I'm not dead, believe it or not.

I shouldn't be starting something new, considering how I have yet to complete any of my other stories, but I can't help it. Although I have not been active on this site, I have been writing a lot. Yet I'm too afraid to publish any of my works. They are all quite horrendous. Publishing this is actually making me nervous.

On a friendlier note, I do hope that you enjoy. If you have read my horrid-of-a-story called Scraping, then just think of this as a spin-off to it, or something (despite the fact that it is not complete). Please be aware of the fact that this is sort of dark. Personally, I don't think it's too bad, but something may look different to me than it does to you.


Twisted Tree

Chapter 1

"He was drifting in and out of sanity
But in every other way he was fine"

Solitary Shell - Dream Theater


"What's wrong with you?"


Streaming black stains the sink as it is sucked in by the drain.

His trembling fingers are yanking at the hair of his scalp, sliding down until they meet the foreign short ends.

He is unable to recall anything that has happened before this.

Abruptly, in an act of denial, he leans his head under the running water, scrubbing away at the black. He clutches his hair with his hands, groping it after it has been thoroughly soaked. He repeats this meaningless process several times.

And then looks up at the mirror.

Slowly, hands push back dripping hair, revealing a terrified face staring back into the glass.

This has been happening for a long time now, but he is still not used to it.

By his feet, a sable substance leaks out of a small container, almost empty. Beside it, a dagger wrapped in several strands of hair sits patiently.

Waiting.


His legs are intertwined between the soft fleece of tainted blankets. The fabric snugly sticks to the sweat of his bare body. In this condition, he feels like absolute shit; he is covered in too many unnecessary bodily fluids and is much too discombobulated to feel content. The empty feeling of dried salt on his face makes him cringe.

Strong arms pull him in, reintroducing him to the warmth of the body that he hates and loves all at once.

He feels like crying again.

"Why me?" he brokenly whimpers.

The other does not reply.


Dangerous amounts of blood leak from his abdomen. Off of pure instinct, he clutches at the torn skin, attempting to apply pressure anywhere he deems appropriate, but the red stuff just keeps spurting out.

Through golden strands and blurred vision, he looks up at the figure holding a sword. Red streams down the blade.

He watches as it drips.

drip.

drop.

drip.

drop.

drip.

He wonders why it has to end this way. No; he wonders why it could not have ended this way sooner. He has been waiting for this for decades. For centuries.

He has been waiting for much too long, and he is absolutely sick of it. His lips twitch into a demented smile as the shining figure drenched in red approaches. He finds himself counting the steps it takes: one, two, three, four. The sharp tip of the red sword taps against the skin of his neck, preparing for the sweet essence of the life it is about to claim. His eyes shutter several times before closing.

"Do it."

He can feel the abrupt relief of metal against his skin as it disappears. His heart sinks deep into his stomach at the realization. He looks up just in time to witness the figure hovering above him smirk.

"No," it whispers. "Not yet."

drop.

He can practically feel the metal slicing his neck.


"You're not okay."

He looks up to see a face full of concern and a tad bit of frustration. He wiggles his toes before swinging his legs awkwardly, much like a child would. And then, tilting his head to the side, musters all of his remaining strength to smile. The very action splits his face in two, cracking his skin until it all chips off to reveal a face of raw flesh underneath.

"Of course I am."

Dark eyes narrow. Eyebrows furrow. Teeth anxiously nip at chapped lips.

"Do you want to go outside? You know, to get some fresh air?"

He wants to say how going outside to get some fresh air is a bad idea, because the air is not fresh. There is nothing fresh about the air because it is dirty, and it is amazing that nobody chokes every time they inhale. It confuses him, how the body works around these sort of things.

He stops moving his legs. The smile on his face disappears, but only momentarily. He smiles even harder this time and says, "That sounds like a great idea."

The man in front of him appears to be relieved, if anything. His deep sigh is evidence of this. The mess-of-a-being in front of him hops up from his sitting position, making direct eye contact with him while doing so. His dark blue eyes speak only of agony. The smile is still there, pasted on dried lips, ominous and dreary.

"Just let me pick up my face first."

Always smiling.

"What?"


Sweat rolls down his face in heavy beads as his body involuntarily jolts upward. The air quickly becomes hot as he pants in ragged breathes. His clothing droops by his shoulders, threatening to slide off. But before that can happen he forcefully yanks it down, completely exposing his upper body, just because he needs to cool down. He might just wither away if he is not careful. He inhales unsteadily, attempting to regain composure he possible has never had.

His head is spinning and he has no idea how to make it stop. Breathing does not seem to be very effective. It never has. He buries his face into his trembling hands. He feels like the room is closing in on him, and it will squish him like the bug he is any second now. It could happen. A lot of things happen to him that he cannot understand.

Instinctively, his fingers go to graze the short length of his hair. He clutches it and pulls at it with increasing frustration. He ignores the silent screams of his scalp and tugs harder.

"God, damn it," he shouts. When his scalp screams too loud for it to be bearable anymore, salt water lightly flutters in his eyes. He kicks and thrashes wildly at the air, wanting nothing more than to inflict pain on another being. Desperate hands grope at the thick air but return each time with nothing. He bumps the back of his skull against the bed until he no longer can. Exhausted eyes stare up at the darkened ceiling. His chest rises up harshly and then falls with each staggered pant.

"What's wrong with you?"

Despite the darkness, he turns his head in the direction of the voice. All he can make out is the image of a blurry figure standing alone, off to the far corner of the room. He already knows who it is; the voice by itself is enough. It is also enough to give him a pounding headache. He takes cool air into his windpipe in greedy gulps. The heat is making him ravenous.

"What do you want?" he asks rudely, suiting into the new attitude he has reluctantly developed. He can practically hear the smile that curves onto the lips of the dark figure.

"What I always want," it purrs.

The figure glides from the corner to him with remarkable speed, almost like a ghost. Suddenly he is sweating all over again and every single hair on his body stands erect, completely aware that something unpleasant is about to happen. Before he can react for himself he is being pushed up against a wall. Skinny fingers cover his mouth like crooked bars. Fear infests his body like a deadly plague. Another hand roughly cradles the back of his head, forcing him to look forward. All he can see is a set of consuming blue eyes gazing into him.

He attempts to push the hand over his mouth away, but pathetically fails; they are only detached from his tortured face for less than a second before returning, this time only more angry. Nails pierce the soft flesh of his face. His body arches into the figure with his hips, hoping this will somehow pry the being off of him. It does not.

"G-Gin," he mutters. And then again and again, with more desperation each time, until he is practically screaming his name. A cruel hand grabs at short hair, suddenly yanking it back, causing the owner of it to face up at the ceiling. Everything stops moving. Pretty soon the sounds of precious inhaling and exhaling can be heard.

"Relax," Gin says gently. "I was just kidding." He softly kisses miserable skin. This is his demented way of apologizing, if he realizes it or not.

He hates him so much.

The feeling of relief courses through him as hands release him. He sits up slowly, remaining guarded until he is absolutely positive Gin is finished screwing with him. He goes to touch his neck where the wetness of kisses can be felt. He rubs angrily at them, actually believing this will somehow make them go away. The cruel man watches him, fully entertained at the mess-of-a-creature in front of him. He has always enjoyed observing insects squirm, especially when he is the one inflicting the motivational pain.

"What was that for?" a hoarse voice growls. Fingers resume tugging the short ends of hair as if nothing has happened. He wishes this was true. His hands collapse in his lap. Gin swiftly moves beside the miserable being, leaning his shoulder against the wall in order to see a face full of anguish. He moves his haunting hands to touch short hair. He can feel the other tense at this.

"I'm not sure." He can hear the smirk in his voice, the invisible venom seeping though his teeth and past his lips. "Can you ever forgive me?" He pets his hair like he is a dog. Like he is his miserable, sad, sad, sad little puppy. And he hates it.

But not Gin. He is enjoying this. He talks as if this is some sort of game.

Maybe it really is.

"Never," he says through his frowning mouth. He sighs, moving away to detach the unwanted fingers from his hair. It surprises him that Gin actually allows him to do so. He is waiting for him to grab him abruptly, pull him in, swallow him whole. He briefly wonders what he would taste like. Fingers are in his hair again. He slaps them away.

"Just leave me alone."

"And why would I do that?"

He knows he will never leave him alone. Or, if he ever did, he would desire for him to stay. He knows this because it has already happened too many times to count. It always ends the same way: he crawls back to the silver haired man, tail between his legs, whimpering. He cannot help the way his mind works. He presses his hands against Gin's chest, giving him a hard push. As pathetic as it is, this is the most he is capable of anymore.

Dark blue eyes capture light ones, gnawing angrily like a restrained animal reluctantly approaching death, determined enough to keep fighting but frightened enough to take its own life.

"Screw off."

Tearing its own heart out.


Haunting hands curl around his throat, digits squeezing the air out of him with the pure intention of fatality. He takes in morsels of air in short, panicked gasps, which become quicker with growing anxiety. His own hands scratch wildly at the lethal pair constricting his airways. His legs flail, swing, kick in every direction possible.

It is amazing what the body will do in order to survive.

His throat is closing in on him without his consent, giving up completely, only leaving enough room for maybe a small insect to squeeze down it. Just as his heart is about to pop out of his chest, it slows down, calm and ready to cease its laborious work once and for all. His mouth open frighteningly wide does not see the point in trying anymore, and so it relaxes itself shut. Eyes roll upwards into a darkened skull, whispering a harsh farewell to the cruel, cruel world.

Blotches of light bloom from the darkness, illuminating an unmoving body, strained and alone, lightly gliding across a battered neck until they disintegrate into the dark. The door shuts with a conclusive click. The figure behind it, however, is anything but satisfied.

The air has lost all of its thickness.