It has been for-damn-EVER since I wrote/posted pretty much anything here. So after being unable to stop the flow ideas that kept spilling out of my brain like mucus out of a runny nose (wonderful metaphor, isn't it), I gave in. So here's a little official:
BOOYAH! I'M BACK, BABY!
… and let's move on.
A present day drama, featuring Beastboy and Raven. I'm not even a big fan of the said pairing. So why am I writing it then? The characters fit the plot I thought of. Nuff said.
2) 'Obstructed Views' (TT fic)
Plot: He had decided: he needed a change. But what he didn't realize was that she wasn't offering herself as one when she found him passed out on the side of the road. (AU)
Char: Beastboy, Raven
Genre: Drama
Rating: strong T
Beta: unbeta-ed at the moment
Obstructed Views
Chapter 1
Never again would he, Garfield Logan, in this life (or any other for that matter) ride a bus anywhere. Yup. Never. Never ever EVER. He would make sure that it would become one of those stick-with-you-for-the-rest-of-your-life kind of rule; along with the rule of snapping the neck of any person who uses a deodorant near him.
"Fucking hahh... bastards..." he slurred between dry and heavy pants, woefully dragging his feet one after the other across the white-hot ground.
All in all, he'd have to try and remember not to forget that first rule. Currently it held a bigger importance than creating a massacre. He could see it now: waking up in a dark and comfy room and opening his eyes to a ceiling with big bolded letters 'NEVER RIDE THE BUS AGAIN' right above him. One would think that something like that would be considered 'overdoing it'. Well, it wasn't! It's always the little things you're sure to remember that you most often forget. Like: flush the toilet, put the cap back on the toothpaste, check the expiration date on the milk before you decide to chug it down- and here's a new one to add to the ever-growing collection.
And to Hell if he'd let himself forget this one. Heck, he should tattoo this one on his ass! … Alright, maybe not his ass. His arm maybe...? Yeah! He should tattoo it on his arm so he would have something to remind him to never ride that abomination. For the rest. of his. God. damned. Life!
Not to the other side of town.
Not to work.
Not down the street!
And certainly NOT across...
...a fucking desert.
~~ ( O ) ~~
It stretched as far as the eye could see, decorated with a few thrown around rocks and cactuses, dry and incandescent, glowing under that relentless ball of fire called the Sun. It radiated more and more heat, swaying reality right before his eyes and, God, he really didn't need that right now. The t-shirt that was tied around his head like a turban was long drenched in sweat and only added extra weight to his fickle head.
"'s was all hahh... their fault..." he continued mumbling to himself with another shaky step, "Why not make the holes in the ozone a little bit hahh... bigger you hahh assholes... phew..." With a huff he hunched over with his hands on his knees, feeling a slight tickle of sweat sliding down his scalp. Sweat that oh-so-subtly glided down the back of his neck and continued its journey further south, down his back with... that cold and heavenly caress that came afterward. The long awaited relief. A reward from the universe. An encouraging pat on the back, as if it were saying like a mentor to his newly employed charge: "Nice work Garfield! Here's a drop of your own sweat to relieve you a bit. Keep it up!" And him beaming with pride, while stumbling with 'thank you's and thinking-
… How disgusting.
'Damn it, Gar; you're losing it...' angrily he wiped his damp forehead with the back of his hand. Any water related thought made him painfully aware of how the inside of his mouth tasted like sand-paper. What wouldn't he give for a tall cool glass of water now. How long has it been since he drank the last bit of water he had? It felt like an eternity. He could just feel his whole body signaling to him that if he didn't get something to drink soon his legs would give out and he'd collapse in a miserable pile of-
...oh, hey, since when did he have three pairs of feet?
. . .
-No, he felt fine.
He blinked hard a few times to steady his swaying vision before slowly straightening up.
Yeah, just fine.
As a matter of fact, he felt better than fine. He felt great! Yeah, he could do a few more hours of walking around pointlessly. He's down with that. It's cool. Water? Who needs it. And that scorching ball of hell above him? Pfft! No. problem. Bikini weather!
With a determined jerk of his head he begun his trek up the hill in front of him, careful not to trip over any tangled weeds or remains of dried wood. He could feel his dusty all-stars slipping against the loose grains of earth and sand with every worn-out step he took up. Unconsciously he started biting the inside of his mouth as he eyed the top of the hill. His heartbeat picked up with each unsteady step and slip, making his skin quiver. His movements became rushed as he made his way up further and further. More nervous, sloppy, and it wasn't long before the leg he was supporting his weight on slipped and he found himself face down with a mouthful of dirt.
His breath hitched and a yelp escaped him when his bare chest made contact and scraped against the earth as he slid down. He felt pressure beneath his footwear when the ground gave no resistance and just kept crumbling away under his weight. He flailed his arms above his head and dug his fingers into the dirt, grabbing at whatever he could like a cat which was desperately gripping onto the tablecloth to stop its fall. His fingertips burned and he grit his teeth in pain. He kept grabbing away and it wasn't long before he managed to grip a form of vegetation that didn't tear along with its root.
… And this one just happened to have thorns.
"ARH! Son of a-!"
They cut into his right hand, making holes in his flesh as if they were shaping a puzzle piece they could fit with perfectly. His mouth agonizingly stretched open. He gagged on his own scream as he bravely tried to swallow it and keep holding onto the thorny weed that kept him from dropping further downwards.
His dry lips trembled and he forced a shaky breath down his lungs.
He could feel thin lines of something sliding its way from the heel of his palm and over his wrist. The warm tickle down the thin skin on his inner-arms drew out a violent shudder from his body and he couldn't help but mumble to himself.
"Shitshitshitshit..." shit, it hurts...
He didn't dare look up. The pain made him tense his arm in fear of letting go to the point where it felt he would break his own bones just from the stiffness and pressure. The thorns, of course, only dug deeper. It felt like his palm was forcibly being sewn to something like in one of those damn horror movies he watched and he had seen enough of those with all their gruesome details with flesh sticking out of wires, pikes, and pierced body parts with blood dripping down and- oh god he really needed to shut up now!
'Calm down, calm down... Y-You're tired a-and thinking about death way too much... J-Just calm down...'
He started feeling around with his other hand to find something... less painful to hold onto and dug his feet in hope of some stability until he got up back up. The fast beats of his heart against his ribs was akin as if someone was repeatedly raping on a door.
He hit his forehead against the ground. Damn it, calm down!
This... This was too much. The heat, the fatigue and thirst, the nothingness, so much nothingness around him, inside him, everywhere. It was all too much. It was cruel and hard and they hit and pressed and pushed at that little box of sanity he hid himself in. And he tried, God, he tried! But the walls, they were just cracking so fast. They were quaking and threatening to fall down and crush him despite his efforts to keep them up.
His breath was picking up and he was sucking in short, quick draws of air through his mouth. Eyes stinging, he pressed them shut and concentrated on making his lips stop trembling. They needed to stop now!
"I'm not gonna die..." he croaked out meekly.
Forehead pressed to the ground, he repeated, "I'm not gonna die..." Again. "I'm not gonna die-" "-I'm not gonna die-" "-I'm not gonna die-" He kept muttering over and over.
...I'm (not) gonna die...
...I'm (not) gonna die...
...I'm (not) gonna die...
...I'm (not) gonna die...
And then his tone started shifting. Little by little.
...I'm not gonna die...
Louder.
...I'm not gonna die...
More confident.
...I am not gonna die.
Defiant.
I, Garfield Logan, am not. going. to. die!
Not here. Not now. Not like this. In the middle of nowhere, dirty, tired, alone. Not today.
He opened his eyes, spiteful determination flickering in his irises as he breathed deep through his nose. His face scrunched up slightly when the stinging sensation in his hand died down and was replaced with oppressive numbness. He looked in its direction, noting the fair amount of blood dripping down and mixing in with the dust.
He pressed his lips into a thin line and started unwrapping the sweat-soaked t-shirt with his free hand from his head. He put the salty cloth into his mouth temporarily and started digging around. It wasn't long before he reached a denser layer of earth that wouldn't slide away as easily as the first one did and dug his fingers into it
He stared ominously at his latest challenge. The intensity of his glare suggested as if he were willing the plant to release him rather than it being the other way around. Blood continued to slowly drip in between his fingers and down his right hand-
A sickly thin hand covered his right one. "Are you sure, Garfield?"
It hurt holding her gaze. But he did so anyway; he owed her that much.
If he had had any saliva left in his mouth, he would have swallowed loudly. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
.
.
.
.
.
.
"I am."
He uncurled his fingers.
Cold pain shot up his hand muscles, stiffening them. A mixture of a cry and a hiss fought its way out of his mouth as he kept grinding his teeth on his sweaty shirt. He maneuvered his bloody hand as fast as possible to take a hold of the cloth in his mouth and wrap it around it. The light shaking of his hand made the whole motion seem slower than it was. It unnerved him.
Once that was over and done with, he released a sigh of relief. The pain didn't go away or lessen, but the wound was so far safe from getting dirty or infected. That was one less thing off his mind to worry about.
Garfield looked up again. The top a significant few meters away.
It was now or never.
One step, push and he was up again on his feet. Careful to keep his balance, he began tracking up the hill again. Slowly, surely. He kept his breathing tempo in sync with his footsteps. He needed to stay calm. There was no reason to panic. There was no reason to get worked up or anything. He's fine. Slightly less than fine, but fine enough to keep going. He's been walking for hours. He's bound to hit a gas-station or town much sooner than later.
.
.
.
… wait a minute. That made sense. A lot actually.
It would explain why he hadn't come across anything of the sort yet! Because he was just getting to it.
Yeah, that was probably it! And you know what? He would bet a hundred bucks that he'd spot civilization right away when he reached the top!
An optimistic fizz of energy itched his skin and returned a livelier shade of green to his eyes. The top was much closer than before and the fatigue didn't bother him as much suddenly.
- a charming square with a fountain!
The dirty all-stars kicked piles of earth behind him with each confident step he made up.
- a bar or a diner, a good old ice-cream cart somewhere on the side-
The pain in his hand didn't matter anymore. It was overshadowed by his hungry eyes.
- a motel with air-conditioning! Shade! Water! Actual plant life and people!
The distance shortened. He was there. He was almost there! All of it! Just over this hill-
~~ ( O ) ~~
Sand. Dust. A thin faded out road which stretched far into the nothingness of the horizon. And a single tumbleweed being lazily kicked around by a gust of wind.
With bated breath and heavy muscles he stood at the top. Eyes wide open, he drank in the landscape which was epicly presented to him.
.
.
.
.
His brain wasn't fully registering what was in front of him.
Town? People? Water? Shade?
Desert. Tumbleweed. Dust. More sun.
Garfield stood disturbingly still and, face blank, continued to stare at what was presented to him. That lasted for a bit.
And then he moved.
He took a breath and let his head slowly, almost lazily fall backwards. And at the same time, he let out a long, low and almost whiny groan.
"Urrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggghhhhhhhhhhh..."
He stretched that note until his nose was facing to the sky... And then it erupted into a full-blown roar of frustration.
"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!"
With his hands stretched at his side like a madman, he continued to scream until the lack of air prevented him from doing so. But in his current state of rage, not even oxygen deprivation seemed like it would stop him.
He needed to hit something. BADLY!
So when nothing magically appeared to hit he settled for kicking the sand around him while screaming out a neatly constructed string of 'fuck's, 'shit's and 'motherfucker's to whichever sick dainty that found this fucking hilarious!
"I mean Jesus fucking Christ, why?!" -kick- "WHY?! Did I ask" -kick- " too" -another one- "much?! HUH?! Did I ask too GODDAMNED MUCH?! ARRGHHHH!" He started swinging his arms around to get rid of the cloud of dust that rose and only seemed to have made it worse.
"SHIIIIIT!" He stomped his foot angrily. His bones shaking with rage he didn't know how to dispel.
"Fuck this! All of this! Jump, Her, Him and that shitfaced bus-driver! I hope you hear me you bold overweight greasy douche-bag! I! Hope! You! Burn! In! Hel-AHHHHH!"
In a split moment of yelling profanities he lost his footing and ungracefully tumbled down. His shouts were muffled but bouts of dirt that filled his mouth as he kept rolling over his head downwards. Upon reaching the bottom he found himself face-down on the ground once again.
Scratches marred his sunburned back and somewhere along the fall the wound on his hand opened further. He didn't so much as hiss. His sweaty cheek resting in the dirt, eyes closed, Garfield Logan... just continued to lie there.
.
.
.
Slowly and unwillingly his eyes opened half way. They stared off into the distance, dazed and unseeing. Hopelessness has finally settled in his muscles.
No more.
J-Just... no more.
He longer saw a reason to stop the stinging in his eyes. Lone salty drops, the only form of liquid within miles, slowly slipped out of his eyes and across his cheek and nose-bridge. They would disappear quickly. Evaporate in the heat and sand without a trace.
His breath was shaking with silenced sobs he dared not release. A man holding onto the last bits of his sanity. He lied there waiting for the next wave of exhaustion to claim him.
As a final comfort he begun running his fingers along the sand beside his head. With each stroke his breath subsided shaking. That simple act put him at ease. The wavy patterns he made were familiar. Like hair. Like long strands of sandy-blond hair.
He pressed his lips together forcefully.
Enough.
It's enough.
With that thought he closed his eyes and relaxed.
There was no reason to panic. There was no reason to get worked up. To struggle.
His life ended while searching for a beginning. How ironic. How poetic.
...How sad.
So anything you guys wanna share? Funny? Sad? Part you like the most? Quote? Flame? (We can roast marshmallows together! :D)
If you already took the time to read it, you might as well take time to leave a comment. Until the next update!
xMF