Beneath the Skin
By: Holly Rose E.
Summary: Jim battles an old friend atop the roof: 'No matter how hard he tried, he always succumbed to its shiny metallic power.'
Rating: PG-13, bordering on R
Genre: Strong Angst
Disclaimer: Don't own any characters. I'm only using them to fulfill my sick imagination. BUT I do own the little poem before the actual story. So there.
Author's Note: Jim always seems so dark to me, and I wanted to play on that fact. If masochism squicks you, I suggest you turn back now. [I want to see how many mention that when they review, to know they don't even bother reading this...]
*****
Beneath The Skin
*****
Wind is what I wish for
As it whispers in my ear
When I am vying for sleep
It sings to me a lullaby
Cradling me to blissful unawares
It swathes me
Buries me in its torment
In an attempt to suffocate
~Split
*****
Breathing deeply, he listened to the cold silence, welcoming it with the greatest convivial. The stars glittered above him, shining effervescently as they danced and winked at him.
They always did that, toyed with him. As they would so gaily laugh superiorly, mocking him in his lowly state. To let him now to the best of their ability he could never be with them.
That he would never be good enough to prance and mingle among the stars.
His mother- - no matter how much he loved her - - drove him insane once Delbert stayed later. She would complain incessantly, wishing he were something different, praying that he could be better than he was now.
He supposed, in a way, it was his own fault for being like this. He had total control of his life, but something inside of him had given up.
Had given up just like a fucking loser.
Delbert, bless him, would try to stand up for him, but he always failed. He was just too submissive for his own good, always stuttering and stammering over his words. It was pure luck that the man didn't trip every time he attempted to walk anyway.
Now, they had departed. Delbert had sped away on his cart, Delilah barking happily. His mother had retired to her room; he had seen her fiddling with her necklace, clicking the locket open and close with a maddening staccato.
Now he was alone, once more, with the wind as it whispered a serenade, a lullaby of lies flitting through his mind.
As he stirred where he lay, he felt something in his pocket jab against his thigh.
A smile flitted across his face, the pang in his leg sending a message of dire comfort.
He reached a hand into his pocket, withdrawing the object and twirling it about his fingers.
It gleamed in the moonlight, he could hear the stars cheering him on, praising him for remembering.
Remembering an old, old friend.
After the trip to Treasure Planet, he had been so certain that he could change. That he _had_ changed.
He went to the Academy as promised by Amelia, and came back with high honors after only a year.
He'd never forgotten Silver- - how could he? - -because the man had been the father he'd never had before.
When he was with him, he felt safe. Felt that he was okay for being who he was, okay for being... Well, just existing.
With his mom, she sometimes would give him looks, looks that screamed at him: "Why are you even here? Why do you always have to trouble me so with your goddamn self?"
That hurt.
Deep inside, he knew what he did was wrong, he knew that wasn't ever what she meant, and he knew that he was perfectly fine.
He was sane. He had to be.
He flicked open the object, his friend grinned at him.
He'd started when he was no older than thirteen. He'd come home one day after the daunting of his classmates and the continuous teasing, bullying, and laughter. He'd gone straight to the kitchen, digging around and almost losing a hand in one of the machines.
He'd laughed at its futile attempt, and continued to rummage. Throwing things everywhere, turning the kitchen into a place of complete disarray. The banging and ringing in his head resounded, pounded into his membrane.
It was still there, tossing about in his cranium with relish.
He'd found what he wanted. His father's old pocket-knife; it was the one thing the old man had forgotten to take.
Jim had stolen it the week before, because he'd heard his mother complain about the man always whittling away at whatever he got his hands on.
He'd run up to his room, an insane grin sweeping across his face and claiming him for itself. Bolted the door he had, and curled up in a faraway corner. He flicked open the blade, feigning fear as he skated it across his skin that covered his forearm.
He wondered just how much it would hurt, but before he could even ponder that, it was as if an entire entity had taken over him, scooping him up from behind, and placed her hands over his, and sang into his ear as her hands carved into his skin.
So intense! Due to the awesome pain, he had cried out silently, the entity covering his mouth with her sublime hands. He could- - he swore could - - feel her long, flowing hair brush against his cheek.
The blood was gushing, or so he told himself
[it was only a minor cut, hardly anything was lost]
but it was only due to the fact that he was a beginner.
He'd thrown the blade across the room, it had landed underneath his dresser. He curled even tighter into himself, and wept out his pain as one hand clamped upon the laceration.
He was disgusted with what he had done, and vowed he'd never do it again.
But he did, he was like some junkie, and he hated himself - - even more so - - for becoming so weak as to rely on some inanimate object.
But no matter how hard he tried, he always succumbed to its shiny metallic power.
He was fine during the Academy, he had friends, even had a few girlfriends.
But he could never escape the fact that he needed it, he needed the rush as the blood would pump its way out of him. How it would bubble and burst, erupting from inside of him.
The vermilion, all he was made of was squished and mashed cherry fluid, enticed him more than any girl could. More than any adventure could, even more so than those daring life or death feats he would constantly pull.
Nothing compared to the feeling as he knew he was creating art with his skin, he was sculpting himself into something better than what he was.
He was only trying to make his mother happy.
-End-
*****
Hmm. I don't know if I like it. What of you readers? Go on, review. That little box gets off on being typed on. Teehee.
Love and Peace
-Holly
By: Holly Rose E.
Summary: Jim battles an old friend atop the roof: 'No matter how hard he tried, he always succumbed to its shiny metallic power.'
Rating: PG-13, bordering on R
Genre: Strong Angst
Disclaimer: Don't own any characters. I'm only using them to fulfill my sick imagination. BUT I do own the little poem before the actual story. So there.
Author's Note: Jim always seems so dark to me, and I wanted to play on that fact. If masochism squicks you, I suggest you turn back now. [I want to see how many mention that when they review, to know they don't even bother reading this...]
*****
Beneath The Skin
*****
Wind is what I wish for
As it whispers in my ear
When I am vying for sleep
It sings to me a lullaby
Cradling me to blissful unawares
It swathes me
Buries me in its torment
In an attempt to suffocate
~Split
*****
Breathing deeply, he listened to the cold silence, welcoming it with the greatest convivial. The stars glittered above him, shining effervescently as they danced and winked at him.
They always did that, toyed with him. As they would so gaily laugh superiorly, mocking him in his lowly state. To let him now to the best of their ability he could never be with them.
That he would never be good enough to prance and mingle among the stars.
His mother- - no matter how much he loved her - - drove him insane once Delbert stayed later. She would complain incessantly, wishing he were something different, praying that he could be better than he was now.
He supposed, in a way, it was his own fault for being like this. He had total control of his life, but something inside of him had given up.
Had given up just like a fucking loser.
Delbert, bless him, would try to stand up for him, but he always failed. He was just too submissive for his own good, always stuttering and stammering over his words. It was pure luck that the man didn't trip every time he attempted to walk anyway.
Now, they had departed. Delbert had sped away on his cart, Delilah barking happily. His mother had retired to her room; he had seen her fiddling with her necklace, clicking the locket open and close with a maddening staccato.
Now he was alone, once more, with the wind as it whispered a serenade, a lullaby of lies flitting through his mind.
As he stirred where he lay, he felt something in his pocket jab against his thigh.
A smile flitted across his face, the pang in his leg sending a message of dire comfort.
He reached a hand into his pocket, withdrawing the object and twirling it about his fingers.
It gleamed in the moonlight, he could hear the stars cheering him on, praising him for remembering.
Remembering an old, old friend.
After the trip to Treasure Planet, he had been so certain that he could change. That he _had_ changed.
He went to the Academy as promised by Amelia, and came back with high honors after only a year.
He'd never forgotten Silver- - how could he? - -because the man had been the father he'd never had before.
When he was with him, he felt safe. Felt that he was okay for being who he was, okay for being... Well, just existing.
With his mom, she sometimes would give him looks, looks that screamed at him: "Why are you even here? Why do you always have to trouble me so with your goddamn self?"
That hurt.
Deep inside, he knew what he did was wrong, he knew that wasn't ever what she meant, and he knew that he was perfectly fine.
He was sane. He had to be.
He flicked open the object, his friend grinned at him.
He'd started when he was no older than thirteen. He'd come home one day after the daunting of his classmates and the continuous teasing, bullying, and laughter. He'd gone straight to the kitchen, digging around and almost losing a hand in one of the machines.
He'd laughed at its futile attempt, and continued to rummage. Throwing things everywhere, turning the kitchen into a place of complete disarray. The banging and ringing in his head resounded, pounded into his membrane.
It was still there, tossing about in his cranium with relish.
He'd found what he wanted. His father's old pocket-knife; it was the one thing the old man had forgotten to take.
Jim had stolen it the week before, because he'd heard his mother complain about the man always whittling away at whatever he got his hands on.
He'd run up to his room, an insane grin sweeping across his face and claiming him for itself. Bolted the door he had, and curled up in a faraway corner. He flicked open the blade, feigning fear as he skated it across his skin that covered his forearm.
He wondered just how much it would hurt, but before he could even ponder that, it was as if an entire entity had taken over him, scooping him up from behind, and placed her hands over his, and sang into his ear as her hands carved into his skin.
So intense! Due to the awesome pain, he had cried out silently, the entity covering his mouth with her sublime hands. He could- - he swore could - - feel her long, flowing hair brush against his cheek.
The blood was gushing, or so he told himself
[it was only a minor cut, hardly anything was lost]
but it was only due to the fact that he was a beginner.
He'd thrown the blade across the room, it had landed underneath his dresser. He curled even tighter into himself, and wept out his pain as one hand clamped upon the laceration.
He was disgusted with what he had done, and vowed he'd never do it again.
But he did, he was like some junkie, and he hated himself - - even more so - - for becoming so weak as to rely on some inanimate object.
But no matter how hard he tried, he always succumbed to its shiny metallic power.
He was fine during the Academy, he had friends, even had a few girlfriends.
But he could never escape the fact that he needed it, he needed the rush as the blood would pump its way out of him. How it would bubble and burst, erupting from inside of him.
The vermilion, all he was made of was squished and mashed cherry fluid, enticed him more than any girl could. More than any adventure could, even more so than those daring life or death feats he would constantly pull.
Nothing compared to the feeling as he knew he was creating art with his skin, he was sculpting himself into something better than what he was.
He was only trying to make his mother happy.
-End-
*****
Hmm. I don't know if I like it. What of you readers? Go on, review. That little box gets off on being typed on. Teehee.
Love and Peace
-Holly