It's been a couple of years since I last wrote stuff for this website, and I'm trying to catch up! So I'm sorry if you read this already with 90% of the text missing, but hey, thanks for bearing with me.
You feel an awful, terrifying sensation piercing through your chest. You aren't sure what causes you to fall down; the pain, or the noise you make – whatever it is, your head spins and a certain churning movement occurs down below. You try breathing steadily and thinking straight to help repel the nasty oncoming feeling. You know that this isn't the first time that it has happen, and the sensation of the moment causes you to remember. Your chest tightens, as though being squeezed inwards by a rubber band, stirring a wince from your throat. A frail memory shard, wondering about in the depths of your darkened mind, pools up to the surface. You try to latch onto it – the movements are near frantic – with an imagined pair of two, long white arms.
The shard rejects you. It cuts through your skin, unfeeling of its consequences. Your fingers are left stingingly cold and swollen, you try to imagine, yet the pain does not succumb to describing the level of heartbreak and suffering that you have experienced – all thanks to him. The monster that carved a certain black fire into your bones; the cruelty that managed to steal your hardened heart away from the already storming sadness that you wished had occurred earlier, before he intruded into your life. He must've been an experienced thief, you think to yourself, because the only thing you can picture in your head now is Rufioh Nitram walking away from you with his back turned, locking arms with the monstrosity that you have come so close to loathing with your soul. Yet that hate is not entirely there, because you want to deny to yourself for as long as possible that he is not worthy of receiving such strong emotions from you. And you are not willing to sacrifice a quarter of your time to entertain a hoof beast who fancies bulls and ponies.
The shard exits your imagination on stage, and you are again, faced with the ringing harshness of reality. The pain makes you want to throw up, but you hold back. You've always held back, never wanting to make it seem so candidly obvious –because you've always been such the pretentious lady figure. The attack only comes after you've exhibited patience, well-being and calamity – so you shall and will be patient, sane and calm. Anything else is out of the question. You act out your expected behaviour, much like the written expectations and goals of your self-fulfilling prophecy.
Oh, no. Not this time.
'Those belonging to the filthy red blood class do not have the right to voice out their worries.'
It never works out in the end. Your face scrutinises an incomprehensible emotion mixed with jealousy and confusion, and suddenly, your hardened cheeks feel warm – a revolting liquid substance runs over them daringly while your mind spazzes. Your vision intensifies into a peripheral illusion of your surroundings, and you truly wonder if your guardian suffered a minor or worse pain, moments before cutting off all life transport – leaving you alone with your inconsistent sobbing rhythms in the dark. You wonder and make up all the wrong reasons of why she would hate you for being such a troublesome child; meddlesome and fierce-some and hate-some and whatnot – and you are happy to think about false accusations because it numbs your body down to a throbbing heartbeat. You think of all the right things you could have sworn you came near to achieving your sad self to, but the impaired thought breaks and you are thrown back into the sea to drown. It hurts, but you hate yourself for it because you believe that you should already be accustomed to all sorts of pain by now.
You keep wondering and stumbling on your own home-made path of self-questioning and doubt, until you find yourself tiptoeing on the edge of a cliff, and you fall, figuratively speaking. You fall hard. You think you hear something cry, but it is only yourself showing a weakness to the world and you immediately shut up – you hear something or someone approaching. You open your eyes to find him – him of all people – there; with his stupid ugly goggles to conceal his stupid dark blue eyes and his stupid face marked with a stupid expression of unneeded worry, and that pretty much sums up what you feel like taking out your blazing anger on. Yes, that's it.
You get up quickly, after realising that he found you – you, of all people – sprawled on the ground in a pool of pain and tears. You want to hide, secretly, swearing to yourself, 'This must be a huge joke.' You try to hit him, but he catches your flailing arms in his stupid hi-tech gloves in his stupid – but painful – steel-brace hold. He tells you to calm down in an unnecessary tranquil voice, but it does nothing but piss you off even further. Everything about him is unnecessary and uncalled-for.
…And you don't need it. You reject it. You reject all of it. It isn't fair to let him steal your punctured heart again after he's stolen and recovered it to you before. You foolishly let him get away with it twice. He is trying to speak to you, but you don't listen – or, you like to think that you don't register his words. You, Damara Megido, swear; you want to kill this male troll before you. Hate looms before you once again, and it looms and struggles so strong it breaks you inside. You begin to tremble. All you want to do now is hide – and hide forever, and you wonder again along your trail of redundant thoughts if you were pre-made to become a cowardice embarrassment.
A noise thunders through your rummaging head like a hammer aiming for a nail sticking out on a plank of wood, but it keeps missing. His voice is raised and he is yelling, and shaking you – how and why you don't know, but he is angry. His anger is fast and hideous and sharp, but you don't know how to respond. You recover from your confusing mess while noticing that he has loosened his vice-grip. You free your right hand and slap him. He falls silent. His passionate voice is replaced by an uncomfortable silence that follows, like a dog running after its owner with its tail between its back legs. The feeling returns to haunt you, ironically. You don't know how to react – for the umpteenth time, you come to the conclusion that you are the most stupid, hated, and worthless being of all, and you try to make up for it by being better than you actually are with a raised middle finger to the world. And it looks like he's already figured that out, all this time while you were brining nothing but shame upon yourself.
You want to stop all this. Already believing and entrusting in your fate to become the all-time cowardice embarrassment you've stamped your heart with, your body reacts fast to your thoughts. You turn away from the disaster you've caused, and run. You run unsteadily away from the newfound attention that you've attracted – you think how stupid these moths are to not distinguish light from fire, shooting a glare into the nearest eye you meet – never stopping once, even though your leg muscles scream at you for being so pretentious and hasty at the same time. You stop only after you've reached what you visually recognise as home. You collapse dramatically, all the while realising that you've dirtied and scraped your face, and now you are more or less likely to be almost fully covered in your own tears, sweat and blood.
You hate yourself for living up to your expected standards of a coward. You want to bury yourself into the ground for it, but will it make a difference? After all, you believe that the soil will spew you back up for it as you are too worthless to even make up for your crimes. At least, that's what you think.
At last, you scream where no one else can hear you.