CHAPTER 1 : BRUISES AND CONTUSIONS
Beginning that time. Beginning that night. Ah, what a gruesome taste, the way the words will roll of my tongue. I feel woeful for this angel. I imagine her dreadful, horrified face the way it was never supposed to be seen. The way her lips slid in the position of mourn, of knowledge. Of knowing. And how her eyes bewailed with the bruises and contusions of the night sky. Of the demon.
Yes, Bruises and Contusions.
I like that.
Where are you now? You are asking. Well, and I am unrepentant to the fact, I am hell. I am watching you read my hell in words. But, in this story, I surmise I should be telling you I am fourteen living with my grandma. But that only makes me feel sick with nausea.
What I will apprise you of, is that I'm living with an old demon and a young angel. The eight mortals aren't of significance of this story. Well, except one. One that is trapped between demon and angel, one that can only do the worst to get the best.
She can only make a paradox.
The house of this demon and angel is utterly reprehensible and I can not condemn enough to how much it has rotted and how wan it has become over the negligible years it had been standing. It was indubitably not fit for the reputable angel, but she was abide and endured it's deceitful, macabre look without being quibble.
I, on the other hand, found it hard not to stare at its deplorable walls and retch at its repulsive smell. The spasm of the lights crippled my eyes, and the moaning floor that screeched when stepped on, stung my ears.
† † † --Something to remember.-- † † †
This house, and mostly everyone in it, was bound for hell.
It was me who sat outside this Angel's door, listening to the soundless cry, to the too loud abuse. It was me who hid as the Demon emerged from the door, her side barely grazing my hiding spot--It was me who hid in my own skin.
It was Angel who saved me each night.
She would cry along my side with no tears.
Imagine this;
My ears split from the noise of the bang, which was followed by the crack. Then another whisper. A lifeless reply. The door my eyes gouged into seemed to be covered in slaughter, that is nothing new. Then, there was a first. A first scream. My eyes began to blur in an obfuscate action, blood seeping from the door into my hands. I clenched the blood, I held it tight. I gawk moronically at the door and rise to my feet.
† † † --What a vacuous act.-- † † †
Ah, reader, the stupid is just beginning.
The odious rusted door knob stained as I reached forward and let my hand grip it. My mind froze, my actions continued. The door lobbed open in a menacing acknowledgment. Vapid eyes laced with mine, telling me what my brain spurn. My actions where done. The door was open. Open, and deadly.
Turn your attention to the girl. Lying, empty. She is resting, unaware. She is carelessly being dragged, bit by bit; torn. Her vision blood; her hearing cracked. Her lips quiver, tasting my name. Metallic blood engraves her. Death is grasping her, but her grasp is on life.
† † † --The first word you here.-- † † †
"Leave."
"No..." A whisper.
"Now."
"No, No, No.." whispers.
Silent exchanges.
"NO!" A scream, tears.
Opening a door and screaming is my way of being benign in the situation of life and death. It is my way of being woeful. Regardless, it does not matter. Regardless, it matters. Do not return to the image you have created, let your vision die, your mind go blank. Listen to the demon, her breath a crisp.
I open my eyes immediately, a nightmare was what I first expected to see, to what pleasures could disturb me I would ponder. Instead, I saw worste. I realized I was awake. Repentantly, I pull myself up. Strange aches fill my body but I disdain it. My memories of the night before where blurry and when my attention had caught something in what was left of my cracked mirror, my eyes widened. I turned completely to my mirror.
† † † --A description.-- † † †
Hands reddened completely, sore contusions ringed around the eyes. Bloodied red knees.
A smile I do not yet call my own.
My hands hurl to my lips, to revise the curved smile but quivered and return to my side, not wanting to slather blood over them. I race out of my room, trying hard to be silent although the floor insists otherwise. I hear water running and I turn to the bathroom, opening the door slowly. "It's me." I mutter, and I finally find the strength to expunge the smile. The person does not respond and I walk in mechanically.
Inside, a girl lays in the bathtub, her red hands smear the water and her eyes fixed on nothing. "Do you remember anything?" I conveyed, leaning down and pushing the door closed. "No." the small girl mouths. "Me neither." I say, latching my hand with hers.
At this, the girl looks up; her blue eyes stained with enervate. I settle my other hand in the water, twisting it in the shape of words as the blood slowly coveys off. I take my hand away and in the water there is a name of the little girl, written in blood.
† † † --A name you have waited for.-- † † †
Angel.
Angel grips my hand tighter, refusing to let the moment go. Her eyes fearing the words; her soul comforted. And with that, we wash our lacerations and hide our cicatrices.