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Post by Ashley Ian Days on Oct 28, 2012 21:35:01 GMT -6
[/font][/size][/ul] a warning to the prophet, the liar, the honest -------------------- TO THE LEADER, THE PARIAH. [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: 303E7E; border: #4C5685 solid 4px; width: 490px; padding: 0px;][style=width: 400px; height:100px; float: right; letter-spacing: 2px; font-size:10px; font-family: times; text-shadow: 2px 2px 2px #333333; line-height: 25%;] TO THE SOLDIER, THE CIVILIAN,
THE MARTYR, THE VICTIM, THIS IS WAR [style=width: 200px; float: right; background: transparent; text-align; justify; letter-spacing: 2px; font-size:8px; font-family: times; text-shadow: 0px 0px 0px #111111; line-height: 80%;]it's the moment of truth, and the moment to lie, the moment to live and the moment to die, the moment to fight, the moment to fight, to fight, to fight, to fight! to the right, to the left we will fight to the death! to the edge of the earth, it's a brave new world from the last to the first |
[/color][/style][/style][/style] "Josh, stoppit," Ian mumbled as he crossed his arms over his chest, walking across the school grounds. Josh was once again teasing him about his study habits (he'd been up early to try to read some more out of his history book), and Ian really just did not want to hear it. His best friend walked at his side, seemingly unaffected by the cold. It was something Ian wished they could share. It was really cold outside, and the teen was trying to figure out just why he had decided to go out there. Oh yeah. Josh. Josh had suggested they go for a walk instead. "Staying inside all the time is bad for your health. You'll look more white than you are." Ian rolled his eyes and sat down on the lowest bleacher in the stands once he reached it, both reddened hands shoved into his hoodie pockets. "I get it, I get it. Be nice, jerk." Though his tone was seemingly irritated, Ian had a small smile on his face. His best friend was the only person he was really close to, even if there were many days where he could not seem to find Josh anywhere. Ian hated those days. They just made him feel more alone than he generally was. At least the shadowy thing was not around. At least... Ian did not think so. He tensed a little and glanced over his shoulder in either direction before scanning the world ahead of him. No. He was good. It was not there. Maybe it would be a good day, after all. Ian laughed softly and smiled as he watched his friend goofing off with a football. Sports were not his thing. The teen sat there a little while longer before pulling his history book out from under his arm so that he could finish reading while Josh ran around, being Josh. Ian had learned to ignore him some of the time, like when he was being evaluated. He did not like responding to Josh because people tried to tell him that Josh was not real, which was ridiculous. Of course Josh was real. How could he not be? Daze just did not get why people were mean enough to try to tell him that one of his only friends was not there. He could only imagine how it made Josh feel, being told that he was not there. Of course, Josh never seemed to mind, Ian mused as he glanced up at his friend. Josh was always happy. Ian wished he could be like that. There were a lot of things about Josh that Ian wished he was like. Having Josh as a friend was good enough, though. Ian absently wet his chapped lips as he glanced back down at the history book, holding the pages down so that he could read as the wind rustled them. After a while, though, Ian's brow furrowed and he looked up. Josh was gone, but there was someone else walking toward the bleachers. Where did Josh go? Ian almost called out for his friend, but instead, he watched the person approaching. What if they brought the dark thing with them? That would ruin what had been shaping up to be a good day. "Hello?" he said to the other person that was out there, trying to figure out why someone else would willingly be out in the cold on a Saturday morning.
[/center] tagged: open words: 0573 outfit: link notes: ew. word count will get better. [/td][/tr][/td][/tr][/table] [/center] |
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Post by Simon Patrick Gallagher on Oct 28, 2012 22:39:52 GMT -6
The temperature had dropped well below freezing point over night. Simon had nearly forgotten himself, almost exposed his new vice to his poor room mate. Ciel had put up with enough of Simon's shit, really. Simon didn't want to make things any more awkward between them. Not that it would make any difference to him personally. He couldn't feel any personal hurt over matters of human interaction because Simon was no longer human. Funny, that he should continue to go through the motions even now, with a practised formality. He could make small talk. It didn't go anywhere. It didn't even scratch the surface, and that suited Simon perfectly now that he was concealing his newly corrupted nature. If they knew that he was a zombie they'd probably give him more pills to take. And, if there was a single thing on this earth that he still cared enough about to have an opinion, it was the chemicals they put into his system.
It had been their drugs that had made him like this--- bored, heartless, hungry for something, anything to make him feel again. He'd hurt himself. He'd intentionally ingested substances that made him ill just to give himself something to think about. He'd partaken of illicit substances with a couple of Portland stock hipsters. He'd made love to a pretty girl and felt nothing at all, no love, no fear, not even disgust. And then, at the beginning of the month---or was it the end of the month before? he didn't know--- he'd gotten into a fight with a complete stranger and found a bit of that primal joy could be unlocked from within the well fortified vaults of his chemically altered mind.
He'd gotten into a fight, and for a moment, he'd been human again. Ever since then, he'd bee intentionally antagonizing people who looked like they wanted a fight. He'd even been rewarded with some well delivered blows on several occasions. Time blurred into one giant, inescapable bore. Days passed by without his notice. He could only mark the passage of time by the number of bruises on his body now. The only time he ever felt alive, that he ever remembered what that was like, was when he was moving on an adrenaline high. Fighting was one way that he knew for certain would deliver that rush and the endorphins--- they were the reason he was still living!
He couldn't sleep at night and was half dead all day. Sometimes he wondered if this whole thing, his entire life, wasn't some horrible dream. During therapy sessions he went into auto pilot and gave positive answers to whatever was asked of him. He'd given up trying to convince them to pull him off the meds, because they'd probably just put him on an even more terrible medication if he was taken off of the zombie pills. And plus, he'd have to give a reasonable justification for going off the meds, and in order to do so he would have to admit defeat. They'd give him more therapy and less freedom. That would be intolerable.
It was cold outside. He told himself that he could quit smoking whenever he wanted, but he knew he was being stupid. The nicotine gave him a boost and seemed to calm his nerves at the same time. He would endure the ball shrivelling cold to keep from having his cigarettes confiscated. That's why he was out now, by the bleachers at nine in the morning. If anyone asked, he was going for a morning jog. They'd be encouraged if they though he was putting his 'feelings' to some constructive use. Feelings. He could hardly think the word without feeling a sick thrill of ironical humour. Not that he had it in him to really laugh.
Actually, that wasn't entirely true. Yesterday, well, this morning actually, early--- around one or two AM, he'd sneaked out of the dorms in order to burn off some of his excess energy. He'd slipped over to a place that he knew local hoodlums to frequent. He'd picked a fight with a guy with a girl's name tattooed on his knuckles and another tattoo, this one of a crucifix, on his shaved head. It was really quite simple. The guy was already a little drunk and all Simon had needed to do was imply something about his masculinity and then they were on the ground.
There was broken glass on the pavement from many a discarded beer bottle, and that only intensified Simon's pleasure. The skinhead finally backed off when he saw that Simon's body was covered in blood. He looked like he'd been bathing in it. But, the damage wasn't severe--- just a bunch of little gashes from the glass. But, it felt good. The other guy knew Simon was crazy when he didn't give up and just kept coming at his new favourite skinhead. Even he knew that it was dangerous to fight a crazy man. Crazy people didn't care if they died when they were fighting. They put all of their energy into delivering damage and ignored their defence. And, beyond that, they were unpredictable. Simon was unpredictable! At least being a maniac was being something.
He'd gotten clever about covering up his battle scars too. He'd taken to wearing a bit of make up on the more obvious bruises when they were in danger of giving him away. He loved the sting of the few bits of glass that had remained embedded in his back over night. Every time he moved his shirt rubbed against the glass and sent new waves of sensation through his body.He didn't seek pain for the sake of the pain, but for the pleasure of feeling anything. It wasn't completely masochistic. It certainly wasn't sexual. It was like some strange hedonistic paradox--- it was the pursuit of pleasure; pleasure and sensation being the only goals worth achieving; but pursuing pleasure through pain. Not just pain, but rage. Animal fury. It was the purist thing he'd ever felt.
Lost in his thoughts of future conquests, he'd failed to notice that there was another person in the bleachers.
"Hello?"
Simon swore and stubbed out his cigarette before realizing that it was only another kid and he'd just wasted a perfectly good cigarette. That was the only drawback of fighting--- the adrenaline rush and the punch-drunkenness often lasted well into the next day. It was like being drugged. It dulled the senses, but at least staved off the boredom for a time.
"Hello." He called back, at the other person, pulling another cigarette out of his pocket and fumbling with his lighter. His fingers were half frozen and it was nearly an Olympic feat just to work the lighter. "It's cold out here." He stated the obvious, because he'd found that people tended to appreciate that. At least then you knew something in common, and it usually meant no personal questions. "Mind if I smoke here?" He wanted to sit down, and he didn't care if there was anyone else there, but it was common courtesy to ask first.
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Post by Ashley Ian Days on Oct 29, 2012 19:32:30 GMT -6
a warning to the prophet, the liar, the honest -------------------- TO THE LEADER, THE PARIAH. [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: 303E7E; border: #4C5685 solid 4px; width: 490px; padding: 0px;][style=width: 400px; height:100px; float: right; letter-spacing: 2px; font-size:10px; font-family: times; text-shadow: 2px 2px 2px #333333; line-height: 25%;] TO THE SOLDIER, THE CIVILIAN,
THE MARTYR, THE VICTIM, THIS IS WAR [style=width: 200px; float: right; background: transparent; text-align; justify; letter-spacing: 2px; font-size:8px; font-family: times; text-shadow: 0px 0px 0px #111111; line-height: 80%;]it's the moment of truth, and the moment to lie, the moment to live and the moment to die, the moment to fight, the moment to fight, to fight, to fight, to fight! to the right, to the left we will fight to the death! to the edge of the earth, it's a brave new world from the last to the first |
[/color][/style][/style][/style] "Well, no shit, Sherlock, it's winter," Ian heard behind him, making him look over his shoulders and up the bleachers to where Josh was sitting, spinning the football between his hands with an amused smirk. "Seriously, he's talking as though you can't tell that already." Ian narrowed his eyes in warning at Josh, but that just made his friend laugh in amusement, and he turned to look to the nameless teen. He nodded in agreement, not really sure what else to say to that. It was rather common knowledge that past October in Washington, the temperatures dropped dramatically. They were up closer to Canada and the arctic reasons, so they got that air system a lot. Ian's hands and face were bright red and both teens could see their breath. Ian knew that if it tried to rain or something, it would only be snow and ice. "Well, it is November," Ian commented, not exactly sure why the teen felt the need to state the obvious. Was this a normal social custom that he was unaware of? Maybe he should get a book on it. When the other teen asked about smoking, Ian's brow furrowed a little. He never got why anyone enjoyed that nasty habit. It made your teeth yellow, your breath (and everything) stink, ruined your throat, lungs, mouth... It was just terrible. Ian could never do something like that. Plus, he was sure that he would cough everywhere and look even more odd than he did anyway. "Y'know, smoking's very bad for you," he commented, though he shook his head a little while absently toying with the edges of his history book, lifting the corners of the pages up only to let them slip back down into place past his fingers. "It doesn't make you look cool." Ian knew that a lot of the reasons teens smoked was due to appearances. They thought it made them look cooler, older, more badass. Ian thought it just made them look like utter fools. He could not be the only one that thought so, either, or everyone would be smoking. Thankfully, they were not. Ian did not think he would be able to handle that kind of air pollution. "I watched this documentary once..." "Shut up, no one wants to hear about your silly show," Josh interrupted, making Ian glance back over at him. "Talk about something less nerdy, weirdo." Ian frowned a little as he reached up to ruffle his hair absently, watching Josh for a few more moments. "Why are you being so mean today?" Ian was not aware of the fact that he looked rather odd speaking to no one, and he looked forward to the other teen again with an inaudible sigh.
[/center] tagged: open words: 0456 outfit: link notes: ew. word count will get better... it will... i promise. [/td][/tr][/td][/tr][/table] [/center] |
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Post by Simon Patrick Gallagher on Oct 29, 2012 23:36:34 GMT -6
"Y'know, smoking's very bad for you,"
That was cute. Simon hadn't heard that one in a while. The other boy was right, of course. But, that didn't make the comment any less amusing... or any more amusing for that matter. Simon knew that if he had any laughter in his body that would have amused him. It was a little bit surprising to hear that coming from a teenager anyway. Simon decided that, if he was still human, he would have liked this kid. He wasn't afraid to say what he meant.
"It doesn't make you look cool."
Then, Simon did laugh a hollow laugh. "You're right about that... but that's not why I do it." He stubbed out the cigarette out of courtesy. "I do it because it's bad for me." And, it was true. He didn't have any particular fondness for the smoke, at least to begin with he hadn't. It was unpleasant to smoke at first, but then he'd gotten used to it and even come to crave it. He hadn't started smoking for the pleasure of it, though. He'd started because he'd never smoked before and it looked like something new and dangerous to do. It was something he wouldn't have done when he was human. He didn't care if it made him look stupid or stained his teeth. He wasn't trying to impress anyone any more.
His little Portland hipster girlfriend had smoked like a a chimney, and he hadn't found it particularly appealing to watch, not aesthetically at least. Sexually, it had excited him slightly when her bright red lips curled around a cigarette or a blunt or a pipe, and left red stains behind. Intellectually, the smoke interested him more than she did. He'd wondered how much of it would have to fill the air before they lost consciousness and died of suffocation. Those were the sort of thoughts he entertained while he was fucking her.
She didn't shave anywhere and she had freckles on her stomach that looked like stars. A couple of them even formed something like the big dipper. They were light freckles mostly, sweet. She smelled like weed and unwashed hair but the smell had but the smell hadn't taken away from the experience. It didn't add to it either. He'd felt nothing all of those times in the back of that van.
"Why are you being so mean today?"
He didn't ask who he was speaking to. It was apparent that the boy wasn't speaking to Simon by then, he was turned in the wrong direction and staring fixedly at one point like there was an invisible person there. A schizophrenic. Simon said nothing, but was careful not to sit where the imaginary friend was when he took a seat in the bleachers. He just watched and waited for the other boy to remember that he was there, and then for a moment hoped that he might forget him completely.
His mind went back to his most recent fight and for a moment he was acutely aware of the stinging pain in his back where the shards of glass were embedded. He began to feel dizzy and had to lower his head until it passed so he wouldn't vomit. The feeling was acute but unsatisfying. He needed more... something more life threatening. The bleachers? Would he be seriously injured if he jumped off of the bleachers? He glanced over the edge. There was a possibility. He might even die if he hit the ground at the right angle. That was a tantalising prospect. He might jump, if this boy left before people started coming outside.
If only.
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