Just please, {more time} [Dee/Lia]
Jun 11, 2016 16:51:34 GMT -5
Post by kousei ♚ on Jun 11, 2016 16:51:34 GMT -5
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R A V E N
Coming from a family with wealth beyond my wildest dreams comes with a plethora of costs: having siblings who can't seem to look someone in the eye without murdering them, an unquenchable thirst and being forced to train. I practically force my body into action and my legs to start taking baby steps on the road to the training centre. The routine has become a burden in itself, the costs of wealth sometimes outweigh the advantages and it's times like these when the dirt looks just a bit more welcoming than usual. After all, the cost of wealth is so great it's easy to forget to reap the benefits.
Coming from a family with wealth beyond my wildest dreams not only comes with a plethora of costs, but it also comes with a multitude of rules and regulations - at least being a Blackmore does. Rule one: be the most ruthless killer the world's ever fucking seen. A rulebook slammed into the desk in front of me from a young age, I'm pretty sure I've broken more than half the rules in that damn book of rules. I'm nowhere near a ruthless killer and when I train I don't aspire to be one; when I train I aspire to survive.
Training clothes already decorated across my body, I step through the doors with a false confidence stitched across my chest for all to see. This is simply the routine but the routine's become a bitter burden; the rules of being a Blackmore seem to dominate me in more ways than just one. Rule two: it's a sin to show weakness. That's why confidence blares loud and clear from the depths of my dimmed eyes. I've been hiding weakness and waiting for time to blur for a good sixteen years now - weakness is a sin anyway.
Still, despite all my artificial light and confidence, no one notices me and I've never been more relieved to be practically invisible. Countless years I chained myself to the wall, huddled in the corner and hid inside my cell, just anxiously waiting for time to blur by as best as it could. I rejected the keys and clung to tightly to my shackles, shaking my head at any opportunity to break the metal binding me to obscurity. It's funny, how it seems the damn rulebook was slammed onto my desk from the day I could walk but I already break rule three by nature. My approach is weakness in it self.
Clenching my jaw, my eyes scan over the numerous career boys and girls doing their training. Today's free day where we can practice whatever we want - an illusion of freedom but I can't complain; I don't think I've ever tasted the real thing. The grey, almost mechanical, flooring and the artificial dummies with the plethora of weapons for everyone to try out. The career training centre is vast but I see through the illusion of power and freedom. In reality, we're all surrounded by whitewashed walls - me especially.
I ignore them, training on my own has always been better. Other people just get in the way. The allure of the knives station is strong today just as it's always been. Steel splitting skin to reveal what's inside has always been on the forefront of my brain. My movement's automatic and I find myself running my forefinger down the blunt edge of the blade and down the handle before I even blink. My eyes narrow on the knife as I twirl it between my fingers, my concentration is hard as rock.
The fantasies flood in like a tidal wave. Skin tearing, blood gushing, flecks of spatter staining the ground, trees and especially my face. My tongue instinctively moves to my lips before I remember there's nothing actually there, just flesh. I sigh and lower my eyes to the ground ashamedly.
For all the damn rules in that metaphorical book I broke the final rule didn't fail to trap me in it's grasp. Final four: every Blackmore has something wrong with them, without exception. With a grunt of frustration I stick the tip of the knife into the stand and scowl. For every failure that came with the broken rule I didn't break that one. Every last rule in between rule one and final laid scattered on the ground but I couldn't shatter the last one.
Suddenly, my train of thought is broken by something and I feel myself dragged back into the here and now. My gaze shoots up to take in the fact that I girl, who looks around my age, is standing barely a few meters away. Unlike everyone else, the routine lays in ruins around her feet because something doesn't look right. It's not the way it should be.
I break from the shell of introversion and step past the table of knives and stride next to her and introversion lingers behind me as a trail of shell shards. "Are you okay?" I ask, and not even I know if my own tone of concern is genuine or fabricated. Unlike the rules I fail to follow, I suppose it doesn't really matter at this point.(Theme: James Blake - Radio silence) | (Tags: ᕙʕ•ᴥ•ʔᕗ )
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