m0nopurple

[m0nopurple]

Petal Promises.

Showtime! Fling yourself through the entrance and let the ribbons behind you glide! Proclaim yourself an art form, the suicide statistics a gallery! Whip yourself into shape, grab a million-dollar ritual knife and start- temples shall party as you colour yourself with mercury paint! I do wonder; is your home a quantum physics box? You only seem live when I look away, peculiarly in between. So dance, prettyboy, and make your statement bloated with half-pence and attention- tango with the best of the unknowables, put on a performance for the rest of us!

I can see a god hiding in my closet, with the eyes of camera lenses and hands cutting shoddy string.

I'm hiding in a bathroom. I'm taking an everyday commodity to my wrists- skinning myself like a fox. Dirty liars want the truth, starving in projects of rapture gleefully- digging down through the skin, unburying it all. So carve open an oval dance into my centrepiece, shove out my innards and find out what makes me wrongfully exist. Machillivian thinking will find out what's at the core of my caffeinated corpse, what neurotypical neurons I lack- spin my sagging sack of philosophies and sing in disgust. Free me.

I walk down the street, a shamble of muscles and quivering anxieties, wondering why I'm alone on this side.

Bloody footprints tracking through snow, hazy eyes and aesthetic purposes; die a beautiful death in quiet want. The best kind of self-fulfilment is personal. Let my coffin be the overhanging pinewood, the frost-covered body love supplied me. Fragile, fine-tuned features find themselves most self-loved; who cares for stability? So let me perish, pretty enough for hypothetical love- let the journalists print search warrants and hysteria. Hypothermia has always been my true love, wrapping around my frail being.

Every time I walk, I do it with my sweetheart. She injects herself into the one-two conversation, supplying promises to her believer.

Take wheezing grey breaths full of parental disappointment, make them last like a sexual high. We take what we get, maybe a little more- disrespect is a form of self-expression, right? Paint your body with bruises, dance the tango and kill yourself with hidden glee (no need for them to see you in serendipitous eventualities). So what if I get married to a concept? It's only natural to live unnatural, tradition burning down like a pile of books- fix the unbroken, make a post-modern tragedy. So kiss and tell, make yourself useful to the anti-paradise paradise.

The man behind the left door is drunk and angry- he threatened to kill me once. Complete a cycle, centre yourself in damnation.

#creative writing #writing #writeblr #actually autistic #author #angst #storytelling #story #short story #authors #unreality

[m0nopurple]

Pale & Sickly.

My bulbous eyes peer- sweltering and with sticky anaesthetic swimming throughout. Focus down and see the doctors botch my heart, bloodying the place. They fumble like old hags, sewing needles poking and prodding at my internals; one stitch closing my arteries, another the neurons. They can't tell what fabric it's supposed to be, flowing linen into ragged keratin holes. One takes some dried blood and massages her tongue with metallic zing- he smiles with mercury teeth and proclaims brilliance, the solution to my perpetual indecencies. They tell me to kiss them, to suck on their marrow and heal myself with their grace.

Up a camera, record me like a dying breed and proclaim a removal necessary. I'm your cash cow- you shove rods up my rectum.

My veins aren't quite spacious enough. Pull and push like a rowing boat about to fall apart. Spiders and bugs fill them, skittling about- they creep and bite, make my skin itch. They melt and boil like madness encroaching, panic and pain. The wasps dig through my muscles, chewing on my lungs with finesse. Alveoli pop- arteries crumple. Flies fly in swarms to my brain, rub their little arms together and dine. They crawl tiny little limbs surrounding my mind in black mesh. I lay down on a toilet seat, bury myself like a dead man.

Please don't hug me; I'm terrified I'll punch you.

I'm walking through a desert of rock, step by step. I heave like a man injected with methanol, eyes dripping out of my skull like liquid phosphate. My throat burns as liquor bounces up and down my throat like a pendulum- too much to drink, now inflicted with a half-decade hangover. There's a great gold ball chained to my leg, inscribed with wants other. It burrows itself, dragging along sand. I walk, and walk, and it collects itself into a tomb. I lay down.

I'm hugged- gravitas wrapped around me like a shroud.

Hang up fairy lights, bright purples and pinks- bathrooms tiles shining with lovely tones. Cover the sink with plant life, poppies in faucets and hyacinths lining marble. Steam it up and cover the bathroom mirror- don't look at your reflection. Start Bohemian Rhapsody on a record player, quietly like a final whisper. Take your school clothes off, fold them and put them away in the dryer. Climb into the bathtub, one foot at a time. The water can be the temperature you prefer at the time. Lay down, and lather your hair with shampoo. Take a drink from the pill bottles you prepared beforehand, get a boxcutter, and cut your inner forearms open- 5 on both sides. Bleed out peacefully.

#creative writing #writing #writeblr #actually autistic #author #angst #storytelling #story #short story #authors #unreality

[m0nopurple]

Sober dances

Lead me back to satisfaction, lovergirl. Won't you take my hand, drag me along in unethical sobriety- a circular bachata over the checkered floor? Trace little patterns in my skin and say no words, white-grey voids to fill up with movement. Raise your head; show your vulnerabilities, how fast blood can race. Four steps to the left, four to the right, an occasional dip- counterclockwise movements, certain uncertainties are universal truths. Just dance and forget; let porcelain compromises stay in a pretty place. And maybe you'll get a good look at me, red rims and closure in a world full of wants.

So make me forget, pale lips and compromised truths- breathe with me in an underwater world. Timely tangos; start when others are finished, making do with the ball hall space. Spin around with no beat, unravel the art form until you find yourself with me. Needs met, so strip down complaints till you relive life better- do it with me, perform an opening encore, and don't take the time to think it through. Let me leave lipstick marks, cover any uncertainties in yourself- live the age of promises, and let them flourish.

So become prettier with age and confident in adoration- slow waltzes finish the performance, curving down and up like a heartbeat monitor. Flow across the worn dance floor, act how you want. Sweep across hospital floors, an uncertain certainty lay down in your bones. We danced for so long, making our art form eternal, so relax and let it flow. Life is not like us; too porcelain to be so beautiful. Even the most perfect dance will end, memories put in place.

#creative writing #writing #writeblr #actually autistic #author #angst #storytelling #story #short story #authors

[m0nopurple]

Mechanical Hands.

One.

Do you like how I prance? Do you like my candle-white skin? Engage in my semi-lunar waltz, crackle along like a dying star and make yourself momentary for me. Your face is dripping onto the ground, like disintegrating chalk- let me kiss it and let the moment dissolve on my tongue like a bittersweet drug. I am a satellite empress, a goddess of rotating uncertainties- I don't want my particles to sag and break down. Take me and make me shiny; make me feel rooted again, an apple tree uneaten.

Sit on the plastic garden grass and weep- mourn a better nature.

Shift through your half-pence, bleeding profusely. Rotting coffins look at you in shame, needing wax and a coat- they plead and plead, "don't you see me? Let me live in harmony!" Ignore them, shift through their innards, full of cobwebs and want. Desire is a flimsy tool, raking itself across piles of useless money and gravestone collections. So bleed, my once wanted dear, and let the red colour your deathly still universe. You are wanted there, a king, poet and swordsman. The want for a nail leads to downfall and strife- wish for the ghost of one instead.

Loose change drops out of my mouth, piling up like a disgusting defence against vulnerability.

Waiting for existence, are we? Excited for spectacle and tequila fireworks- plans that fail after it all fades out? Run along, loverboy! Only popping porcelain pills will excite you at this point. Wear your silly little victorian tragedies, dance and sing like a miserable pretender- crash cars while under, and cross the bridge when midnight strikes. Your prince charming is eventual, like the delusions you lick, taste, and breathe. So let out the guttural and touch yourself to the ideals you may one day have! Let the devil erotically caress your fingers, covering them in his saliva and lustring them to potential misdeeds!

I wither away, waiting for a rapture. I will get saved. I will be happy.

My eyes are sweltering like a red sun. My mind is like a horse- like several horses! I'm boiling like a Colorado River Frog, unaware of its fate! I'm leaping and sexually sweltering! Let's slip our faces into each over- an outpour of passion in a melted frenzy! God, I love you, masked man- dramatic angles across your persona charming as a possible overdose! You make it all blur; all the walls cover themselves in Dalí's works! We inhabit the priceless pastime, the ultimate goal!

The walls turn grey again. I aim, think, and blow my skull apart.

All I hear is through cotton ears, material mind. I sit here, a mannequin man in a mannequin storehouse. Sometimes people glance at and perceive me better than I ever could. Or maybe I could? How could I know if I could? Material, man, material mind, sitting in a gallery for post-modern masterpieces to examine. I open up, and dust falls out. I am a mannequin mind, filled to the brim with material men. Meld me back together, watch me fall apart. Self-repeating prophecies only seen once by anyone. The world is a gallery full of forgotten works made of fabric forgotten. Mend my sleeves, and they will still whimper away- so many material men in a mannequin world.

Atlas weeps, holding up his one true love.

Two.

#creative writing #writing #writeblr #actually autistic #author #angst #storytelling #story #short story #authors #unreality

[m0nopurple]

Autism and the Common Consequences.

Now- what do others expect of me? The whirring of gears within an empty space, the mutually assured destruction of ideals? Pity to extend prettily, parents and protectors privileged to be proud? I am more than a puzzle box missing a few screws- I would like to think I'm not doomed to Sisyphean explanations. Expecting crib mobiles does not influence their existence; car crashes are far more likely. So shove some sovereign medicine my way and call it a day, doc; this session is well through its date. Help from the helpless is too ironic for my fussy tastes.

Shatter my skull against the wall- it won't help you see wires.

I wear a striped yellow-black necklace around my neck; aren't I just pretty? I dance, sing and worship the rusty metal jewellery! I'm a busy little bee, buzzing for sanctioned attention and commodities! Totally carefree and natural! Let me whisper you a secret, though; (I'm about to be conditioned with electric shocks of 60 volts for stuttering). How wondrous! Speak for me, people who don't have me in their brains! Rid me of my buzzy bee infection, don't let the puzzle piece plague wash over the nation! Kill me; steal away my individuality- put tape on my mouth and beat me with metal crowbars plastered with nature stickers! Slice open my arteries and make me bleed out in a glass box, make my death an art piece!

Protectors gamble away their money on slot machines bathed in blood. The house collects and slaughters another in celebration.

Oh, dearly beloved- how you say my name! You say it with such honey-covered honesty, slow and methodical like a pretty little slur! Insult me and leave me wanting more- crash your lips into my bruised ones! Kick me and fuck me! Drive yourself into me like a car crash; boil my mind alive! I'm a slut for indecency, for the best policy! Grab me by the throat, peer into my half-lidded eyes as oxygen escapes me! I'm your constant muse and canvas, drowned in purples and reds! In a barren earth full of whole apples, could I want another? The crescendo that happens as you finally seal me away beneath your glass floorboards is ecstasy.

Tell me your filthy Protagoras truths- they fill up my gluttonous masochist gearbox.

#creative writing #writing #writeblr #actually autistic #author #angst #storytelling #story #short story #authors

[m0nopurple]

To keep a warm heart in winter (x)

[m0nopurple]

Books that actually taught me anything useful about writing/publishing:

Query Craft - Angie Hodapp: A literary agent wrote a book breaking down the query letter in a lot of good detail with facts and examples and more to back it up (and did not add 200 life stories). Concise and to the point. 8.5/10

The Emotional Craft of Fiction - Donald Maass: This book is weird because really the most useful part is the list of questions at the end of each 'chapter', but it really got me thinking about things I could use consistently to make my characters and world more realistic. 8/10

Save the Cat - Blake Snyder: There is a book out there called 'Save the Cat Writes a Novel' that is NOT written by Blake Snyder, and while a solid book it adds too much that I didn't find useful. Blake Snyder's Save the Cat is a tiny book PACKED with information. While it is formatted for screenplays, it is SO damn useful for writing books. 11/10

[m0nopurple]

Pretty pretty.

I've been feelin' lighthearted since I found a way to make myself sparkle, to make my skin like a stoplight. Recently been feelin' faint and filling eyebrows, wanting to be the centre of attention; my skin has been much more lax, bones filed down. A perfect, pretty waltz with my feminine side, little looks sent my way as we dance. Oh, what could be better than the shades of colours my face takes, ruddy reds and bloomin' blues! So maybe I feel pretty pretty, like a camellia's crown, a butterflies midair tango! I'm jumpin' on my feminine side, spinning around like a merry-go-round.

And why? For you, of course! Little looks sent my way, and my stageplay gains a bit of comedy; giggles and laughter even less slight. And so maybe it's for you, cheeks explodin' into cherries! And perhaps I'm feelin' a little attracted, slightly dizzy, from a bit of spinning in kitchen floor waltz! And let's make this a comedy like at the movies. Let's dance and sing and maybe even cry; let's explore our individuality through each other's insecurities! Let me make you laugh and shake- let me look at you sittin' over there, pretty pretty. And all while lookin' real feminine, with inky black ballerina shoes and patterned button-up shirts.

And maybe I can start feeling real swell, butterflies oozin' right from inside me! Add a bit of pastel to my sepia-tone movie, and make me a star in sparkling fashion! And as we dance across the kitchen floor and laugh at our inborn comedies, maybe I can start feeling like a person- charming and pretty pretty. And maybe sitting beside me watching romantic comedies is all I need to feel perfect- a doll with glued-up cracked porcelain. And finally, I can stop wiping off my shiny glitter eyes and see properly. Maybe I can feel happy, with comfort right at my side.

#creative writing #writing #writeblr #actually autistic #author #angst #storytelling #story #short story #authors

[m0nopurple]

Suicide Note #8

The compromise of ideals pains me as much as anyone else. Shooting myself in the foot for sibilance is unavoidable with my self-image, though. The death of the consumer within is a project I cannot dismiss. The rich get richer and buy more, and I've never been good at buying into life's short promises. Therapists are full of ideals; individualistic wants- I hate them passionately, for belief in my line of existence is scarce and made of creative liberty. I don't care for self-lies in self-image- all I am is a disgusting sapphire-eyed corpse. Compliments for the mask angles don't matter when the skin is rotting and sagging with the weight of hatred it carries for its kin.

Let's not sugarcoat it; bridged jumps are actions of selfish intent. Show off, won't you, to the nonbelievers how fucking ruinous you are, how your ideals are worthless in anything but short-term satisfaction, how much you hurt the only ones who love you. Let the masses clamour on them as if the Just Cause Theory is anything but a joke. Pills and bathtubs are the better methods- mathematical formulas across wet skin if you enjoy the particulars of a morbid aesthetic. Bloody dull arms in private, if nothing else. I am particular for arms stretching out like dying wishes, the rest of me sinking under the weight of expectations and self-loathing. Nothing remains but lifeless eyes and guilty broken promises to mother and father dearest.

Hypocrisy is a rampant disease spreading through my cells like the river Lethe. I love unravelling my mind, having my bare soul ripped to shreds in a gory fashion. I want to whip; my hide to be torn apart like a mind truly evaluated by my dearest friends. And yet. I hide snivelling in a box under the ocean, critique invalid and compromised by weak moral code. Gone is the possibility of improvement, and all that's left is me and my self-worth. It is all I have left. It is all I hate as informality. I fucking hate and hate and hate. All I do is critique others. I'm never fucking satisfied, am I? I'm like a weasel, burrowing into the mind of a dead god, pretending to be an explorer.

I think of this as an improvement. I of myself as better. And what happens? It's nothing. I am not an author; I am a burden placed by god to test the limits of kindness and patience. I exist to cause blood to turn blue, the sky stormy. I create miserable corpses, a graveyard of works with tombstones not engraved. People walk past the foul stench of coffin ground and turn away, pretending to appreciate the lack of work inherently in me. My mind is full of underground boxes, filled with the dead ideas of a once happy thing. Nobody wants me. Nobody desires such an accursed thing. I hate what I create, and yet I never stop.

Goodbye. Today is the last day ever, forever.

#creative writing #writing #writeblr #actually autistic #author #angst #storytelling #story #short story #authors

[m0nopurple]

Drowning in a bathtub full of glitter.

Bloody red arms and grey undertones are just in the name of self-expression! Let's fill our canvas in purple hues, snap our bones on concrete walls and throw ourselves down flights of stairs. Dance the terrific tango on a stage of billions, and be the wax-winged prodigy you want to be! Tragedy is the lifeblood of story, the symbol of heroics and the ultimate answer to life's calamities. Compromise is the poison given by The Powers That Be- rejection of it is a natural commodity. Sustain yourself with accursed flame; livers get stolen for a reason!

The bathroom mirror looks disappointed in you. Ignore it, please.

Look at me; am I pretty? Does my face cause oceans to rise and civilisations to fall? Does God love me enough to banish me to you- you, a foul creature of myth? Am I pretty enough to be hated by all, thrown at with first stones? Will you call me slurs in the privacy of bathroom stalls, and will you beat me black and blue with expressions of love? Let molten makeup cover me whole, scar me with fiery intensity. Let needles enter all parts of me, pop me open like a swollen balloon. My family hates me. The electric webs despise me. Fuck you.

I am a rose full of clipped thorns, withering like a pale poppy.

Ah, to be a greasy piece of shit; what a wonderful world! I love nothing more than lumpy clothes and desolate homes. My idea of brilliance is the drones that serve me; the birthdays nobody celebrates. I am the ruler of everything and nothing; my withered mind. Groans and moans caused by self-serving fingers- balloon people are the grandest forms of entertainment. I am a better form of living, the evolutionary ending.

Let me strap myself down in this corroded coffin, the megalophobia of the outside infinite.

I stand stiff and in solitude, deathly alone in the dying embers of the oval ritual; my face is glacial and stuck in place. Holy spirits trade me advice, telling me methods to freeze the world in perfect, pretty place. Belief in the box entrapping Thanatos shall save me from contempt, from the shattering of reflections. Hang symbols of Osiris; carve the image of Mictlantecuhtli into my skin; I shall reach salvation by myself.

Aphrodite has dammed me, skinning me bare in jealousy.

"I am different!"; screams the man bathed in golden rings and yellow-tinted glasses. He resembles a sponge- the fool is proud of this fact. He cries and bellows and tells others to better themselves, pushing others downstairs as if purple shades fit them. He lathers himself in 100 dollar bills as if it makes him glitter gloriously and styles himself as a greek letter. He talks to no one and thinks of everyone. Masculinity deformed is his ultimate love- he abuses all the other ones.

Whipping yourself into strips doesn't remove your inherit better half. It only aids in your hatred of it.

And here we stand, in naked repetitions, the crescendo to end cacophony. Damage is pride; it proves you haven't quite yet died. Let scars wither and grey out and praise death. Belove the inevitable nature of hairs and kissing the darkening stem. We don't control the oval dance, so enjoy it while it lasts.

#creative writing #writing #writeblr #actually autistic #author #angst #storytelling #story #short story #authors

[m0nopurple]

Oh, to be a romantic!

Statistical data breaks my heart! I would like you, love you if not for the angles of your mask; how you resemble my brain's mortician! You are a statistical anomaly in this world- I don't date others. Rack your boxed graveyard for me, and I shall reconsider. Set yourself aflame for my lustre and I'll rip your cavities wide open. Streak across the bedroom walls, coat me in your blood, and make yourself a lover worth having! Perhaps then I'll offer you 86,400 seconds of my time for you to scorch your inner pockets in my name! I am a deity worth worshipping, a mortal among filth and grime. Kill yourself for me.

Your hair looks like a greasy number of crows folded together- 4 of them.

Bodily harm, different shades of poppies lying on our stitched-together corpses. Love is an angel strapped on a bed with a slitted throat- grace is an impossibility that we should celebrate. Cinder my back with cigarette ash as we reach the crescendo, leave me want and dreary, and make the rest of it all sweep along like a morning song. Excitement is scarce and achieved by rolling snake eyes, gambling away our virginities.

Smash those pieces together, won't you, dear? The picture is never perfect, so shattering it further won't hurt.

The veins in my hands are copper and full of sparks; moving along slowly in methodical fashion. Stars may burn out like wickered flames, the night sky as silent as a funeral. I sit barren and shielded, flung across it all, waiting. Lightning in a pill bottle; my coffin is electric. Porcelain partners pop from perfect creative imagination- I shall craft them, meld them and ravage them. God, I hate myself.

Your grandparents will die, your parents will die, and you shall die, but no one else.

Lights! Camera! Action! Let us film this travesty! Black leather jackets, nerdy little glasses. Old men making teenagers kiss, The Evil Of Today smelling its favourite meal- what could be better? Let us tango in the glass box above the city lights, electrify our minds and destroy any that oppose forbidden fruit! Dance with me to celebrate the end of all education and the start of pacemaker animals! Blonde reporter and brown-haired protagonist, the symbols of our eternal gilded bars! Kiss me at the end, break up with me at the start of the next one, again and again, again and again.

Mother, Father, Brother, Sister, Dog and Hypothetical Cat; why are these white picket fences stretching out to infinity?

Let me dig into the meal of choice for all those worse for wear; smoking heart, still fresh from puncturing by the ribcage. Cut across arteries, let the muscles and tendons squish between your shiny new teeth, blood sputter across the sewed-on silver tongue and let the blackened core from years of marinating roll against your tongue. Skewered eyeballs are refreshments, improving the taste in minuscule quantities. The stomach is lined with scrumptious papillon parts, acidic from years of living in red banners. Gather them up from multiple lovers if you so want.

Starving is inevitable if everyone hates you.

Let me stretch in my graveyard now, look at blocked-off synapses with regret. The clock is ticking with an ashen sound and the want for perfect craftsmanship buried in a sewing machine. I've given up the creation of material- selling clothes doesn't appeal to me much anymore. I sit naked in a graveyard, apple eaten. Spring is blossoming, and the corpses are growing flowers. Goodnight, I think this may be the last day ever.

#creative writing #writing #writeblr #actually autistic #author #angst #storytelling #story #short story

[m0nopurple]

A moment of the hysterical for your pleasure.

Faint sensations of sizzling spiders echo within the layers of my skin.

There is a great plague sweeping through the decorated halls of my mind, wherein there lay great manicured monuments to the tragedies of which details are unknown. It creeps, with decrepit feet made of bottles of liquor and malice, a face covered with a thick veil of white moonshine. Bodily features are lost in the kerfuffle of a great debonair frilled dress, its plumes and peacock feathers shining enchanted. Long gone. Everpresent. Forevermore?

Poppies litter the gold gilding- red as a child's rosy cheeks. Containing stench of the mortician.

All trembles as the hands fall like gavels from the sky, bathed in the translucence of human skin. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, the judgement has arrived. Parents be damned and memories be cindered to ash it calls, opulent in its voice. Worship and fear me as a god, respect me and attempt to disregard me. Your children shall watch the dust fall and weep.

I want.

Thrive with stab wounds. Plunder the opium in our souls and our crime, and inhale the feeling of it all until you die trying. I want to drown and splatter and burn and cough and love and sneeze and murder and reproduce and see how much pain I can inherit and jump off a bridge with only a rope holding me back. To live is to love the process, and to die trying.

And I disregard?

Simple-minded fools who do not understand the serendipity in death. Passionless corpses, pacemaker animals. I hate and I hate and I hate. The eloquent critique is a signal of brilliance and peacefulness within one's self; this says the box cutter who views himself as an army knife. I am grand and I am special it screams in its decrepit box! I am not mad, nor am I hysterical! I am greater than thou, I am the harbinger for the world! Grand and mystical I am, so regard me so those who enslave themselves. The box cutter says this in a decrepit box lined with gold. It is a useless thing, repeating values about the dislike of repetition.

And of the notion that suicide is an option? Yes. It is.

Does opinion matter in the, chamber shaped like a tunnel with blueprints for it as timeless as our conscious minds? The neurons fire in a series of tubes. Pathways are blocked except for the greatest sycophants. Those sycophants that will lick you clean from lips made of 100-dollar bills coiled like snakes to the grime of your underbelly. They love the adrenaline, you see? They love smelling lies. They hate the moon for they believe it is of cheese, and they love to hate those who they describe as their kitchen utensils. Maybe I was too heavy on the object between your eyes there- I apologize. Hatred for the hues separating us, and the identity that should be free comes with the price of this poem, and all that is not streetcars desired is also of the topic. Now pardon me, but I hate clamouring, so let us move on.

Thunderbolts strike us in the brain- God loves us in every way.

He who is, and those who follow- recognition is the grand prize, as well as the whoring of others. So above us all, you are, oh great ones. Let me suck on your toes as you desire, behind the lectern made of stained glass. Please, teach others the great truth of hate and how to make it incarnate. For those who fake it well enough to butcher baby deer in lambs' skin- I applaud the market you exploit. All capitalism is capitalized on, and so you are right about the first to sin not being all too horrid. Throw the stone onto the corpse if you think the mourners will applaud, won't you?

Preference for the start of the story means you hate cognizance. I appreciate the intentions behind it but burn in agony, you, foul thing.

Perhaps if Cain sold the murder and what it lost… This is all for the evil of today.

In the end, this not-so-comprehensive list is of that which I shall shriek for, and perhaps die for. Sizzling spiders have burrowed back in me for another time and place. Who knows? Maybe then I shall also share this with future me?

#literature #creative writing #writing #writeblr #actually autistic #author #angst #storytelling #story #short story

[m0nopurple]

FUTILITY

I heard cracks under my feet and I fell into the icy depths.

Trying to get out, I thrust my hands upwards, reaching for the edge, but was met with an impossible resistance, as I was blocked off. I couldn't see, opening my eyes only resulted in them suffering, feeling the water. It was somewhere around here, I was sure of it. Pushing. Scraping. Shoving. Nothing I tried worked, but it was somewhere around here, I fell through just seconds ago, I just had to try harder. I swept my hands over it once again, and again, it had to be somewhere around here after all. I didn't give up, I couldn't, I was going to get out. Reaching out further, I searched for cracks, I could surely breakthrough, survive, it had to be somewhere around here. Right? Left? It was somewhere here. My hair floated in the cold water, my skin turning paler. I was going to get out, right?

I had to get out! It wasn't fair. I had worked hard, I was safe and took precautions, and yet, here I was. I hit my hands against the ice, a heavy pounding bouncing in my chest as I did so. If there wasn't a way out, I would make one. I slammed my fist against the impenetrable frost, yet it didn't budge. My head fizzled, and I didn't care, I just hit again and again. The world seemed to shake in response to my beating, but the ice didn't change. It had to, I deserved it. My heartbeat was even faster in response. The water around my fists turned murky red, but I didn't stop, I would break through! Slowly, as my exhaustion hit, I felt the need for air. I couldn't continue.

I would do it better next time. I wouldn't do it at all anymore. I didn't have to, all I needed was for it to let me out. I would do anything, please whoever wanted me to, I just needed them to save me. I prayed for someone, anyone! I couldn't die, I had too much to live for. I would be so grateful for the help, any help at all! I could feel my body contracting as my body shivered more and more, my lungs collapsing. My throat shook with every second lost. My whole body twitched uncontrollably, unable to stop. I'd do anything, please, anyone, anything, please!

It was hopeless, I realised, as I painfully inhaled water. No matter, what I tried, I could not get out. I closed my eyes, as my lungs burning hid the pain of my scalding knuckles, my body falling into the freezing water slowly. I fell to the riverbed with a frost over me, and as my heart stopped beating, I accepted the cold.

#creative writing #writing #writeblr #actually autistic #author #angst #storytelling #story #short story