I don't know where this came from.
But, you know, I haven't been writing anything in a while. There are reasons, of course. Certain ones. I've been going through a sort of... rough patch and more than often than not I feel lost and insecure. Sometimes, darker things have been coming to mind but I'm recovering. I think. And I suppose this somewhat reflects my inner feelings, but they're probably less extreme than what has been portrayed.
I don't know though. I'm not feeling up to anything at the moment, so I'll end this here.
M4I
...
...
...
-Prologue-
...
...
...
You tell me a secret.
But it's not a secret, really. I know it; you know it. And yet you continue anyway, despite the bitter look on your face. Your breath tickles my ear, and the heaviness of each exhale gives your exhaustion away. Was it hard, my dear? It's alright. You relax into my embrace, and I smile behind your back.
You tell me of adventures that led to nowhere and of rotting memories but I don't need to know- not really. I know everything, see everything, hear everything; I bet you know that too, don't you? So even if I tighten my arms around you, never letting you go, all you can do is choke in despair. However, you do put up a good fight, as annoying as that is. Will you never get it? You tell me you don't understand- you're lost, you're confused.
Don't lie.
You say you don't know what's wrong, but there's a voice inside you and oh, god- you don't know what the fuck is going on, save me it's killing me from the inside out-
We've always been together right from the start. I know you better than anyone else. Don't lie. You know the truth, and you've always known. And if you know, then I know too. Because-
...
...
...
-From the beginning-
...
...
...
Your steps hasten along the cobbled-stone streets as you pull your coat tighter around you.
I don't blame you; it's cold. Freezing, actually, even though I cannot feel it. But I can see from the white that is exhaled from in between your pale lips and the tremble in your frame. Your overcoat is not even barely thick enough and the cold is slowly sinking into your bones like a slow-acting poison. Hwoever, the cold doesn't deter you as you walk faster still; because you are a busy person, and you certain people to meet, don't you?
You tell me to shut up. How rude; I poke at your temple and you flinch.
And then, you open your mouth as if you were actually thinking of reprimanding me, but the words never make it out alive. You can already see a dark figure standing in the shield of the setting sun as you stride through the dark shadows, your lips pressed into a stern line.
The figure speaks before you reach him- because, despite the long hair, the deep voice gives him away- and his tone is impatient," You're late. Again." You drop your head in mock embarassment before shooting him a sheepish smile; tentatively, he gives you the tiniest of smirks, back. You don't hesitate at all before you approach him and fold your thin arms around him. He hugs you back, muscled arms wrapped tight.
You apologise, and tell him that you had certain, unexpected matters that cropped up. He accepts the reason readily- that absolute fool. He even dares to claim his place as your lover. Won't you tell him the real reason why?
Won't you tell him that you had spent a good fifteen minutes at home, clawing at your wrists in the inky darkness of your room, and beating at your chest, trying to extricate me from your very soul? It's useless. It's useless, my dear. You'll never escape me- there's nowhere to hide. I laugh and your smile falters; for once, your lover actually notices your expression drop, and heasks you what's wrong with a concerned look. But with a readied mask, you recite your well-learned stage lines.
It's nothing, I'm okay. I'm alright.
How absolutely amusing.
...
...
...
-Middle of nowhere-
...
...
...
Your eyes are particularly dull today.
I notice because I look over your shoulder when you're staring into the mirror; such a vain, vain person you are.
With accusing eyes and down-turned brows, you tell me sharply that it's my fault- and sadly, perhaps it is. I suppose, if it weren't for me, you wouldn't have to adjust your sleeve every which way to hide the scars that marr your skin. Neither would you have to pull your bangs over your eyes, to hide the horrible dark bags that hang underneath; black bruises against your too-pale skin. Oh, how it sickens me and yet, delights me at the same time.
With a snort, you tell me I'm a sick, sick person. But what I'm curious about, is, who's the pot and who's the kettle in this equation?
You ignore me, your shoulder brushing my outreached fingertips as you breeze past. I snicker in delight at your barely repressed shudder, before my phantom feet are trailing down your path. Today, you meet another person.
Today, you meet a redhead with too-wide smiles and an aura that stings when you breathe it in. His scalding arm is around your freezing, bony shoulders and I watch in disgust as you smile and joke as if everything is okay. But then, I sigh. What, after all, could be done with an absolute liar?
Looking into a shop's window, you glare at my reflection, and I smile a saccharrine smile back. The arm around you tightens and you wince; it goes unnoticed. But you see, darling, our little joker- yes, that red head that's suffocating you to death- is smarter than he seems. His eyes are more observant than they appear, and he knows I know. He knows me.
This time, it is him I smile at as he stares at the puddle of water collected on the cracked pavement; his eyes rove over me and don't stop, but he shudders, and I know. Bubbles tickle at my throat and I have to purse my lips to keep it in.
In what seems like moments later, the red-head says with an over-easy tone, making it obvious that he was trying to play it off," You alright? You seem a little... off today."
Your entire body stiffens, before it relaxes, the well-known mask slipping silently into place. You tilt your head to one side in mock-innocence, before you shrug," Off? In what way?" The tone is light, making something seem like nothing. The other knows better, and I suppose he deserves the slightest bit of credit.
His voice is shaky as he elaborates," You know... just off. Something's up, isn't it?" He pauses and looks at you meaningfully while I smirk from the side. He continues," Look, if anything's wrong, I want to help. You know I can."
You can't, you think sadly.
But you don't say that out loud.
Then, you smile; and he doesn't know what to say about your silent answer. He doesn't need to hear it anyway. You don't need to find out something you've long since known about.
...
...
...
Rising
...
...
...
A girl is coming by your house today.
I twine my fingers through your hair, and you ignore me completely; I suppose, you've gotten so used to me that you don't really care anymore. I continue speaking anyway, soft enough for noone else to hear, and doesn't it simply kill you inside, that no one ever sees? I snicker and press my forehead to yours.
It annoys me that you no longer flinch at my close proximity.
Tsk. With steadied fingers, I flick your forehead, and you swat my hand away disinterestedly. "She's coming over soon, don't bother me," you deadpann and then you turn back to the razor. The only light comes from your desklamp, and you observe the dustmotes swirling about in a dettached manner as you draw more lines along your skin, not even bothering to look down and observe the puckered skin that surrounds the lengthy incisions, blood tearing along the edge.
Slowly, I press a finger hard to one of the deeper cuts- the sinews, muscles, exposed- and you barely hiss, before grabbing my wrist. Despite the fact that your knuckles are white and your fingers shaking from the force exerted, I feel nothing. And that only serves to make you more desperate.
The razor clatters to the ground as your grab your head, hands placed over your ears to mute your own broken screams. (Leave me the fuck alone-! I don't want to see you, go away-)I step back, and you breathe.
Then, before I can comment snidely on how much of a coward you are, the doorbell rings, and you're out of your chair in a blur of black and blue and red. You don't answer the door immediately, though; you head to the bathroom first and wash off all the tears that have collected around the slight hollow that connects your palm and wrist. Then, opening the cabinet, you return with a large roll of bandages.
This time, it is I who ignores you; it is nothing new, simply routine.
A sharp voice pierces my thoughts and I frown. Hurrying, you throw the bandages into the bloodied sink, and you're already out and by the door. Your hands are folded neatly behind your back, a smile at the ready. "Hello, Lenalee," you say, voice raspy from the screaming," It was so kind of you to offer me help on my project."
The girl who stands at the doorway smiles, and looks right through me and at you. I snarl in frustration. This girl, I despised the most. You have no care to know the reason, but I'll show you why in a moment. Then, she replies, her voice sickeningly sweet- so sweet it makes me want to gag in disgust, "Don't worry about it. You're my friend, right?"
Your fists tighten behind your straightened back and you nod with an amiable smile.
Then, you note the heavy paper bags the girl is holding. And out of your gentlemanly heart- I snicker here, and you ignore me as always- you offer to carry them in. You unfold your hands and take the bags from her. There. For one moment, she sees. She notices the blood on your sleeve, and sees, but she does nothing. Absolutely nothing. This is why I despise her the most, because don't you see that she sees and she knows, she knows you know that I know and fuck this- nothing makes sense anymore.
Because doesn't it kill you that no one ever sees?
I was wrong. Your eyes flicker towards me for one moment; the girl follows your gaze and says nothing, only smiles more widely. I was wrong. People do see. They notice, they understand- perhaps not fully, but it's there- they feel that something is just wrong, and yet-
They simply do nothing.
This is why I hate humans. So much.
...
...
...
To The Edge We Go
...
...
...
You're standing right outside the door.
But they don't know that. None of them notice the slightest hint of a shadow against the pristine white-tiled floor, much too engrossed in their secret conversation; you know, the one where they talk behind your back in those hushed voices of their's. There's the voice of ignorance: your precious lover. The voice of reason: the idiotic joker. The voice of concealment: the one who sees, but doesn't say anything.
Oh, the irony. These people; your friends.
You can hear it clearly. Every. Single. Fucking. Word. But you don't make a sound for fear that they'd know you knew. You can't bear the thought of that, so you take it silently. In my head- thoughts that are private, even to you- I call you a fool. A greater one than the idiotic joker sitting comfortably inside a warm, white room, surrounded by a ring of safety you can never reach. And why is that I suppose?
You are weak. You are too kind.
But sometimes, kindness is mistaken for weakness. And weakness is mistaken for kindness.
So which one are you?
Then, concealment breaks. She fists her filthy hands into the shirt of your lover- who, was valiantly trying to protect you from the ugly words spewn from reason- and says in a low, dangerous voice that makes a horrified shudder run through your entire your body," He's not who you think he is. He's not right. He's dangerous." She was yourfriend. Some friend she was.
Then, slowly, as if you cannot believe your very own ears, you turn and face the empty corridor, stretching out in front of you- the end is a tiny speck. If taken in measured strides, it would take much time. But time is what you need and you do just that. Walk slowly, quietly. Outside.
No one hears you break.
But I did.
...
...
...
Tilting, Flailing, Falling
...
...
...
You lie half-sprawled across your lovers body in the warm comfort of the other's abode.
It is not abnormal. Often, when you come visit, it is always like this; all I do, is sit aside and watch and wait. But today's a little different, and you know it too. His body is too tense under yours, his grip on your shoulders just a little too tight- not tight enough to hurt but tight enough to make you understand that he has taken the secret conversation to heart.
Softly, you raise yourself, your arms stretched over the other's body and ramrod straight. Your back is twisted at an odd angle as you adjust yourself to look sharply into the other's eyes. Your lover doesn't flinch, but his grip that has shifted your forearm tightens further. Hard enough to bruise. Hard enough to hurt. I don't say anything; the situation screams 'awkward'.
A long moment of silence has passed.
Then, you swallow heavily, your eyes half-lidded with resignation," You don't trust me anymore." You meant for the statement to come out more strongly, like a firm confirmation. But all you seem to manage is but a tiny whisper, like a child who is unsure of what to do and what to think any longer. A child who is lost and who is desperately reaching for help; ultimately, the child finds none.
"I'm sorry."
I'm sorry.
The two words hit hard like a hammer. Perhaps, you might not understand what I have visualised in my mind. But it goes something like this: the already broken shards of glass, being smashed into the ground repeatedly by some, large, phantom hammer, grinding the jagged pieces into a fine, crystalline dust. This is what I see. I don't have to look into your heart, but I can hear it breaking, loud as day.
There is no going back.
You have fallen.
...
...
...
Freefall
...
...
...
The clearing is all too familiar.
However, there are a few outstanding differences from the one in your decaying memory, and the one before your very eyes. It used to be brighter than this; the sunlight should've shone at just the right angle, the tiny field flowers in bloom. But no, now it is but a ghost of it's former: the grass has grown dry and has fallen flat. No sunlight was present, but the ominous chill a thunderstorm lingered on the air, and you can taste it, can't you?
You take a deep breath to steady yourself.
No turning back.
There's no u-turn anymore. Not when no one had the courage to save you, despite knowing what you were. And they knew now; all of them. Yet- why? You choke back the tears and push the heel of your palm to your eye to stop the moisture from coming, your breath shaky as you step forward.
The perfect ending, I say. What better place than here? To end it where it all began; I applaud you, Allen Walker. But you completely ignore me, head held high as you walk towards the very centre of the stage, dark clouds twisting and turning above you like a giant serpant, the very first sight of it's forked tongue, flickering across the darkened sky. Slowly, you fall to your knees and I approach you, with open arms.
Come my dear, tis the time to go home.
My arms find their way around your shaking frame, and I coo softly to sooth you in a mock, maternal fashion. The roles have been reversed, it is I who speaks your lines now. It's okay, I say, It's fine, you're fine, there's nothing to be afraid of. That's right. Nothing at all. Because right from the start, I have been with you. I know you better than anyone else. You know the truth. And if you know, then I know too, because-
I am the voice. I am you. And you are me.
Nothing has changed.
Tears make their way down your sunken cheeks, despite trying your best to hold them in. It is your final moment of glory, I smile, and caress your up-turned face between my two gloved-palms. To the side, hurried footsteps make their way into the clearing. Much less graceful than you, I must say. They stumble and trip over each other as they burst into the most wonderful scene at play.
We are to become one.
Don't fight me now.
You will never win.
And to my utmost delight, you smile back at me. Albeit, it is a tired one. But oh, poor dear, you must have been tired out by the longest journey ever, I settle a hand on the crown of your head. Your smile grows, you tilt your head to the side. There, you meet three pairs of regretful eyes. But what was the use of regret at a stage such as this? Your smile widens, stretches like insanity until it seems like the very edges of your lips would touch your ears. Then your focus is all mine. I look into your eyes and they are certain.
Here comes the end.
Your exhausted body topples to the ground like the king in checkmate, your eyes close forever just as mine open to eternity. Gold Silver Gold Silver Gold Silver Gold.
The end is here.
...
...
...
When Everything Disappears
...
...
...
Nothing Is Left Behind
...
...
...
The End