Heheheh, Just a quick comment, this time, not a lengthy AN.
This was written while listening to a Gamzee tribute with the song Plastic Soul by This World Fair playing. It was like... listening, listening,listening... BAM. Instant inspiration.
Please review? It would mean a lot to me. Even just some constructive criticism would be nice...
Plastic Soul
A small, lanky boy with thick, greasy black hair and deep brown eyes sat in the dark and dusty corner, his arms wrapped around his knees and his head resting on top. He could hear every creak, every whisper of the wind, every scratch of the trees on the old house. The cracked walls smiled at him as he whimpered, the floors trying to drag him into the hell below. The smashing of a bottle from lower floors drew a terrified squeal from him as he clung to himself, as if for dear life. A small stuffed goat-fish was squished between his legs and his chest, though the comfort it usually offered was suddenly obsolete as the door to his room opened.
Wicked smiles and gleaming eyes and the devil himself were present. They closed in on him, forced their will on him, and suddenly he was in a warm room filled with worried faces and relieved smiles. They shoved their insecurities and fears for him down his partially-collapsed throat to the extent that he almost choked. He thrashed and forced his way out, trying to find himself. He screamed and scratched and shouted and stained the walls red, relishing the vibrant color.
A sullen smile was added to the mix as he was turned into a doll and set on a high white shelf where no one could reach him. He watched as the souls came and went, ignoring his silent cries for help, his raging screams, his easy smiles. White powder floated through the air and his bloodstream, liquids bled inside out from him, the sobs and screams and smiles all repetitive and worthwhile.
He smiled his way off the shelf and into the hands of a short boy with matching black hair and light grey eyes who was obviously in worse condition than him. They were inseparable to the extent that the taller of the two dragged the smaller boy into his world of forced smiles and plastic souls and set them both on the high white shelf he had trapped himself on for so long.
Soon after, a thin boy with a shaggy, muddy brown mohawk and matching eyes and tan skin climbed his way up to them. Wide, outstretched arms welcomed him, and the shelf became higher, more prestigious. Strained smiles and false hopes became normal as more and more people climbed their way up onto his small shelf. Slowly, surely, he was pushed to the outer ring, wobbling on the edge of sanity. He clung to the black haired boy with the kind grey eyes, though grey had hardened to charcoal and warm smiles became bellows and angry cries as he pushed his first and best friend away.
Down and down the tall boy fell, until he hit rock bottom. He could hear the laughs and mirthful giggles from the shelf above, the word-edged knives they dropped on him slowly piercing him one by one, and he fell to his knobby knees. His heart bled, his soul melted, his very being began to rot. His smiles became less frequent, his laughs became bitter, his eyes turned into dark, fathomless pits of self-loathing and hatred.
Screams tore from his throat as he thrashed and cried, beating the world with his battered, scar-riddled fists. Demands and pleas fell from his pale lips, hope vanishing as the world slowly grew quieter, whiter around him. Slowly, he paused in his rage. A white cell was where he was, a single window shining bright sunlight through its bars. This wasn't home, this wasn't his, this wasn't right.
White became less and less visible as red invaded. Scarlet, crimson, so much vibrance it almost hurt his eyes as he painted his pictures on the fresh white canvas of the walls. There was too much, there wasn't enough, there was, there wasn't, was, wasn't. Things calmed and got worse, hopes came and died, lives followed suit. White disappeared in the darkness of night and forced release by means of bathing the walls red. Happy cries from the long-forgotten shelf could still be heard as he climbed, working his way up to revenge.
Bittersweet reunion was shrouded in the mystery and pain of falling, of screaming, of dying. A satisfied smile rested upon the boy's lips as he laid back against his two dear, quivering friends. Escape attempts were met with a push and a shove and a fall to the bottom, where their broken bodies bled out onto the unforgiving ground, crowds surrounding, looking up at the one who controlled them all. Fear was the best form of reign, he decided, as he relaxed in his penthouse suite that sat atop his lovely red-soaked shelf. Fear filled the air, and the clubs he used were stained with it.
Outside, upon the roof of his building, the light of the day shone on him and illuminated the insecurities, the fears, the doubts and loneliness he hid deep within himself. Thoughts battled with one another as he stared at the setting sun, trying to form one coherent thought. His mind was in complete disarray, his rage fighting with his sanity for control of their precious console.
Three simple words were all it took to send the boy over the edge, to make him take the final plunge. Wind whipped past his scarred face, his sanity dissipating along with his rage. A crunch of bones, a splash of red, a single heartbeat, a slow blink, a shuddering breath. Glassy brown eyes took one last look at the filthy red world he had created, the final words spilling from pale lips.
"I'm so sorry..."