Title: Flicker
Author: schyra
Rating: G
Pairing: N/A
Warnings: N/A
Summary: An introspective piece on Branch. I think he's a well-written character. Not 'good', or even 'nice', and I'm guessing most people find him reprehensible. But he grew on me, in that he's another character I like to think about now. [10/01/2017]
Author's Note: Written for Rave Xmas Party 2016; 12 Days of Rave - Day 4: A Character That Grew On You
Flicker
They say that when you're just about to die, your whole life flashes before your eyes.
This is a problem.
You see, Branch doesn't have many memorable things in his life.
To be precise, he doesn't have many things he wants to remember in his life.
He doesn't want to remember the warm joy bubbling up from the soles of his feet as he tap dances across the floor for the first time, only to have the moment harshly shattered by a rock thrown at his head.
Tick.
He doesn't care for hearing taunts and jeers, too many to count, aimed at his back wherever he went by those city folk visiting the island, who laughed at his hair and sneered at his suit, even though it was the exact same thing they wore yesterday.
Tick.
He doesn't want to recall sitting at a café, sipping the water that was all he could afford, watching a bunch of teens banter with excited bravado as they left the shop across the road, one of them sporting shiny, new, limited edition DnB shoes on his feet.
Tick.
He doesn't want to remember what it felt like to hold a woman in his arms, who giggled and kissed him, tickled his nose with her heavy perfume and soft touch, only to be gone from his bed before light even broke through the window.
Tick.
He hates still knowing that emptiness. The deep, gaping maw of desire within him urging him to find something, anything to fill it with. Food, wine, drinks, that giddy rush on the dance floor, praise, flattery, something, anything to push him up, to keep him from being trampled underfoot. That he has never felt like he had enough; that he was enough.
Tick.
He loathes to have to feel that red hot rushing anger surge up within him, like a torrent that he doesn't even try to keep from bursting out, as he raises his fists and punches, kicks, stomps the girl (what girl? any girl) in front of him who has suddenly become hurtful, useful, his enemy.
The shame.
Tick.
He doesn't want to remember.
He doesn't want to feel that way again, ever ever again, but it's not like he can ever escape it. He's good at running, but not even his Dark Bring can save him here. He is himself, after all.
Tick.
He doesn't want to remember what it felt like to be but a flicker, cowering amidst roaring, bullying flames.
But as it goes, he has to remember something, and so he does.
The clock is ticking, the end is coming, and all that he holds in his mind is of one moment: a teen, aged 17, arms spread wide and screaming.
"YOU'RE NOT SOME MACHINE!"
The ticking goes still in his chest.
Noone's ever believed in Branch before.
He doesn't want to forget.
Boom.