...Yes, I am aware that this cliched piece of writing will not to do a very good job against all those competitors out there. But I write because I need to not because I want to.
This is entered in both DaZeLinker's and Super Serious Gal 3's song fic. contest because I'm having an extremely hard time writing just one.
Good luck to everyone—there's some tough competition out there!
I was originally going to write other things but I chose this one because [I felt] it had the most meaning out of all the other songs I was going to do.
Inspired by The A Team by Ed Sheeran. If you listen to it while reading this I think you'll understand it more. I teared up watching the music video—though you probably shouldn't. The story illustrates that.
Warning: Includes drug usage. Heed to the T rating, people! Am I promoting drug usage? Hell no. That's what this fic. is about.
Edit: Fixed a typo spotted by Lady Paprika. Thanks so much! ...I guess I'm a little more obsessive than I realized.
*shot*
Everybody's going somewhere.
They're lost in the storm of their own mind, being swept away by the tide of their own worries. They stir up a rush of movement with their boots as they walk by. The wind kisses me with its frozen lips and I shiver.
It bites, the wound sinking in through the thin, dirty coat. The cold is like a disease, a sweep of snow and ice, threatening to swallow me whole.
It seems that everybody's going somewhere but me— they're swirling in the vortex of thoughts. But I stay, huddled in the corner, like I'm enclosed from the world. I wonder, between the blurred lines, if they really are going somewhere. Perhaps they fade on the border between time and space.
Perhaps they never even were.
They still walk, and they remind me of marble statues. They look forward and never back, as if they're running some invisible race.
Should the tide of reality come, like a sudden hurricane and sweep them away, would only their footprints remain? Or do they leave nothing, nothing of their presence? I think of their footprints like black markings, scars and tattoos, all imprinted on the dirty snow.
"Just a dollar!" I scream to them, but even my voice is swept away by their sudden movement. It's lost between their rushing voices and cars honking to each other, sirens of police cars speeding down the icy roads.
My lungs burn as the words catch in my throat, and I only then realize how dry it is. The taste of yesterday remains burned into me, like the sour, charred remains of a house.
My eyes water as the wind continues to berate me and I turn my head to the side, spitting at the snow that still covers the pavement. It doesn't matter, anyway, the snow that seemed so pure yesterday has already been contaminating.
I said that they pay no attention to me, they just simply walk by and ignore me, the mass of a person sitting on the sidewalks. The person huddled between two buildings with the torn coat, hollowed cheeks.
I lied.
They do pay attention to me—they just don't care. They talk about me with voices drowned in pity and sympathy in their eyes. I'm the model they use, the sad, cautionary tale.
Pity, sympathy—two worthless emotions that I don't need. My eyes sting again and my lungs tighten. The burning sensation, much like bile, returns to my throat. I cough, the rough sound scratching my insides.
"A dollar!" I find myself screaming again, and wave around the brochures with my frozen fingertips. I know nobody will buy them—like yesterday, and the day before that. I need to earn my money doing other things, but I try anyway.
Rent's due tomorrow. I can hear the land lord's voice in my mind again. Go away, I tell the voice numbly. Why doesn't he just leave me alone?
Snowflakes come drifting down like dandelion seeds. They aren't even beautiful, I tell myself—they're just another mask to cover up the already dirty snow. They land on my cheeks for just a moment before melting away, disappearing before I can grasp them.
The snowflakes make it look like I'm crying. Maybe I am. Maybe I'm not. I'm not the kind of person to sit and watch. The air stinks of urban poverty and I choke on the stench.
I need an angel, I tell myself. My legs are numbing, beaten down by the cold. It doesn't matter—the cycle will start again tomorrow...and the next day, and the next.
Angels. Huh.
Maybe sometime, years ago, down the pathway, past the obstacles and the boulders, I believed in angels. It was a childhood fantasy, something reality wiped away. Maybe there is such thing as an angel—but such pure, innocent things would not waste their time on me.
I shove these thoughts aside. Angels don't exist. And even if they do, the weather, in all of its cold cruelty, would kill it. The angel would die, closed eyes and broken wings.
Snowflakes adorn my hair like fancy jewelry, and I wish it was only that simple. The matted, dirty strands of auburn hair fall over my shoulders. It's a burden now—in fact, I'd cut it all off if I could.
I breathe in the cool, ethereal scent of winter and ironically enough, it's a clean scent that warms me from the inside out. But it doesn't last. It fades, leaving a sour taste I know all too well.
Just when I'm about to stand up and head for my other 'job', a young man approaches me. He has his hands crammed into his pockets, and enviously, I eye his coat. Instinctively, I search for holes in the fabric, though I know I will find none.
He holds a fifty dollar in his outstretched hand and smiles at me. His smile is pretty, I suppose—but pretty no longer holds a meaning.
No, I tell myself, it's hideous. The eyes are blue-grey, like a night-but-not-quite sky's gradient. But they have something behind them—sympathy? Pity?
Hideous emotions. I don't need his sympathy. Not his pity. I don't need any of that.
"One, please," he tells softly, and he sounds too much like somebody I used to know. Somebody? Somebody who perhaps existed in the farthest corners of my mind, the riveting, bleeding edges of my imagination.
(His eyes were blue.)
"Sorry," I tell him, and the words burn a gap in my throat, "but I don't have forty-nine dollars in change." My head still spins and I need money, I need something.
"I know," he answers simply, and presses the money into my hands. "That's why I'm giving it to you." His stare is deep like a wound and I stiffen underneath the thin, worn coat.
I don't need your sympathy, my mouth opens and closes yet no words come out. They're caught in my throat, like flopping fish in a roped net.
What does come out is different, yet once words are out we can't take them back. The words roam, like beasts, throughout the plain. Maybe someday they'll be worth it.
"Thank you," I say numbly, and take the money. It's real in my fingers, worn paper, feeling like burned-out leather.
I want to say something else—something worth while. I want to ask him a question, uncover the masks that cover who he really is. I want to peel off, layer by layer, and see if he's who I'm looking for.
But I don't, and the tide of people creeps in with its gigantic jaws and before I know it he's gone. I sigh, a long, labored sigh that morphs into a hideous cough.
The nights are long and bland and empty. But then again, everything seems empty. I hide, too, behind the curtain of many things. It's a shame curtains can't wipe away all your mistakes.
Someday, I think I'd like to be swept off in the tide. Someday, I'd like a flurry—no, a storm—of snowflakes to rain down just for me. I'd breathe them in. They'd rinse me clean, and I'd start over, like a snowflake angel falling down, down, down...
But I'm reminded of the ravenous cold and the demanding winds, and it's too cold outside for an angel.
My nights are long. They're not filled of dreams—my dreams are for the morning, where darkness can't wipe them out. They're not filled with "romantic nights" that people used to believe in or even sleep. My eyes are hollow, and the dark circles sink into the skin.
Another reminder of a sleepless night, of the path of chosen. Rent. Desperately, my mind scrambles for reason. My problems are piling up, on top of another, and one day, I'll break from underneath them.
His hands are rough and coarse, like manipulative rock. Someday, they'll scratch off all my skin, all the layers, all the mistakes. But the pain isn't worth it.
I can feel his breath on my neck, like a flamethrower, but it doesn't burn. It's not powerful enough.
Almost blankly, blandly, emptily, I stare up at the ceiling. It's white, and I try to make sense of the assorted dots. The white fades to snowflake angels as they drift downwards. I blink, the stinging in my eyes disappears momentarily, and the angels fade.
It's just a goddamned plain white ceiling. Why did I ever think there'd be anything there?
An empty hour later, I sit up and pull my coat on over the thin clothes. It makes no difference—I feel no warmer. The coat's too thin to do anything, anyway. So why do I wear it?
He slips the money into my hand and wordlessly, I slip it into my pocket. Nothing. There's no thank you, no nice doing business with you. It's nothing, really. I sell him my trade and he pays me for it.
Simple. Easy. Clean.
No, clean is the wrong word. It's too ironic.
I look over my earnings—five hundred, counting the fifty dollars. The man, that strange man who paid fifty dollars for something not even worth one. He's so stupid and that's what makes it somehow wrong. He doesn't know me.
But in a way, I think I know him—from the dirty-blonde hair to the crooked grin and the blue-grey eyes. He's too familiar and it scares me in that way that he'll fade before I can grasp him.
I know I should pay rent—the five hundred would have me well off for a month and a half. Or maybe just one month. Reason clings to me, she begs me to pay the rent.
But I don't. I slip the money into my pocket and carelessly tie my tangled hair back. Five-hundred should be enough for a couple of grams. This strange, feeling consumes me, almost like I'm waiting.
I look outside, briefly—though I don't know what I expect to see. The snowflakes keep falling. But in the morning, I know they'll melt.
I turn the corner of the apartment. My worn-out boots, streaked with mud and snow, leave tracks on the carpet. The carpet, too, is just a mask, covering the wood floor.
But then again, aren't we all masks?
I head outside the apartment, greeted by the winter weather. After a short walk through the streets, I find myself back where they said they'll be.
I hold out the money almost expectantly, and like a mouse, they take it greedily. We exchange stares, and my gaze flickers. Nobody sees us behind the curtain of white.
They drop a small bag into my hand and before I know it, they're gone. My throat burns with longing and I grip the bag so tight that my knuckles pale.
I'm back within the safety of my apartment. I shake the bag, and the contents quiver. They're all too real. I feel safe, within the closed walls, where nobody can really see who I am.
But I'll return tomorrow, someday, back to the corner, begging for money. I roll a piece of paper carefully and though I don't know why, my fingers tremble. One of my hands fumble for a lighter, the other pouring the contents of the bag gently into the paper. I twist it and my hand still shakes as I light the other end.
There.
Staggering on numb feet, I stare in the mirror. A face stares back. Hollowed, pale cheeks. Dark-ringed eyes that burn with the wrong kind of fire.
Hollow. I'm hollow. A weird part of me seems to find this funny and I laugh.
Gripping the joint tightly, I blow into it, still walking back to my bed. The sheets have been messed for a while, wrinkled and old. Some sag unto the floor. I wonder how long it's been since I've cleaned.
(blow)
The feeling rinses me clean like water, and I collapse on my bed. I shake, though I don't know why. I'm afraid that I'll wake up and never fear anything again.
It fills my lungs with the familiar sour taste. It burns holes through me. The feeling leaves scars all the way down to my very core.
It takes me in and out of reality, and I fade, clinging on barely to the edge. I close my eyes, and maybe I can see angels, too, with their feathery-white wings.
They're smiling. Maybe, this time, they won't fade. They won't melt.
A foolish part of me says that they'll fly. They'll fly to me, and bring me somewhere. I don't know where. I don't care where. They'll fly, pure beings against dark night, even if it's too cold for them. They'll risk it for me.
(And maybe the won't die, this time. Maybe they'll have his crooked grin and blue eyes—the dirty blonde hair and the familiar laugh.)
And it fades in-out, and I wake up. The feeling's gone. Reality is cold, hard concrete underneath me and I blink. The world's hazy in front of me in...out...
I don't know what happens. Truly. My eyes snap tight, refusing to open. My lashes are wet with something cold and unfeeling, something pure and then—gone. I, too, fade. In and out of reality. I'm not sleeping. But I'm not awake, either.
I simply am.
When I manage to open my eyes and the blur fades, I'm back in the corner with the joint between my fingers. Again, almost desperately, I blow into it. The feeling is back, into my burnt lungs, spreading the feeling and the taste. But when the taste fades, when I can reach out through the curtain and feel reality, it leaves something sour.
I blow again. It's empty. Disgusted with myself, I throw it down to the ground and lean my head against the wall. People walk by. They whisper. The girl who lives in a daydream.
They give me pitiful stares.
(but you don't deserve their pity.)
No. I don't. And I don't want it. I close my eyes briefly, and I still feel the snowflakes. Angels. Yes, angels. They'll come to take me away, won't they?
Won't they?
My fingers are already numbing from the wind's bitter words and I cram them into my pocket, hoping it will warm them. It always does, but only for moments before the searing cold returns.
I stare off into the crowd, and then I see my angel. Even though it's too cold, my angel is there. Snowflakes still come down. I'm certain, now, that they're here to wash me clean. Wash away the sin in my lungs, the sour taste.
My angel has blue-grey eyes. My angel has a beautiful smile. It's crooked, but it's beautiful all the same. My angel has dirty-blonde hair, now covered in snowflakes.
My angel is him.
He's walking close to me, evading the tide of people. He's reaching out a hand to me, and now I know I've seen him before. Yes. Before.
Before the feeling and the sour taste that have, long since, been all I ever know. Before the struggles to pay rent and the late-night jobs that leave me empty. Before the pitying stares and the whispers, the gossip and the talk of daydreams, the shaking heads. Before all of that.
If only I could remember his name.
(if only)
The hand is still outreached towards me, and I long to grab it. Take hold on to it and never let it go. Trust it take me away—from here, from what I've chosen. I'll overcome the tide if that's what it takes. The snowflakes come down, faster and faster. They're determined.
(as am I)
"Take my hand," he whispers, and his eyes sparkle.
Everybody's going somewhere. Perhaps, I will too.
But just as I'm about to take his hand, I blink. And then suddenly—cruelly—my angel is gone. I'm alone, against the cold walls, with the flood of people still rushing by. I reach out. The snowflakes have stopped falling.
He's gone. Gone.
Gone, as if he never was in the first place.
- FIN -
Eh. I'm not too proud of it. It could have been a lot better, could have been a lot worse. I'll leave it up to SSG3 and DaZelinker to figure it out.
I implied Link and Zelda, but besides the descriptions of characters, the guy can be anybody you want. As can the narrator. This wasn't meant to be romance-ish, just close friendship? I guess?
(But if you want to think of it in a romance way, nobody's stopping you...)
You can think whatever you like of the ending. Good luck to all competitors in both contests!
Reviews are like gold. Views are like pyrite. Just sayin'. :P