— The Introduction.
{ Warnings for vague depictions of self mutilation and equally as vague depictions child abuse (more like a vague mention, really) and a good bit of bloody imagery. Also, a warning for how absolutely unbeta'd this is and 悲しみ is the line break, it means "sadness" or "sorrow" in Japanese...seemed fitting enough. More notes at the end. }
Masks, by definition, are objects normally worn on the face for protection, disguise, performance or entertainment. More often than not, people associate masks with entertainment or performance purposes. But my dear readers, I'd like to genuinely believe that you are aware, even subconsciously aware, of the fact that masks are not only objects of entertainment or performance and are sometimes the objects of sanity and protection. A disguise that one clings to when they are far, far too broken to fix themselves, far too insane to truly love themselves, and far to close to the edge to cling to anything else.
Now, before we begin our tale there are a few things you need to remember, reader. One, never ever sympathize or pity the broken for they do not wish to feel as though their situation is as bad as people think. The mask clouds their judgment sometimes. Two, save your tears. The broken do not wish for your tears, they've got their own tears they've chosen to leave unshed and their own scars as reminders. And finally, never ever think of the broken as weak. They are cracked, but not weak. They are everything, but weak. Do not baby them.
This is a tale of tragedy. But aren't all the beautiful stories in life started out as beautifully tragic?
悲しみ・悲しみ・悲しみ・悲しみ・悲しみ
He was five. Far too young to be handling the weight of the world on his shoulders. Far too young to understand how a mask should even begin to work. But then again, he wasn't your average child, was he? He wasn't the one who found their happiness and contentment in playgrounds and friendships, he found it in technology, the hum of electricity and machinery combining with the beautiful tremble of creativity in his fingers. He was the child born into wealth and intelligence and it was only fair that he would be achieving the same level of intelligence his father had. But one would doubt that he'd understand how much of a downfall that intelligence, that genius mind, would be in the darkest times until he was far too low to pick himself up.
He was five. Creating his own fantasy, building his own robots, the gift of engineering seemingly imprinted deep in the subconscious of his mind. He was as happy as any child could be upon creating what he deemed his first and most perfect creation. And of course, like any other young boy, he wished to show it off. And that's how he found himself in the corner of his room, curled into himself, creation torn to bits and pieces and hands bloodied from the metal tearing into his skin as harshly as he torn into it.
He was five. Far too young to be haunted by the worries of not being good enough. Far too young to understand that the pain coming from the somewhat deep cuts in his hand, the blood rolling down his palms and onto the plush, black carpeting and blending in with the fabric was more than relieving to him. That the pain and the blood were the things that were keeping him from cracking. He grinned to himself, something feral and unfamiliar, but oh-so-right as he rested his hands on his head on his arms and watched the blood slowly drip from his wounds.
He was five. Far too young, yet far too old. Far too young to be broken, but one cannot help how nor when the cracks form. And isn't that such a pity?
悲しみ・悲しみ・悲しみ・悲しみ・悲しみ
Now let's take a moment to breathe, shall we? Release that breath that you may or may not be holding, blink back the rush of tears that may or may not be gathering, and for goodness sake, swallow the sadness and the sympathy and the pity.
Rather than worrying about the safety of the remaining sanity in the main character of this tale, I suggest you worry about whether or not your psyche can handle continuing on for this is not even the tip of the iceberg and this is not the worse of worst yet. There is far more pain, more insanity, more self mutilation, and far, far more destruction to be told and uncovered. However, this tale isn't the faint of heart nor the weak willed. So, my dearest readers, close your eyes and determine the strength of your psyche. Inhale. Exhale. And now open your eyes.
Can you handle reading the tragic tale that is about to be woven?
悲しみ・悲しみ・悲しみ・悲しみ・悲しみ
He was ten this time. Still too young to understand all of which he already understood, but he was a Stark and Starks are not weak, are they? He found himself alone in every aspect of word, but he couldn't bring himself to be upset over it. No, no. This was his punishment, it had to be. It's what his father told him.
He was only ten when those words rang loudly in his head. The words screamed at him when the scent of alcohol was thick in the air and equally thick on the breath of the older gentleman raising his voice. The words that destroyed his will just a little bit every time. The words he clung to instead of the praises that he deserved. He was only fooling himself if he thought that he and his creations were important.
He was only ten when he realized that his mind worked faster than the other children his age, but more than that, he realized just how many masks he already had built. Of course he hadn't know they were masks, far too young, but when he looked in the mirror and took in the bruises littering his face, his arms, and his bodies...he barely recognized himself. Nor did he recognize the smirk, the small little wild thing that tugged at the corner of his lips.
He was ten. The ten year old genius prodigy who was far too wise and far too broken for his age.
悲しみ・悲しみ・悲しみ・悲しみ・悲しみ
There are these breaks. Breaks such as these in which you are given time to rethink the choice you've made and decide whether or not continuing is something you wish to do. These breaks aren't long and after a while, their frequency will completely diminish because you've made your choice and you, your psyche, and your mind must deal with the consequences, or lack thereof, continuing on entails.
Now, my dearest readers, remember the warning I gave you earlier on? Not to sympathize, not to pity, no tears are to be shed, and never view the broken as weak? Did it hit you yet why I told you not to do those things? Aside from the reasonings I gave you? No. Then you've proven my point. The real reasoning behind those things is rather simple, actually. If you are too focused on the emotions and feelings that come with delving too deep into a story early on, you'll miss the small details that are quite important.
For example, where is the mother figure in this story? She hasn't made an appearance, so wherever is she? She is there, however, she is not an important piece to this tale. I've told you already, reader, this tale is one of angst and of sadness. The happiness one felt, is completely nonexistent compared to how deep the wounds are. The happiness is nothing but salt to the wounds.
Now, let's continue.
悲しみ・悲しみ・悲しみ・悲しみ・悲しみ
He was fifteen when he cracked completely for the first time. He was fifteen and found himself in heading to what he considered the home to his own little twisted domain, MIT. He was young, but that seems to be a detail that lingers throughout this story, and obviously not welcomed. He was ridiculed automatically, the little 15 year old who was riding on his father's legacy to get him through the years, to make things easier for him.
And wasn't that just so blissfully ironic considering how hard he tried to please the only person who couldn't be pleased?
The whispers were so defeaning, so full of irony, that he couldn't help but smile. That smile that made it's way to his face ten years ago and only seemed to grow wilder and wilder with each passing day. Masks fitting firmly in place, the feral grin turning into something full of cockiness and self-assurance, and his steps as graceful as he was taught they should, he slinked his way through the air of whispers and to the place he'd call home for the next four years.
As he made his way to his room, it was more like an apartment if we're being honest here, the whispers seemed to increase in frequency and volume. When he finally managed to stumble his way into the room and behind the closed door, he found himself sliding down to the floor, back against the door and eyes closed.
Inhaling shuddered breaths, he loosened the grip he had on his back and gave into his own temptations; losing himself in the loud whispers of worthlessness that were stored in the back of his mind while the masks he built for himself cracked and fell around him. Lost in the sensations of being unmasked and indulging in how broken he was, he barely registered how his subconscious worked and how his hands seemed to move on their own accord. Dull nails sinking into the thin material of his shirt and reopening wounds not yet completely healed.
And as he curled in on himself, the words and whispers dimming and lulling to a soft hum in the back of his mind, he rested his head against his arm and watched the drip onto the floor below him. He was reminded of his five year old self, the little boy that sat in the corner of his room, slowly watching his blood drip to the floor, his eyes glazed over in complete sedation and a small, yet feral grin tugging at the corner of his lips. And for the briefest of moments, he thought to himself that this pain, this ball of himself that he creates when he needs the escape is far more of a home than anything he's ever had and anywhere he's ever been.
悲しみ・悲しみ・悲しみ・悲しみ・悲しみ
And then he was twenty-one. Twenty-one years of age and officially an adult. He was twenty-one years of age and it was then it only then that the creator of his demons disappeared; his father was gone and his sorrows had been drowned in alcohol and the red, red, red of his own blood. He was twenty-one years of age; an adult, a lone warrior, a CEO, a business man...and far too deep in his own mental destruction that nothing seemed to matter. Just the burn of the alcohol in the back of his throat and the satsifaction of watching as tanned skin criss-crossed in the lines of his demons.
But he was twenty-one and he had no one to answer to anymore...just himself.
AN: So, I'm terribly sorry if this seemed a bit rushed or a lot of it didn't connect in your mind. It's supposed to be the type of angst that's vague, but still felt and I didn't want to give a lot away or use too much flashback detailing cause there are definitely more and more flashbacks coming in to fill in the gaps. Also, there's probably a lot of typos. Sob. I'm sorry if this isn't good. I promse(and hope) it will seem/get better. And OP, I hope this is good for a prologue.
— sincerely, `crazy.{botch}
