Against common belief, I'm not dead. I have just been on a very long life hiatus, during which I found out a helluva lot of crap about--never mind. Anyway, in a nutshell and with no further ado, I'm back now, with a new list of priorities and the strange, sudden urge to write once more.
The basic plot idea for this fic came to me many, many months ago, and, upon falling in love with it and not wanting to ruin the picture I saw playing out in my mind, at the time I carefully cached away the thought for later, since I deemed myself both unfit and un-stimulated to write it out at the time. Now, however, I have been forced to see that putting shit off isn't going to make it any better, no matter how much you wish that it was so. Thus, this was born.
o0O0o
FULL-LENGTH SUMMARY: For Duskwing, her whole identity is a lie. A black cloak of untrue convictions surrounds her, disguising what she really is. Unknown to others is that you can never expect the truth from her: everything she does, everything she says, is an act. The cat her Clanmates know her as is naught but a giant pretense. The genuine emotions that burn inside her are shrouded deep in shadow, hidden behind a masking personality that is not her own, never to see the light of the day.
Rushwhisker, now, is Duskwing's parallel in every sense of the word. While she holds an abnormal amount of power over her doings, his might is virtually nonexistent. Entirety is his enemy: the slightest occurrence, the tiniest remark, sends him screeching into a pulsing wave of absolute fury. His world is painfully unstable and gut-wrenchingly angry, but what can he do? In his fits of rage, his body transforms into its own creature. It detaches itself from his mind, and he has no control whatsoever over his actions.
Things aren't always what they seem.
RATED FOR: Abuse, sex, and blood, among other things. You'll see.
DISCLAIMER: I'm only going to say it once; I don't own Warriors.
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This first chapter doesn't really get into the actual plot at all; in fact, I began writing the two distinct sections separately as random notebook drabbles with no original intent on incorperating them into this. I like to think of it as a starter piece to get my typing senses back into shape, but whatever. Chapter one...well, that's where the real action comes into play.
Credit goes out to Greenday, along with many other various artists, for lyrics and inspiration.
[Things Not Seen]
.preface.
There is something about the fantastic experience of absolute silence that is completely and utterly beautiful.
The day will come when the sky closes over and the sun turns black, when even the moon's light of waning silver tarnishes, and you have nothing, nothing at all...no songbirds singing sterling melodies, not the fast-paced sloshing of the creek lapping up at the smooth riverbanks. The absence of all sound, even the rhythmic flutter of a swirling breeze passing through the foliage, is, most definitely, a great and terrible glory.
As you walk a lonely road, the only one that you have ever known; you don't know where it goes, but it's only you and you walk alone. Reach out and covet the sheer relief of the barren halls of the dead, those of which you yearn to stride along. And yet, at the mention of death, it makes you strange, with all the battling wars and the scars you wage, and, sometimes, you feel your blood run cold, freezing in your frosted veins, and you know with an uncanny understanding that you have passed.
The final test. How long have you awaited this very moment? You are so close now, tantalizingly near; the taste of victory bawls within, acidic venom boiling in your throat as you are shoved before the demon of the soul. Frothing bubbles kindle in you and you choke on the fateful reply, determined as you are to not take the bait so taunting. Lifting a limb for the final confrontation, you are startled to suddenly be touched by the glowing essence of bliss. A flash of platinum light blinds you, and you live with the burning spirit of a new dawn breaking out over the flaming horizon.
What is worth living for? To be or not to be...to survive the conflagrations of existence or tear the still-beating heart out and away from your mindless senses yet again...you wish there was the option of neither. After all, how could you not crave the perfect simplicity of...nothing? When the only things are you and the world, that which is so wondrously magnificent after the subtraction of the petty social drama and whatnot? To take a deep inhalation—a breath that fills your aching lungs with a different kind of beauty, one consisting merely of the freshest, cleanest, purest air—and be free.
The time has come to apprehend, to contemplate and listen to your heart, lost in these newfound moments of solitaire serenity. Not a noise in the entire blasted world, such a pleasurable time to be spent under the luminescent blanket of a perfect, quiet night.
Ah, dear serenity...a feeling that is matched by no other: if only you could be graced by its passion more often. Alas, it is too bad that this is a harsh world of cruel virtues and agonized screams, that every time you glance around misery and dispute anticipate you. It makes it so very hard to feel any trace of compassion towards some, those who seem to believe that war is the glorious answer to everything. The matters of the treacherous creep up inside of you and consume you, a disease of the mind and of control, too; you're halfway there, and you're living on a prayer, but you cannot fight, for the pain is internal and all your fault.
Do you not find it to be rather amusing? Does a touch of humour tickle you as you reflect that you can never win and that every step you take is yet another pointless movement in this divine journey to nowhere? You do not realize that it is too late until it is, when there is nothing but the darkness closing in on you, far too close for comfort, much, much too close...
Suffocated by your own life.
What a befitting way to die, waiting until past, present and future accumulate into one jumbled pile until there is just no more room. Nothing holds them, binds them tight, so now they are free to spill over their invisible containments and engulf you, choking and throttling with icy, burning fingers, licking and lapping with silky tongues of doom.
Life fades, and yet you almost feel...grateful? No, it cannot be. The sensation is strange for the slightest fraction of a heartbeat, but then the grainy picture focuses and, suddenly, it all becomes shown in perfect clarity in your mind.
o0O0o
If there is one thing that I cannot stand, it is, without a doubt, they who think they know me. After all, how could they possibly perceive me with any ounce of accurate portion while I do not yet understand myself? They are utter fools, mindless imbeciles who have taken the plunge by eluding themselves into the ridiculous concept that they feel me, can sympathize with the pain, misery, and affliction that course wretchedly though my constricted veins, fuelled by each gulping beat of my ripped, shredded heart.
Am I going insane? Maybe—possibly—probably. Questions are a tragedy in the monstrous act of life, especially agonizing when there simply is no answer to the soundless query pressing on your mind. An endless stream of probing thoughts is all that they have, all that they offer, coming from a soul both frightened and bleeding. Please, take what we bring, and give what we need; have mercy on us as we fail yet again in the impossible task of accomplishing hope, the rarest action of all.
Listen to the howls of frustration that linger on the air! Do be careful, however, not to confuse them with echoes of the same name and fury, for they are not so. Can you hear it? They are indeed separate from each other, each bellow a distinctly set-apart scream of the various victims chosen by the heavens to walk the doomed path. Scars and souvenirs, burned against your dying heart as it splutters and coughs its final beats before thumping slowly into the silence that is your constant companion, your beatific friend of eternity.
My personality is twisting myth of shattered tears and shadowed sunlight, the only thing I will never secrete and all that I will ever need. I'm looking at all or nothing, just you and I, and, somehow, I know that we've got to be good for something, so let's go on and give it a try! We've got our backs against the ocean and it's just us against the world, and, when the end comes, you see that this is it; you've got nothing to hide. You've got only one more chance, so just say goodbye and move along on your way to figure out where it is that you belong. If you want to go home, but nobody's home, and there is no home; if you're crying aloud as you can't find your place, falling from grace as you're torn from your faith...you are the broken, you are the beaten, you are the damned.
There is so much more that I could tell you; of the ropey scars that live upon my skin, though not even a mirror close to those of the internal; of the ugly prospect that is life; of how hopes and dreams are meaningless. You wish...but, no, I'm not going to start a fight, for the ties I've severed would be better off to stay that way: dead, dispatched and sliced out of theory forever.
Some things are best kept unknown and secret to the rest of the world. If you think it horrid to be left in the dark, then you have obviously never truly experienced the agonies of knowing. The truth is a burden, just as life is the heartless battle of fact and fiction both you and I face each day. Perhaps you set out firm in the thought that you will never allow anybody break you down, won't ever let somebody tear your world apart: a goal that crumbles along with reality itself.
Ah, but I ramble; I apologize. And here I was, thinking so ludicrously that I could do this calmly! Do what, you ask? Is that the question lingering on the very tip of your tongue? Why, tell a story, of course! You may hear it if you like, I suppose; it really is no matter to me. However, I would suggest that you proceed with caution, keeping in whatever sane bits are left of your mind that it is not a pleasant tale to behold; if I were you, I would turn back and forget you ever heard anything from me. I would not consider it to be fit for all ears, and, well...you know.
...You are still here? Though I sigh internally to myself, very well; remember that you have been warned. Now listen, wanderer, and listen well...
o0O0o
I walk a lonely road, the only one that I have ever known.
Don't know where it goes, but it's home to me and I walk alone.
I walk alone;
I walk
Alone.
o0O0o
Drop me a line and give me an opinion, s'il vous plaît.
Have a Happy Halloween. Stay tuned for more, luvvees~
--Annie;;/
Friday October 31, 2008