I hate you.
I hate everything.
I hate my zoid, I hate my base, I hate myself. But what does it get me, this pool of rage inside? I know the answer, nothing.
Everything is nothing.
Outside the sun is shining, I hate that too. Savagely I close the curtains, enveloping the room in a cocoon of darkness. In the darkness I can watch, see without being seen. I suppose that's why I'm a sniper; I can hide but still affect things. Maybe because I don't like to be seen, I'd rather be a wallflower. I lay down on the floor, the wood cradling my head. The darkness rushes down like a waterfall, pounding against my chest, forcing out all air, I'm drowning in it.
Drowning in darkness.
Crimson eyes stream with tears, I can't breathe. My hands scrabble against the floor, and I push myself up. Inhaling sharply I curl into a ball. I cough until I choke and my throat closes off. I can't even trust myself anymore. I roll over onto my stomach with my eyes fearfully closed. For a moment the darkness stays away, but it lurks on the edges of the room, stalking me like a cat. When did I begin to get lost in the darkness?
When did I begin to lose myself?
Where are you Naomi? Why did you leave behind your body in the care of a madwoman who hates it more than anyone else possibly could? Why did you let this happen? Damn you, damn you, this is your entire fault.
I stand up and immediately wish that I hadn't, blood rushes from my head, I stagger forward and fall to my knees. A single tear falls to the floor and splashes, it's so loud in here. Once again I stand, slower this time. I wobble unsteadily for a moment, but walk over to the table that sits at edge of the room.
There are only three things on the table, a red candle, a knife, and a box of matches. I choose the matches, and slide the box open. Only two are still there, they lie simply, sleeping without a care to the flame that they produce. They're only matches,
Only tools of my destruction.
I pick one up, inspecting it closely. Holding it firmly between my thumb and forefinger, I strike it against the sandpaper. Once, twice, and it splinters, breaking in the middle. Cursing I throw it over my shoulder and pick up the last one. I glance around quickly, there's no one here but the shadows and me. This one lights as soon as I touch it to the rough strip on the box, a quick burst of heat, and a cloud of sulfur, I breathe it in gratefully. I watch the match burn for a moment, but the flame consumes it quickly, and so I light the candle. The match turns to ash as the candle ignites, but I still hold the last remnant between my fingers, the flame burns against them, making the skin that's already callused puff up in blisters. It's addicting, the flames.
I'm an addict, and pain is my fix.
The candle burns feebly, combating the growth of shadows in the room. I wait for the wax to liquefy by rocking back and forth, thinking. How long has it been like this? How many days have I spent waiting for Leon to leave for a while, how many times have I stayed up till dawn hoping that the shadows will drown me? How long did it take for me to lose all that Naomi had been, and become this scarred mad thing?
I remember now, only a month. It only took a month for me to stop eating, sleeping, and piloting. It only took a month for Leon to stop asking me to go with him to the Blitz Team Base.
He's ashamed of me.
But then again, why shouldn't he be? Look at me; I'm Naomi the Crimson Comet, the girl who can take down three zoids with only one.
Look at me; I'm the girl who calls herself Ash.
A small puddle of liquid wax has formed around the wick; I stare at it hungrily for a moment before wrapping my hands around the candle's base. This is the last time, I tell myself, after this I'll go get help.
Stop lying.
I roll the sleeve of my left arm to the elbow, leaving a good foot of skin exposed. But that's a lie too; I have no skin, only an assortment of scars. No time for that now though, I hold the candle in my right hand and position it over my arm. Slowly I tip it until the wax falls in a sheet, landing on my skin with a hiss. I gasp at the sensation, the beautiful burn that lets me know that I'm alive. I put the candle back onto the table and watch the wax harden over my skin. This will be a new scar, a red mark that will soon fade to white. Why do I do this? Why do I burn myself, or scratch words into my body?
I peel away the wax and admire the large red patch of veins. Exhaling I watch my breath blow out the candle. Slowly I take the knife from the table. It's a beautiful knife, a steel blade with a copper inlay in the design of a dragon. The blade shines, but it's no longer pure silver, near the tip is a faint rose sheen of blood. I use this knife a lot; it's my own pen. With it I write stories on my body, stories of the lie that was Naomi, and the madwoman who is Ash. With the words written in scars I stitch together the burns on my body.
I'm making myself a new skin.
The scars tell a story, but I won't be writing today, just reading them, or maybe repairing any broken words. They start at the tip of my ring finger and wind up my arm until they reach my collarbone; I had to stop there so they wouldn't show. The words don't mean much,
Angel, Winner, Betrayer, Sinner, Perfect, Crazy, Dying, Lazy, Worthless, Liar, Strong one, Crier.
What a beautiful abomination I am. And no matter now many times I tell myself, I know it in my soul,
The new skin isn't finished.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
A/N: well, it's finished; I hope you guys actually understood it. This is the first Zoids fic I've written in a while, so please, REVIEW!!!
Namarie,
Rynn
I hate everything.
I hate my zoid, I hate my base, I hate myself. But what does it get me, this pool of rage inside? I know the answer, nothing.
Everything is nothing.
Outside the sun is shining, I hate that too. Savagely I close the curtains, enveloping the room in a cocoon of darkness. In the darkness I can watch, see without being seen. I suppose that's why I'm a sniper; I can hide but still affect things. Maybe because I don't like to be seen, I'd rather be a wallflower. I lay down on the floor, the wood cradling my head. The darkness rushes down like a waterfall, pounding against my chest, forcing out all air, I'm drowning in it.
Drowning in darkness.
Crimson eyes stream with tears, I can't breathe. My hands scrabble against the floor, and I push myself up. Inhaling sharply I curl into a ball. I cough until I choke and my throat closes off. I can't even trust myself anymore. I roll over onto my stomach with my eyes fearfully closed. For a moment the darkness stays away, but it lurks on the edges of the room, stalking me like a cat. When did I begin to get lost in the darkness?
When did I begin to lose myself?
Where are you Naomi? Why did you leave behind your body in the care of a madwoman who hates it more than anyone else possibly could? Why did you let this happen? Damn you, damn you, this is your entire fault.
I stand up and immediately wish that I hadn't, blood rushes from my head, I stagger forward and fall to my knees. A single tear falls to the floor and splashes, it's so loud in here. Once again I stand, slower this time. I wobble unsteadily for a moment, but walk over to the table that sits at edge of the room.
There are only three things on the table, a red candle, a knife, and a box of matches. I choose the matches, and slide the box open. Only two are still there, they lie simply, sleeping without a care to the flame that they produce. They're only matches,
Only tools of my destruction.
I pick one up, inspecting it closely. Holding it firmly between my thumb and forefinger, I strike it against the sandpaper. Once, twice, and it splinters, breaking in the middle. Cursing I throw it over my shoulder and pick up the last one. I glance around quickly, there's no one here but the shadows and me. This one lights as soon as I touch it to the rough strip on the box, a quick burst of heat, and a cloud of sulfur, I breathe it in gratefully. I watch the match burn for a moment, but the flame consumes it quickly, and so I light the candle. The match turns to ash as the candle ignites, but I still hold the last remnant between my fingers, the flame burns against them, making the skin that's already callused puff up in blisters. It's addicting, the flames.
I'm an addict, and pain is my fix.
The candle burns feebly, combating the growth of shadows in the room. I wait for the wax to liquefy by rocking back and forth, thinking. How long has it been like this? How many days have I spent waiting for Leon to leave for a while, how many times have I stayed up till dawn hoping that the shadows will drown me? How long did it take for me to lose all that Naomi had been, and become this scarred mad thing?
I remember now, only a month. It only took a month for me to stop eating, sleeping, and piloting. It only took a month for Leon to stop asking me to go with him to the Blitz Team Base.
He's ashamed of me.
But then again, why shouldn't he be? Look at me; I'm Naomi the Crimson Comet, the girl who can take down three zoids with only one.
Look at me; I'm the girl who calls herself Ash.
A small puddle of liquid wax has formed around the wick; I stare at it hungrily for a moment before wrapping my hands around the candle's base. This is the last time, I tell myself, after this I'll go get help.
Stop lying.
I roll the sleeve of my left arm to the elbow, leaving a good foot of skin exposed. But that's a lie too; I have no skin, only an assortment of scars. No time for that now though, I hold the candle in my right hand and position it over my arm. Slowly I tip it until the wax falls in a sheet, landing on my skin with a hiss. I gasp at the sensation, the beautiful burn that lets me know that I'm alive. I put the candle back onto the table and watch the wax harden over my skin. This will be a new scar, a red mark that will soon fade to white. Why do I do this? Why do I burn myself, or scratch words into my body?
I peel away the wax and admire the large red patch of veins. Exhaling I watch my breath blow out the candle. Slowly I take the knife from the table. It's a beautiful knife, a steel blade with a copper inlay in the design of a dragon. The blade shines, but it's no longer pure silver, near the tip is a faint rose sheen of blood. I use this knife a lot; it's my own pen. With it I write stories on my body, stories of the lie that was Naomi, and the madwoman who is Ash. With the words written in scars I stitch together the burns on my body.
I'm making myself a new skin.
The scars tell a story, but I won't be writing today, just reading them, or maybe repairing any broken words. They start at the tip of my ring finger and wind up my arm until they reach my collarbone; I had to stop there so they wouldn't show. The words don't mean much,
Angel, Winner, Betrayer, Sinner, Perfect, Crazy, Dying, Lazy, Worthless, Liar, Strong one, Crier.
What a beautiful abomination I am. And no matter now many times I tell myself, I know it in my soul,
The new skin isn't finished.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
A/N: well, it's finished; I hope you guys actually understood it. This is the first Zoids fic I've written in a while, so please, REVIEW!!!
Namarie,
Rynn