be. When I first met him I was mumbling and stuttering and trying my best to hide the fact that I am sick. But now I’m not so scared. Because no matter what happens I don’t think I’m going to lose my place here, and there is something comforting about knowing that, and it is that reassurance that has aided me in learning to accept who I am.

No longer do I define myself as being controlled by my sickness, but rather I am now a boy that simply has it. It no longer owns me. There are reasons, no doubt, as to why Nino Ripley is sitting on the floor beside me. Bastille would have his reasons as to hiring this boy, so this time when I turn my attention to him I decide that I do not dislike him. I shall save that judgement for later on, for now he is simply the boy that will be giving me a hand, because surely I do need an extra hand every now and then, seeing as mine do stop working a lot.

The hours tick by and I find myself falling into a routine. Every few minutes I will glance down at him, assuring myself that he has not yet sunken into the shadows by the bar. As midday comes and goes I start to grow slightly irritated, but I beat it down easily. The bar has been very quiet, customers tend not to visit until night, and if Nino doesn’t get his act together I’ll be stuck looking after the entire place by myself.

But in saying that I’m not extremely demanding, it’s evident by the fact hat I have let him sit down in the corner for Ripred knew how long. I think at some point during the day he did try to mumble a few unintelligible words, but I ignored him. If he wishes to speak and to be heard he can either a) get up or b) talk loudly, seeing as he did neither of those I wasted no time in promptly ignoring the gurgle that spilled from his mouth.

By the time I was ready to force myself into action it was almost time for the busiest hours of the day. Bending down I grab a cloth that is sitting under the counter. After a quick inspection I find that the cloth is clean, so I spin around before throwing the cloth at the boy sitting in the shadows.

”Look, I know something’s up, you’ve got some problems, we all do. But I’m not gonna hold your hand, if you want to talk about it, go for it, I’ll listen.” I tuck my hands into my apron, an old habit, a habit I would never get rid of. It was the way I hid my own problem, as soon as I felt it coming along I’d shove them away and do my best to bear the shaking. It’s getting worse these days, but I can’t fix it, no one can, so I get over it and I move along.

I eye Nino, wondering if there is anything I can do to help him. I’ve never been one to give advice, seeing as I was more often then not seeking it myself. But ever since I met Haleon I’ve learned a lot more about people and about how to help them. If he was willing to talk I’d help him, if not then he’d face those problems by himself. Regardless of his situation we had work to do, and we needed to get started. I’m not a cold person, I’ve been through enough to know that you should never give anyone the cold shoulder, I’ve had enough people treat me like shit that I’d never do the same.

”I need you to wipe the tables, we’re gonna get busy in a bit, so we have to start preparing.” I say, giving him a small smile.

L△LIA
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Sinister Kid :: [Nino + Uma] Jan 3, 2015 22:23:51 GMT -5

Post by L△LIA on Jan 3, 2015 22:23:51 GMT -5

a sinister kid is a kid who
runs to meet his maker
a drop dead sprint from the day he's born
straight into his maker's arms

Uma doesn't crack a smile at my lame failure of a joke and I know it was bad (so bad, Nino, seriously, the worst), but he could have faked it or something... or is that asking too much? Instead he looks at me in that way I've been avoiding people for and promptly throws a rag in my face. It's kind of a mixed up display of pity, but I'm not exactly disappointed to have it cut short. "Look, I know something’s up, you’ve got some problems, we all do. But I’m not gonna hold your hand, if you want to talk about it, go for it, I’ll listen." There's a part of me that wants to thank him for putting it right on out there that he's not going to try to get handsy with me, but I'm a good boy and refrain. After all, if I were to make a list of the people who work here and order it based on who I most wanted holding my hand — no offense to Uma or anything — he wouldn't be at the top of that list.

What I'm trying to say is that regardless of my personal problems, burlesque dancers are really attractive. Even when they send me on convenience store runs to buy tampons. Stupid smiles and perfect, glittering skin and boobs, everywhere boobs. I fucking hate having hormones. Forever distracting.

I let my forced smile temporarily crack into an intentional expression of sadness in order to hide the flicker of definite non-sadness that crossed my thoughts. Uma's still eying me with... well, at this point I can't tell if it's still pity or if that's turned to skepticism, so I flick my eyes to the floor and suck in a breath. It's hard to focus lately, as if I've disconnected ever so slightly and so my mind drifts. I'm a little bit numb, but more at peace too. That how I've managed to start accepting things so I can get on with my life, because I know it's all going to just keep on coming, so okay. Maybe I drift towards sadness or maybe I drift towards ridiculousness, but at least this way I never get all the way there.

"I need you to wipe the tables, we’re gonna get busy in a bit, so we have to start preparing." Just like that, he trades it all in for a small smile and I automatically give him one back, with a slightly nervous, gurgling bit of laughter chasing after. I pick up the rag he threw at me and pull myself up, quickly ducking under the bar so I can get back to work. Still, I'm careful to keep my face turned away from the simultaneous distraction and threat of the dancers milling around the stage.

"You know how people always think of bartenders as, oh you know, as therapists or something? I mean, who needs a psychiatrist when you can walk into a bar, get real drunk, and spill your guts out to the guy on the other side of the bar getting paid to put up with all your yammering?" Slowly, the rag is turning from white to the questionable non-color of filth, last night's spilt booze, cigarette ash, and crusted vomit working its way into the fibers as I clean. "I was thinking about that when I decided I wanted to work here, about getting doped up on other people's problems instead of my own. I'm tired of my own problems. I'd rather listen to everyone else's, yours even. I mean, my problems are the same as always and that's just old news by now, but you've obviously got yours too. Always breaking glasses and everything."

I look over and give him a pointed look, the kind that says: Look, man. I know you've got problems too. I have eyes. I can see things. Then I get real nervous that I've crossed a line and start wiping down the table in double time. It will shine! It will sparkle! The reflection off of this glimmeringly clean table will blind you to all thoughts of how much you think you might want to fire me! Pinkie swear!

"I mean, uh —" And I'm grasping for words again. "Um —" Desperate for distraction. "I wasn't trying to call you out or hold your hand or anything, I just mean that it wasn't hard to figure out that you've got problems too and if you ever want to, um, talk about it, you can go for it too." I'm making that really stupid face that happens when my mouth is running faster than my brain. Jude knows me well enough to tell me to put a fist in my mouth and shut up until I can catch up to myself, but he's not here right now so I just keep on going. "About your problems, I mean. You know... your anger issues." I don't have a bar to hide behind this time, so I just screw my face up with another I-plead-The-Fifth smile and hope Uma goes back to pitying me for my stupidity.

I'm sad! Remember?

Pathetic! Remember?!

I'm obviously not at the top of any of his lists either, but that needs no reminders.

and that's me, that's me
the boy with the broken halo
that's me, that's me
the devil won't let me be

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