one -- of us .| noir

one -- of us .| noir Sept 5, 2015 22:14:46 GMT -5

Post by eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris on Sept 5, 2015 22:14:46 GMT -5

[presto]

[/presto]

The starlight that filters through the window above my bed offers little solace -- no comfort from the dead earth trapped within the confides of my two lungs, or from the screams of a dead family that ricochet off the marrow of my skull. A mother, a father, and a brother interlock their fingers with my own, and in a circle we dance, flowers in our hair, but-...

It's all just a dream; a simple recollection of a memory that never got the chance to form, and I sputter awake with an arch of my back, my chest nearly piercing the heavens. My breath is shallow for one, two, three seconds, but eventually I inhale, and I'm reminded that I am alive. I fall back down to the ground, and I'm still breathing, and I'm still bleeding~~, and I'm still falling apart~~. I lie awake, staring up at the faint lights that stick to the ceiling above me, fingertips brushing across the blankets beneath my body. I think, 'Why am I alive?" But it's a common question that I ask myself in the dead of the night, so my mind doesn't bother to answer it.

(Life's terrifying, I've realized; to die would be an awfully grand adventure.)

My body lies silent, the light layer of sweat on my forehead nearly dry, and for once I thank myself for being so resilient to pain. Ms. Gray had dragged me from the chasms of Hell, just to push me into a mortal fire -- telling me to be grateful; telling a small child suddenly all alone in the world to love a woman who just wouldn't let her

d isappear

i nto

e xistence

like the rest of her family. Death is forever a lingering thought on my mind, and I'm fine with that curse. Ms. Gray calls it survivor's guilt, but I call it the pressure of her slender fingers poking into my ribcage, fishing out my organs just to say that I'm okay; that everything vital is still working, so that I should stop crying myself to sleep -- "Stop trying to make an armor out of your broken innocence because there's no one you need to protect yourself from," as she slashes my throat with her sword.

I reach a hand upwards, towards the dim light that's been the only constant thing in my life. Always out of touch, and always coaxing me to just-... Smash! Shards of glass suddenly rain down from above me, and I dash out of my bed to a corner of my room. I hold my tongue, biting back a scream as a figure pulls itself through my window, dropping down onto the floor. They're dressed in black, and their face is hidden by a dark mask, just a few strands of startling silver hair showing here and there. I press myself against the wall, not sure if this is just a new nightmare to add to the rest, or something different -- but I keep myself quiet. I'd rather face a killer of the night than wake Ms. Gray.

"Who are you?" I whisper, feeling slightly bare in my tank top and shorts, blonde hair falling across my face. "What do you want?" I'm just a child who grew up much too fast -- no kingdoms have I ever got the chance to rule, and no dragons have I ever faced. Death isn't an adventure; I've been dead for years.

(To live would be the greatest adventure.)

one -- of us .| noir Oct 4, 2015 19:22:57 GMT -5

Post by Cait on Oct 4, 2015 19:22:57 GMT -5

[presto]

[/presto]

It is warm --

in a basement room, with cold cobblestone floors and a single, solitary window. I call it the best spot in a land of black despair. Where I sleep, propped beside the visionary where the stars seem suspended on a single piece of string, binding them to one another.

That’s kind of how I feel, most days. Alone, but tied, to five other stars along a roped lifeline. Where distance is important, and even though our aligned hearts are miles apart, I still suffocate.

A stirring beside my left arm causes my breath to catch in my throat. There, another lost constellation, crawled beneath my bedsheets in the dead of evening, night-time terrors seizing his mind. The one we call Nightmare, and my heart skips at the saddening thought of his name’s origin. I gingerly pry myself from the trapping linen, turning as I stand to look back down at his face.

How did this all come to be? I was the last lost boy to be found, and although by no means the oldest, the one that brings stability. They made a crown of thorns – a baton, to relay, and I somehow continue to find my hands grasping between the spaces of matter most often.

It is no prize.

Security. I don’t know how, or why, but I don’t question it either. Maybe it’s the thought of a resurrected man, holding some inhuman, god-like persona. The boy who cheated Death, the one with no name, Nobody. Safety. But Nnobody is ever truly safe, and there is a price to every one of life’s hurdles.

We’re a pack of lonely boys. Hungry, longing to feed the voids of ourselves. Nobody ever taught us how to use the needle, that thread – where the stitches should be are flimsy buttons, and each morning we awaken to find their constraints burst.

I think, in some alternate world, it would kill me. I would be dead.

Yet I’m not. I’m alive, as surely as the bones in my fingers bend at my will, as clearly as the unshakeable dust trapped in my hair that is

still

there

after all this time.

To be given the gift of life; to never know how to live. Because living is only as memorable as a compilation of moments from our past shaping us into present, tangible beings. That’s a terrible burden.

How do you live when you can only remember dying?

And is it really living when every single day is a copy of the previous? Cycles keep the world moving, in all their sameness, stoic and lonely and silent. Waking up with a stranger in my bed and nothing in my heart, rolling away from the warmth into the day that always feels bitter and chilled, committing the same, thieving crime in a desperate plea for that same, monotonous continuation. Retiring to basements for planning, detailed and immaculate. A shared meal, shared beds, restless sleep. Finally, awakened. A cycle, to keep on spinning. Who am I to still its constancy?

Change isn’t something I should fear. I won’t, one day. A night-time job is a step, a beginning. A conquering of that cowardice.

I slip away.

A nod of the head, the faintest of night light mingling with the basement dark as I open the door to step into a shadowed alleyway, tugging at the balaclava pulled over my head. An ironic, garish garment, meant to conceal the most punishing traces of individuality. Yet I am Nobody, a boy made up of shadows and worn-down gravestones – my very existence in this world tethers on the aspect of the unknown. I wear the mask as a medal.

Life in theft is a waiting game. Waiting for all the building blocks to fall into place, places you laid the foundations for days ago. Creeping through streets, the house in my sight is hushed. Waiting, for the lamp to click off, to launch into a familiar obscurity. Waiting, for the precarious vacancy of a house harbouring precious antiques and invaluable possessions. Waiting. It gives the mind a lot of time to think. ~~Sometimes, too much time.~~

It’s almost too easy, to become one with the night. I walk around to the side where the basement window has been sealed shut. As I raise my hand to break through the panel, a shower of glass falls around me, filling my ears with familiarity as I wait for the silence once more.

Waiting.

Waiting.

There.

Pulling myself through the broken arch, I feel like a ghost. It is only as my eyes adjust that I’m able to take in the full extent of the room I’ve come to stand within --

the room with no antique delicacies --

the room with a bed and a cupboard and a withered mirror-head --

and it is only then that I see the girl standing in the corner --

and I freeze.

My mind is searching desperately for the part of the plan where there was a girl, but that’s impossible, there was never a girl, there is no girl, there couldn’t be a girl, I’m simply imagi --

‘Who are you?’

-- ning her.

It wasn’t part of the plan.

Silence takes hold of the room once more, the steering compass it has always been, only this time, I’m unsure of its presence.

‘What do you want?’

I coil at her voice, with the slight up-rise at the end of each sentence. I’m anonymous, and her questions are too invasive. My ears are closed. The words are lost in the omnipresent silence – verbal evasion, yet physically, I’m trapped. Instinctive, my eyes trace over her frail figure. She shudders slightly, projecting an outward unease to match the pounding beneath my chest.

(There’s a madness in methods, reasons traditions remain unbroken.)

The thought of futile carelessness is agonising, and if ghosts could plant their feet on stable ground, I would fall to the ground and lie there, letting the sensation of frustration pass over me, in waves. I am a ghost, and I am floating. I’m a fool on a mission but to her, I’m death, I’m danger -- I’m Nobody.

And for now, that’s enough.

There is distance between us; I am suffocating still, but I manage to take steps towards the door, towards the girl. No matter how inconvenient her presence has come to be, I had to keep going. Keep talking.

It’s a kinda awestruck feeling – the way I can make out starlight reflections in her eyes – that makes my voice catch before I can get the words past my fumbling lips.

‘It’s kinda late for a pretty girl like you to be talking to strangers.’ Underfoot, there is a crackling of broken glass, and I look up at her face sheepishly -- those eyes. 'Sorry about the mess. I wasn’t really expecting anyone.’

Steps. Keep talking.

‘What are you doing? Why are you awake?’

Curiosity, not faked. Cycles, closer. Circles are never-ending, I should know by now. As I side-step around the room, I can only pray to find a happier ending for this rhythmic waltz. But I’ve never been known to be an optimist.