12/7/2008
Dancing Blind
The shadows of Old Bullworth Vale were still their pale grey, like an old man dying with the sunset. The rustling sheet of night slowly drifting down lower and lower, forever chasing that blazing light and being chased by it but neither could ever catch the other but still their existence mixed with one another, forming the shadows and the hues of the velveteen sky. And as the shadows grew deeper like scars on rock, the waters grew darker as well, greedily sucking in the light and killing it, leaving its depths hungry and wanting of its feed; a selfish beast that doesn't know when it is full and so it continues to eat.
The dark oppression of night always chilled Vance down to his bones, afraid that the night would rake its claws down his flesh and consume him like the water to the light but every Tuesday night he would return from Old Bullworth Vale with a black bag tucked hidden under his arm. His friends never questioned where he went and he never gave any excuse; sneaking out with the hideous night with his bag that only he has seen the inside of and returning just before the full smothering blanket of night pulls him into it's maw.
But the night wasn't all that threatened to devour him, Vance felt. It wasn't the school, or the desire to conform to be one of the Greasers by staying up to date with the latest bikes or even the pressure to hate a clique simply because they had more money then them. What kraken from the black carnivorous wrestled over sand and rock to grapple him with slim and drown him with the weight of the waves was the very reason why he returned every Tuesday night with head lowered and peddling fast on his bike. He peddled fast and hard, like a part of him thought that if he was fast enough, it would be like it never happened; not once, not ever, and his friends would think he only went to the toilet despite he had been off school grounds for over an hour.
As the gaping opening of the shed greedily and readily took in Vance's bike for the night, the Greaser began his hop and skip to the Boy's Dorm, nervous and constantly feeling the presence of the looming eight-tentacle monster of the deep hanging over him. Feeling it ready and waiting; pressuring him to be found out, to slip and fall into its beak where he would be broken and never see the light, doomed to drift in its belly in the deep, dark currents of the water. A fellow Greaser, doing his regular egging of their own dorm, didn't even give Vance any recognition as his friend entered the building, heading for his room, passing beneath the bleak lighting of the hallways and the shadow claws of black and grey that cleaves at every crack and rips into the torn wallpaper.
The wood of his door was scratched and worn from the numerous beast that have stampeded by with every cycle of the moon and stars and leaving the carnage of their lives embedded deep into the skeleton and joints of the building, wearing it down like the years did to them. The polish of the handle was nearly all off and felt rough in even his calloused and worked hands but its movements were smooth and easy as it works itself undone by his guidance, like the well oiled gears of his bike that he tends to so lovingly, and allowed admittance to the room beyond.
The light was off and for a moment, it was if night had caught up, caught up with mouth open and dripping its saliva of black all over the walls and it's teeth pointing jaggedly into the remaining light that was surviving its rape and brutalisation. But Vance calmly reached forward into the mouth, caressing the tongue as his fingers stroke the walls in search of the light switch. He could almost hear the hiss of pain and the death rattle of the shadows as light bloomed like a rose in the graveyard but he could see no carcass and he had a bag to hide until the next week.
With bag safely stashed away deep into the stomach of the kraken where he would hope the beast would keep it and not regurgitate it until needed by him once more, Vance felt he could leave the room and the beast behind, with only a single tentacle wrapped around his stomach but that was something he could ignore, to buried under by the latest bike news as he chatted with friends his fellow Greasers as they all pretend he never walks away from them once every week without a word.
But the night wasn't a fiend in the eyes of Bryce Montrose. No, it was a heavenly escape from the scathing bites of the sun as she slashes his skin and rips him bare; exposing him and blinding him by her harsh and merciless scream and continual raining blows down into his shoulders, making his legs wobbles and threaten to fail so he would fall. She wants him to fall, fall hard and fast, only stopping him to rip at any regrown flesh or healed wound. She wouldn't stop until he would scream, but then she would continue to lick his skin with nerve-numbing strokes, sucking the moisture from his body so he would crack and crumble and she would no-longer need to rake her nails down into his skin and rip fresh scabs off to reveal the pain beneath because he would have simple dried and flaked away like sand.
For Bryce, the night offered loving and soothing sweet kisses of a lover and pulled him gently into her bosom to hide the wounds, her body soft and gentle, moulding around his wounds so they would not hurt anymore and he would simply rest there. The body of his mistress was a cool and loving one that did not look deep into his skin for cracks that she could bury herself in and widen and nor did she question him and expect things from him like the sun did. The night was his lover while the sun was the haunting beast.
Bryce sat in his room in Harrington House, the lights off and window open so his lover could embrace him fully and kiss and caress the stings and wounds away. She spoke soft words that only he could hear and gently unclasped his hands from around his worries and fears to set them away on the nightstand where he would wake up the next morning and slowly grab hold of them all once again, one by one with the cursing of the sun raining down upon him. But until that time arrived, he was content to be cared by the night and her soft hands, rubbing away the lines of worry but footsteps on the soft expensive carpet and a knock on the pristine door that led into his darkened escape had him desperately clutching at those worries and fears once more.
"Bryce, old chap," The door opened without a sound and the hissing snakes of the Sun's spawn writhed into his room. "Sorry, were you sleeping?" The fellow preppie asked, squinting into the arms of the mistress while the bitch with ever-sharp talons rubbed her herself against his back. "Just wondering if you wanted in on a game of cards..." He paused only slightly. "Is everything alright?" Bryce saw his friend had found him seated by the large open window; the moon's light never making it inside the room.
"I'm fine. Just a little headache is all." He answered softly, wishing desperately that his lover would whisk him gently away into her bosom and wash him clean with her cool hands. His friend gave some parting words before closing the door, dragging the feral light with him and whatever didn't make it with him was strangled by his beautiful mistress with cold and deadly precision. But once those hands had extinguished the light, they returned to loving and lavishing him once more.
Bryce sighed, deep and heavy, weighed down by worries of his family issues, anxiety of his father's spending of his inheritance and problems of keeping up with pretences of the ever rich Montrose family heir. The night calmed his nerves but sitting in the skeleton of his fake smiles and even faker accent, he always felt the misery and sorrow of his life's lie. The mistress could only do so much. A breeze blew in, dancing around the curtains and caressing Bryce's smooth unblemished face with her skirts. He could hear her whispered words and an urge overtook him to escape from the skeleton.
"Come and dance with me." She moaned and Bryce could only obey, standing from his chair and pulling out of his wardrobe his Aquaberry sweater and blue and yellow striped scarf. The soft fabrics were easy on his skin and as he walked out of Harrington House after a short exchange with his fellow Preppies, they also kept the warmth and prevented the cold from numbing his body. Ducking his head from the piercing spears of light as he walked out of the entrance way, Bryce's soft auburn hair caught the gleam and reflected it back – a proud achievement for any Preppie but this one didn't care.
He wanted to shrink away from the light and hide in the shadows and as he walked up the short steps up to the statue of the Bullworth Bullhorn's mascot, he saw that the lights were on around the gym area and a Prefect was coming in from the school but there was nothing but black skirts and easy anonymity dressing the garage where the Greasers hang out. It was late, a school night and past curfew. Bryce quickly walked into the shadows, the cool hands holding him and before long he was completely dressed in Shadow's silk and despite the smell of grease and unwashed bodies. Bryce was at ease, no-longer caring where exactly he was or how if he was found by the Greasers he would bashed without any mercy or aid; he was simply calm, relaxed, and even a little bit happy.
The light didn't seem so oppressing any more, if only a little.
