Okay yes basically, I am stressed and tired. And I sat down. And this is what came from my head. And idek what it is. And I don't have the energy to make it into an actual chapter. So it is what it is. And I'm not sure if this classes as the next part but it certainly is a part and I hope to be back before too long before this story is nearing a year of me writing it (sigh). yes not feeling like sticking to the organised plan today so here you are. Thank you if you are still reading. God knows why. Special thanks to Ill-interrogate-the-cat, SciFiObsession, Areyouhaight and lovesreading, witbeyondmeasurexox and deine (thank you so much for your comment, that was so kind!). And in case you cannot tell seen as most of this is just imagery and metaphors this is dan going to the trial/court (and I read up on it and I still don't really get it so sorry). Anyway here we go;
The tie clings to my neck like a noose. It seems to grow tighter with each breath I take until I am sure it is strangling me. Phil's hand is tight in mine. Tight. Tight. Tight. It makes my body clench with the tension until I am sure that I am an elastic band, an elastic band that has been pulled back near enough to snapping, and is just waiting to be released. I feel as if sweat is pouring off me.
The hallway is long and grey, with plush leather sofas stationed periodically. On the walls are situated large brown picture frames with stern faces staring out, their eyes ever judge-full, as if they are watching you walk the line, just waiting for you to trip. God knows who they are. I doubt anyone even knows. Dead men in blonde wigs. That's who they are.
The sky was stormy this morning, the clouds seeming to boil and bubble like a witches cauldron, stirring round in circles, growing thicker and darker, potion spilling over the edge and forming raindrops that hit the ground with a mighty thud. And I had stared at it this morning, the sky so dark after so many clear nights, and it had seemed, to me, like a sign. Like a sign of danger. Like a sign that this wasn't going to go well.
Phil didn't believe me, of course, he had simply kissed my temple and ruffled my hair. But then he had never before flitted with darkness, he had never before felt the shadows breathe down his neck, their breath cold and sour, and I was sure that as I looked out the window, I could see them moving once more, the shadows fluttering around the sky like the fairy's darker cousin.
I've been going through a lot of firsts lately, first love, first secure home, first school that I care about, first time with Phil. And now this. First time in a court room. And hopefully the last.
But the monsters are here, I know they are, I can feel them swirling, their claws grabbing, scratching at my throat. Three thick lines. Blood drips. I want to faint and I want to faint and I want to faint as I walk through those doors, the heavy swinging doors to my doom. The opening gate, the draw bridge, the connecting rainbow of death. A place that is not quite heaven and not quite hell. The monsters swirl and swirl, thick and black like tar, like poison, like treacle, sticking to me until my limbs are bound and they are bound and they are bound and it is pouring into my ears and I can no longer hear. I can't hear. I can't hear. I can't- and the sea is parting to reveal the main monster, it's snout long, it's whiskers twitching, it's eyes hollowed. The eyes of a demon. The eyes of death. The king of shadows. Bile rises in my throat, mixing with the blood until the stench is too much. This is hell. This is darkness. This is the trial that has haunted my dreams.
And I would describe how it goes, what I said, but the whole thing still floats in front of me like fog captured in a ball, and I am trying to sort through the mist but you can't catch smoke. You can't catch smoke. You can't catch what isn't really there. Fog. Fog. Fog. And yet there is something else, something of actual substance, black eyes that cut through the smoke like the knives that they are, like the knives that have always and will always penetrate into my heart as it beats, as it fights and tries to run but those eyes will always cut deeper, and blood will always leak through my shirt. And flashbacks, always flashbacks. Except they don't bring a familiar feeling because I was never actually there, I was not there, I was the fog drifting over the floor, weaving between the seats and so when I see these pictures, these moving images in my own mind, they sparkle, and they spike, they are unfamiliar and they are new. Unsettling.
Two clasped hands, a kiss on the cheek as the doors opened, Phil's eyes finding mine from the stall, his confident smile like leaves, covering the truth, covering the boy that hid behind them. A spit and a call of 'faggot'. Desensitisation. Lack of feeling. My body just smoke, just wafting smoke in the breeze. Smoke doesn't feel. Smoke doesn't breathe. It simply is. The word passes straight through me, and lingers on, as words often do. The wolf can't take it back into his mouth, can't breathe it in like he does with his smoke, like he so often did with me, no he can't take it back. Nor does he want to.
And then exiting the building, everything a little clearer and again a hand. Two hands. On my shoulder. And as soon as the fingers reach, the smoke seems to harden, it condenses into bone, into skin, into clothing and I can see again. And the world is not swirling and the world is not fog and the world is not smoke, and the thick black every watching eyes of the wolf are replaced with the sea, with the ocean, with sky as a mouth is pressed upon mine but it is not forced and it is not thick or black and it not made out of smoke, it is soft and it is tender and I can feel myself kissing back, feeling the world get clearer, trees shifting back into shape, the pavement becoming hard again and my heart. My heart is back from town and beating again and I can feel it inside my ribcage and I lift my hand as if to test the air, to test the very particles we breathe in but don't appreciate, and it finds Phil's hair and somewhat tentatively my fingers brush through Phil's hair and it is even softer than the lips and it is real. It is all real. And it is black and thick but it is not treacle, it is not even close to the treacle that approached me like a sea, it is closer to a feather, to the wind that rides on a ravens back and then my eyes are leaking and water is coming. And I feel them washing down my cheeks as if cleansing everything as if clearing the fog and letting me see again, deeming me worthy of viewing the world. And I find I am able to break away from the shell of treacle and I can move and their is a hand on my cheek and I let it, and there are arms around me and I let them and all my worries, and loves, and thoughts fly back to me.
I am no longer smoke, I can feel, I can feel the deep aching love like a cavity in a tooth, I can feel the tsunami swirl of worries that is flushing through my insides and I remember the big bad wolf. I remember him blowing down my house of straw, my house of sticks, my house of bricks until I was left cowering. I remember him eating my mother and lying in wait for me, a false smile and a false attire. But something was never right. It was never never right. Never right. Never right. I can feel myself shaking. It was in the eyes, it was in the nose, it was in the teeth. I am shaking. I am shaking. I am shaking. And the arms can't keep me still. All the arms in the world can't keep me still. Because what if I've cried wolf one too many times? A stupid young boy with bruises in the shape of constellations. The boy who sits on the hill and calls wolf again and again and again until he can no longer breathe and no one ever comes. And the wolf bares his teeth and the boy screams and it is all over and he leaves the world as he entered it; in darkness.
Sigh. Yeah. That was that. Thank you for reading.