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return-of-a-space-cowboy · 4 years

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I love Fairy Tale AUs! And your sleeping beauty one was soo great! Could I request a Snow White AU with yandere EvilQueen!Diavolo x snow white reader x yandere prince!Bruno? Unless that’s too weird, thanks anyway!

Aww thanks

I'm going to upload this in two parts, as well as a few other requests I got but here you go

Fairest of them all pt1

(yandere Diavolo and Bruno X Female Reader)

Warning: mindbreak

"oh my dear... To soon marry the fairest in the land is nothing short of a dream come true" your captor chuckled as he pulled you closer by your leash. You simply let out a groan in pain.

"Yes my king... I've dreamt of marrying you for my whole life" you croaked to the the man with many title's The evil king, The crimson king, emperor crimson but he preferred that you called him by his real name, Diavolo.

You were convinced that you were made for him, you never knew why you ever testified against it to begin with. It was a sick form of Stockholm syndrome that you had developed after weeks of starvation in a cold cell but you now believed that you were the one at fault and not your captor.

"My love..." He cooed before grabbing out a knife, causing you to cower back.

"Don't be afraid, this is just to ensure that we'll be together forever" he explained to make you comply

"Now just lay down" he said and like an obedient dog you laid down on your back as the male began to strip you down.

He wanted to make sure that the fairest in the land was his and his alone, and what better then to litter you with scars... He intended to make sure that he'd be the only one in the world to see you as beautiful.

Slowly the pink haired male graze the blade against your body.

"Where oh where should I mark you first?" he chirped however you didn't respond, you were there with him but also far away in your own delusions. You loved Diavolo but you didn't want this.

"Maybe I'll carve my name into your stomach, that will let any man who tries to have their way with you know who you belong to" he said as he pressed the blade against your stomach, blood soon appeared like little red pearls as it pierced your skin. Tears formed in your eyes as you felt the harsh sting but you refused to let him hear your screams in pain, you were his compliant little doll after all.

He soon began to carve each little letter in his name nearly into your skin. You hicuped lightly as you tried to deny the pain until he finished but it almost felt like a burn as you continued to deny until you could hold it no longer. You screamed and cried but you did not dare to thrash in his grasp.

"My dear... You have taken it so well, just a little longer and it will be over" he cooed before kissing your forehead and carving the last letter.

He looked down at his name carved into your skin like it was a fine work of art.

"My beautiful girl, how you make me so happy" he cooed.

🍎🍎🍎

Bruno hated king Diavolo like many others in the his kingdom but as a prince he was obligated to attend the soirèe that King Diavolo had organised. As he arrived he was given a mask from one of the servants. Inside he saw all of the luxuries that the king claimed for himself over the well being of his citizens.

Every masked attendee was of a higher status, generals, aristocrats, political figures or royalty. Many chatted away with drinks in hand or stood to admire all the works of art displayed around the palace but amongst all the crowd of masked stranger one stood out to the ravenette prince. A young (H/C) female who wore a black dress with red lace and a red mask with a white diamond pattern and black feathers.

The male approached her and became entranced by her beauty but soon it turned into disgust as the realised the golden bangles on her wrists were actually a pair of handcuffs, the golden chain draped along the ground and her elegant choker did not have ivory or jewels but another chain link which made it look more like a dog leash then a piece of jewelry.

Without a doubt the lady was a unwilling wife, not even a cocubine, just a slave. Yet the male still dared to speak to the young lady who's (E/C) eyes were hazy and lifeless.

"It's a wonderful night is it not?" Bruno asked in an attempt to start a conversation with you.

"Yes" you replied in a hushed tone.

"My name is Bruno Bucciallati and I am the prince of Bergian" he introduced himself with bow, you looked around before you spoke but we're quickly silenced by the rattle of your chains.

"Oh Prince Bucciallati it seems like years since I last saw you" a man in a similar mask to yours spoke to him in a voice of mocking delight.

"...and I see you have met my fianceé (Y/n)" he smiled as he wrapped his arms around you.

"Diavolo" you almost sung in delight, the life seemed to return to your eyes as you looked at him.

"You see Bruno my beautiful girl was considered as a treasure to here kingdom... They called her Snow White because she was the only child to ever be born alive on the first day of snow... They saw her as a blessing" Diavolo explained.

"they also saw great beauty in her... She was adopted into the royal bloodline and many saw her as a muse, many wrote songs and poems, many created paintings and sculptures to immortalize her beauty... Many all over the world claimed that she was the fairest of them all" he continued to brag, he had no shame in telling other of you like you were another trophy in his collection... You were simply another prize he had claimed from another conquered kingdom.

Bruno felt his blood boil, he knew what he thought of you all to well but he could only bite his tongue. You were a poor innocent girl that had been brainwashed into loving such a evil and cruel man. On the other had Diavolo knew that Bruno was already falling in love with you. He knew that you had a way of making people fall in love with you, even if it wasn't intentional.

A servant quickly broke the conversation between the King and Prince.

"Your majesty, the Huntsman of the east has arrived and is ready to speak with you" he whispered in Diavolo's ear, just loud enough for only him to hear.

"Take him to the drawing room on the west wing, I will meet him there" he ordered and the servant replied before leaving.

"I'm sorry Bruno but our reunion must come to an end, I have a few personal matters to attend to but I'm sure my dear (Y/n) is willing to keep you entertained until I return" Diavolo spoke as he handed Bruno the end of your chain before swiftly disappearing into the crowd as an orchestra hummed to life.

"Would you care to dance?" Bruno asked and you nodded in response as he took your gloved hand. As he lead you to the to the dance floor. He held you by the waist with his left arm while holding your hand with his right as he gently took the lead of the waltz.

You tried your hardest to look away from the male, even if Diavolo had given you the permission to be with this stranger it still felt just as scandalous as if he hadn't.

"Have you ever done the waltz before?" Bruno asked.

"Yes... With my adoptive brother, but those times are long gone" you told him like your brother had died years ago but in reality it had only been a few weeks since he held you in his dying arm as you cried in fear and uncertainty.

And while you danced the night away Diavolo made his way to the drawing room. He open the door to see a masked man who's hair was as white as snow and pupils as red as blood amongst the deep black of his scelra.

"You requested my services your majesty?" He asked.

"Yes I did Risotto Nero, I have heard so much about you... I've been told that you are the best Huntsman in the land" he explained before sitting down, Risotto stood silently as he watched the king.

"I've heard you killed thousands... Men, women and monsters of many kinds, some tell me you have even slain a dragon" the king continued.

"However the job in which I'm tasking you with probably the easiest you've ever received"

"And that is?" Risotto asked.

"You see... I am to marry in a few weeks time however my future wife was a very persistent woman at first, she use to try to escape me... Luckily that has come to an end" he explained.

"I will have my guards take her to the forest tomorrow, they will then leave her there alone and that is where you come in. I want you to scare her, cut her up a little bit if you so desire. I want you to scare her to the point where she'll never leave my side" Diavolo concluded.

"And how much will you pay me?" The tall man asked.

"Oh so demanding... Well my offer is three bags of silver-"

"You expect me to do your dirty work for three bags of silver, it's an insult!" Risotto cut the king off with a scowl.

"A bargainer... Well maybe I could up it to five" Diavolo said but the male simply turn his back and headed towards the door.

"And a bag of precious jewels..." Diavolo added and Risotto turned back towards him.

"Will you take my offer now?" Diavolo asked and Risotto nodded in approval.

"Alright the it's set, I will have my servants show you to a room to stay in until the time comes.

🍎🍎🍎

"Where are you taking me?" You asked the guards.

"The king has ordered us to take you to the forest, he has a surprise waiting for you" one of the guards replied. Your conversation attracted the attention of Prince Bruno however soon his attention had shifted to the other hall in which was odd, surely the king would accompany his fianceé for such a thing.

Bruno silently stalked Diavolo around the castle until he saw him go through a secret passage. Bruno carefully followed, hiding behind any corner until Diavolo entered a small room with only a mirror inside, however the mirror did not reflect Diavolo but instead a man with long brown hair and deep red eyes. Bruno peered from behind the corner and watched.

"Hmm it seems you've let your little dove go, the question now is will she return?" The man in the mirror asked.

"I'm certain she will Illusio" Diavolo replied.

"You must be careful thou, if you seek to break the girl further she may just shatter like China... After all you can only break something so many times before it can no longer be fixed" the male chuckled.

"I'll have no need to break her again after this... Once the Huntsman of the east has done his job, I will no longer have to worry about such" Diavolo stated in a cold tone which shocked Bruno, may the king have possibly lost interest in the young lady and wanted to kill her off.

Bruno quickly ran away in search of you, hoping to catch you in time before the huntsman did. He ran though the castle and took one of the swords on display as he exited.

🍎🍎🍎

"Hello? Where did everyone go?" You called out as you realised that the guards had disappeared.

"Is anyone here" you called out again as anxiety built inside of you, had Diavolo found you no long of interest? Had he sent you to be eaten by wolves?

No it couldn't possibly be, Diavolo would come. You just had to wait and so you did. You waited with not a single word until you heard footsteps slowly approach.

"Diavo-" you called out as you turned your head only to see someone else.

#golden wind #diavolo #jojos bizarre adventure #bruno x reader #bruno buccerati #diavolo x reader #yandere diavolo #jojo diavolo #yandere bruno #yandere jjba #fairytale au #spacy works

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rosethornewrites · 4 years

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Fic: this body yet survives, ch. 1

Relationship: Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī/Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn

Characters: Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī, Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén, Lán Qǐrén, Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Jiāng Chéng | Jiāng Wǎnyín, Jiāng Yànlí

Additional Tags: No War AU, Recovery, Trauma, Dissociation

Summary: Wei WuXian continues to recover from his traumatic near-death experience, and the cultivation world slowly reacts to the event as well.

Notes: I hesitated to write this because I’m already writing two multichapter fics. But I already started this and I have Plans, so it’s too late. So here we go. Please note that in the coming weeks the new semester will start and so my writing time will be much curtailed. The title of this is taken from another Mei Yaochen poem. His poems are really lovely. My favorites deal with grief and longing. I really need to look into finding translations—a translation I found of 不知夢 was haunting. Alas, this pandemic doesn’t make getting books easy.

Parts 1 & 2

AO3 Link

---------------

“Xiongzhang, shufu, I wish to court Wei Ying.”

WangJi had decided to be forward about his desire. Most would approach such a conversation in a roundabout way, starting with idle conversation, but WangJi preferred to be direct, especially in this.

Truthfully, he would have sought permission before now, but Wei Ying was fragile, even after he had finally broken through to him.

When he had brought him to his siblings after his admission of hunger, Jiang YanLi had cried when he actually ate, kept filling his bowl, and had since made it her personal mission to get him back to a healthy weight. Jiang Cheng’s reaction had been stronger; he had given Wei Ying an almost violent hug and demanded he never worry them like that again.

“I’ll try not to,” Wei Ying had said.

“If you… I was going to kill a-niang if you didn’t get better. She’d deserve it. She does deserve it.”

Jiang Cheng’s voice had been filled with vitriol.

Neither sibling had wanted to part from him, particularly after he admitted to having nightmares, and the four of them had stayed in the jingshi that night, with XiChen as an amused chaperone due to Jiang YanLi’s status as a young maiden. WangJi had not expected to be included in the sleepover, but he had been pleased by it nonetheless.

“I was there, but I wasn’t,” Wei Ying tried to explain, struggling both to find the words and stay awake. “I knew what was going on around me, but I didn’t really feel anything. Interacting was hard, like trying to run underwater.”

He had fallen asleep long before hai shi, after Jiang YanLi had stuffed him full of lotus and pork rib soup, spicy baozi, and osmanthus cakes she had personally prepared in the kitchen. He had sprawled on a blanket in what was normally an anteroom of sorts in the jingshi. Jiang Cheng had covered him with a second blanket with a surprising amount of tenderness.

“How did you get through to him, second master Lan?” Jiang YanLi had asked in the quiet that followed. “We were so worried.”

Answering that question was not easy; he had not then been ready to admit his feelings to anyone but Wei Ying.

“I composed a guqin piece for him,” he finally said.

The smile Jiang YanLi had given him was knowing, and made it clear she was pleased and accepting of his intentions toward Wei Ying, though he knew he would still need to formally request permission of her and Jiang Cheng in the future if he wished to court him.

Jiang Cheng, thankfully, had not seemed to get the implication and just shook his head.

“He always was more musical than anyone else in the family. A-Niang hated that, wouldn’t let him play the dizi. Just another thing she decided to be awful about,” he had muttered angrily.

“‘An angry man is full of poison,’” XiChen had advised softly, quoting Confucius. “Your anger will not change her, only yourself.”

Jiang Cheng nodded, but his lips twisted.

“She wanted me to hate him. Kept pitting us against each other, comparing us. Still, I never thought she would…”

He shook his head, and Jiang YanLi squeezed his shoulder gently.

“Blood or not, a-Xian is our beloved brother,” she had said. “And she hates that. It may be unfilial, but we choose him.”

WangJi had insisted Jiang YanLi take the bed, as was appropriate. He settled in for the night beside Wei Ying, xiongzhang on his other side. Jiang Cheng slept on the other side of Wei Ying, sandwiching him between friendly bodies; if he woke from nightmares, he would not be alone.

But it had been WangJi who woke to hear Wei Ying’s soft whimpers and panting in his sleep, to see his furrowed brow and the fear and pain in his features, even asleep.

“Wei Ying,” he had whispered. “You’re safe.”

Wei Ying hadn’t stirred, but had curled toward his voice, wound up burrowed against his side, and let out a soft sigh, his brow relaxing as he fell deeper into sleep, away from the nightmare that had been plaguing him.

WangJi’s last thought before falling back to sleep had been that Wei Ying fit against his body like it was meant to be.

Shufu’s cup froze halfway to his mouth, but his expression was one of resignation. Xiongzhang simply looked pleased.

“He has been doing better these past weeks,” XiChen commented.

WangJi only nodded.

‘Better’ was the best descriptor. At times Wei Ying still seemed more absent than present, but the mind healers were able to speak with him more than they had before and seemed optimistic. He ate more, though he sometimes needed prompting or reminders of the food if he seemed to fade from reality. He was starting to look healthier.

“Sometimes,” Wei Ying had confessed after one of his fading episodes, “it’s like the world is too bright and loud.”

Even in the serenity of Cloud Recesses. The mind healers, he had said, told him his mind was protecting him when the world was too much for him, as it apparently had been for a full year after his near-death.

Wei Ying had, haltingly, started to play the dizi WangJi had bought him, sometimes losing himself in the music entirely. The battered dizi among his possessions, he explained, had belonged to his father, something he had left behind at Lotus Pier after eloping with his mother. Jiang FengMian had stored it away for his return, but instead Wei ChangZe and CangSe SanRen had died on a night hunt.

The dizi had been given to Wei Ying when he was found and brought to Lotus Pier, the only item he had of his parents’, but he had been banned from playing it by Yu ZiYuan. Instead he had hidden it away in his room.

Playing the dizi also often overwhelmed Wei Ying, leaving him beyond exhausted, the memories associated so fraught. WangJi had seen tears spill down his cheeks as he played more than once. But when WangJi mentioned the idea of attending music classes to learn GusuLan cultivation songs, he had smiled.

WangJi had set up a meeting with the instructor, Lan MingKai. Despite the rule against gossip, all of GusuLan knew what had happened at the Lotus Pier discussion conference. Normally this would be displeasing, but the result was not: Wei Ying was treated with kindness. Not only had the instructor been welcoming, he had even offered individual morning music lessons. Wei Ying was, in fact, attending a lesson while WangJi had tea with his brother and uncle.

Overall, Wei Ying was more present, more expressive—nothing like he had been before, but after so long without seeing him smile at all even the small ones were precious.

“Yes,” WangJi said. “It is gratifying.”

Shufu cleared his throat and took a sip of tea, setting down the cup before speaking.

“Why seek our approval, WangJi? Why not his siblings’?”

“Wei Ying is of GusuLan now,” he reminded softly; it was polite to seek sect approval. “I will seek their approval following yours.”

This explanation seemed to please shufu, who nodded, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

“It has been troubling to see Wei WuXian so… quiet,” he finally said. “I never thought I would say I prefer him more lively, but…”

In conversations over the last year, shufu had expressed concerns. He had seen people severely traumatized in the past, their personalities changed by pain. He had kept up with the mind healers and offered suggestions on activities WangJi could use to try to engage Wei Ying.

“There have been times the mind healers have not been able to help,” he finished after a moment. “I was becoming concerned this might be one of those cases.”

WangJi set down his teacup, afraid he might break it in reaction, his entire body clenching at the idea that Wei Ying could die.

Shufu watched him, something in his face softening.

“He will still need help in his continued recovery, WangJi. And he may never recover fully.”

“I wish to be by his side regardless,” he stated, and his voice came out hoarse.

Xiongzhang placed his hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently as though to soothe.

“You have my blessing, WangJi. You always have.”

WangJi almost smiled at that, remembering how XiChen had pushed him to form a friendship with Wei Ying, how he had resisted. He hadn’t known how to handle his burgeoning emotions, had been afraid of them. Xiongzhang had known long before he himself had.

“You have mine as well,” shufu added. “A marriage would make GusuLan’s acceptance of Wei WuXian more concrete and indisputable.”

XiChen nodded, looking thoughtful.

“After what he has been through, and what I have heard of his childhood from Jiang WanYin, that stability would likely help him heal.”

WangJi resisted his immediate urge to ask after that information, but if Jiang Cheng wanted it known to him, it would be. He refused to violate Wei Ying’s privacy by asking others or even him. If Wei Ying wished him to know, he would tell him.

Shufu interrupted his thoughts.

“WangJi, you need never fear he will face ill treatment here. No physical punishment. No seclusion. He will not be turned out. He has suffered enough.”

Tension WangJi hadn’t known he’d been carrying eased all at once, the fear that Wei Ying would, once healed, face these punishments and, if they were married, be subject to the same treatment his mother had suffered... The last thing he wanted to do was add to the trauma Wei Ying had already been subjected to by making him a prisoner. He had already watched him nearly die and then wither away into almost a ghost once; he refused to do it again.

“Thank you, shufu.”

“He may have a penchant for… antics,” shufu continued. “But none of them have been harmful. They’re simple pranks, nothing worth what he has suffered.”

Silence fell between them, and WangJi did his best not to remember mud-caked pale skin and blue lips, the gurgling gasp of Wei Ying’s desperate breaths under Jiang YanLi’s screams. He feared if he closed his eyes, that would be all he would see, not the gentle whorls of the dark table, the condensation on the teapot, not the steam rising from its spout.

They had been among the first to respond to Jiang YanLi’s screams for help, having happened to be nearby at the time. Shufu, having the best knowledge among them of healing, had not hesitated to dirty his robe in the mud, passing qi to Wei Ying as he lay bleeding from his nose, eyes, ears, coughing up blood and river water, dangerously close to qi deviation after his desperate and dangerous use of his spiritual energy to free himself.

Shufu had ordered xiongzhang to get help, ordered WangJi to help him, clearly knowing WangJi would refuse to leave if asked. Wei Ying had moaned in pain when shufu turned him onto his side, and that was when they saw the tears in the back his clothing that left him almost naked, the blood seeping from lash marks, had noticed the bruising on his face and neck, the bloody fingers that curled in the mud as though seeking something to hold onto.

WangJi had removed the outermost layer of his robe to drape over him, to preserve his dignity in front of the array of faces that were coming to investigate Jiang YanLi’s screams. He had taken his hand then, had watched Wei Ying, eyes wide and terrified, try to focus on him, saw him mouth his name. All he could do was assure him he was there and keep holding his hand when Wen Qing arrived and started snapping orders to everyone.

“It probably helps that he has never gone near your beard,” xiongzhang commented, his tone almost forcibly light, an attempt to dispel the tension.

Shufu seemed to shake himself, as though dispelling the same memories haunting WangJi, or memories of his own.

“CangSe SanRen probably considered her crowning prank the time she shaved my beard while I slept,” shufu said, his voice almost fond. “I rather hope he doesn’t attempt that.”

WangJi hesitated before speaking.

“Wei Ying knows very little about his parents,” he said softly. “He would probably appreciate any stories of his mother you would tell him.”

After a moment of hesitation, shufu nodded.

“She was a very bright person,” he murmured. “Much like Wei WuXian was, before.”

His countenance had a sort of sorrow to it, and WangJi wondered if Lan QiRen, like Jiang FengMian and others of his generation, had also loved CangSe SanRen. Whether she had upended him like Wei Ying had upended WangJi. Or perhaps shufu felt the loss of Wei Ying’s light, and it reminded him of her death.

“Tell him I will speak to him, when he is ready,” shufu said.

WangJi wondered if shufu was ready, but he held his tongue. That his uncle was thinking of Wei Ying’s condition, letting Wei Ying decide if and when he was ready to learn more about his mother, was a kindness. He was still recovering from the damage his adoptive mother, however much she didn’t deserve and had refused the title, had done to him.

“I will let him know.”

They pause to sip at the cooling tea, to enjoy the breeze coming in through the window and the sound of the windchimes gently clinking beyond, the peace of a morning in Cloud Recesses.

“Please also let young master Wei know that he is not required to invent talismans so regularly,” xiongzhang said as he poured more tea. “His recovery comes first. And he need not feel he owes GusuLan for offering sanctuary.”

“Not simply sanctuary,” shufu clarified. “Wei WuXian is a GusuLan disciple, should he wish to be. He need not offer compensation for his care.”

WangJi frowned, considering all that had occurred. Certainly, shufu’s words to Madam Yu had made Wei Ying’s welcome clear, but he didn’t know that Wei Ying had been capable of listening then, so soon after his near death and in the midst of insults and verbal abuse. The announcement of such so publicly at the discussion conference meant that Wei Ying’s status as a GusuLan disciple was known to the cultivation world.

But it didn’t necessarily follow that it was known to Wei Ying.

“Has Wei Ying been informed? Formally invited?”

He watched as his uncle and brother had a silent conversation that left them both looking abashed, and knew this was something that had been lost in the chaos of what had happened, had somehow not been noticed in the last year, an oversight.

“I will speak with him,” xiongzhang insisted. “He already wears GusuLan robes, so we thought…”

“He wears them because they are white,” WangJi reminded him. “He grieves still. I gave him blue robes, and he has not worn them.”

Shufu frowned, his expression almost pinched, close to a wince. XiChen closed his eyes, as he always did when overwhelmed by emotion. WangJi felt the same guilt they did; it had been a year, and none of them had clarified his welcome, too focused on his dissociation with the world, his healing, when this information could have aided in his recovery. None of them had clarified that this was his home.

“I will have a forehead ribbon prepared as well,” shufu said. “We will present it to him, and apologize for the delay.”

“Perhaps you should also make sure his siblings are aware,” WangJi said gently.

Shufu actually winced, which told him the issue had also not been discussed with them, either. WangJi wondered if the Jiang siblings had realized Wei Ying would stay at Cloud Recesses, or if they had planned to follow Wei Ying wherever he went after Gusu.

“I would recommend speaking to them first,” WangJi advised. “Perhaps before I ask about courtship, so they do not assume the two are related.”

“Or dependent,” xiongzhang murmured, as though he had read WangJi’s mind. “We owe them a tremendous apology. After what nearly happened… they’ve feared for his future all this time. It must be one of the reasons they’ve stayed.”

They had many, WangJi knew, and he was certain both XiChen and shufu knew as well. The biggest one was the lady of Lotus Pier, who may have given birth to both of them but could clearly not be trusted.

“We will rectify this,” shufu assured him. “Wei WuXian is of GusuLan.”

“And when he is ready to stop wearing white, that can certainly be accommodated,” xiongzhang added. “He seemed rather fond of black and red, as I recall.”

Shufu twitched but did not protest.

The bell indicating si shi rang, and WangJi rose, bowing properly to his brother and uncle. It was time to collect Wei Ying from his lesson.

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elaz-ivero · 3 years

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Poetry Fieldnotes ||Broken Artists Collective||

[image description: a block print with a bright red border around a greyish blue grainy image. Atop it is a pair of discoloured hands, palms facing forward, red and outstretched. Above the hands in white Garamond font are the words, Broken Artists Collective and in smaller font, and other poems. /end id]

Over the past week, I may or may not have fully embraced the concept of a broken artist finding myself unable to conjure up a single creative thought unless I'm lying on the floor surrounded by scrawlings and broken-spined books. For a long time, I have been trying to cater my work to a series of magazines that clearly yearn for a very specific 'type' of poetry that I am incapable of producing. These poems are ones that applied pressure, the ones that were crammed into inattentive submission boxes and were returned in empty emails.

Here are the poems,

[image description: a photograph of a boy laying down looking upward, a lit cigarette stands upright in his mouth and his features are overlayed with the shadows of ferns and other plants. He wears an orange collared shirt and around him are the words in white Garamond font, Floor Bound Echo Location. /end id]

Floor-bound Echolocation is a disjointed 403-word prose poem that is a coalesce of liminal spaces, chaotic ingenuity and a reversal of grief. Like many of my poems, it describes a series of small events and feels more like a corrupted scene from a novel than a stand-alone poem. It's a short tale of a brother and sister cleaning out the garage-workspace of their genius, estranged and recently deceased cousin. It opens as follows...

All the lines are in lowercase and of sporadic length, every so often a single random word is isolated and highlighted. These are the words that were isolated throughout the poem.

//enigma //a test of patience //satisfied //memorized

I adore this poem and it feels strangely personal (my own experiences often slip into my work unconsciously like fears finding their place in dreams) as a creative I fear the idea that a lot of my work and unwritten ideas will never be read or known. The poem focuses on one of the cousin's creations, a geometric pattern drawn in chalk on the concrete floor. This pattern, its design obsessive and laid out like a triggerless trap takes over the narrative of the poem. The characters wash it away and the pattern, the physical manifestation of this dead cousins genius clings to the idea of being appreciated, recognized.

[image description: a boy sits up against a wall in a barren green and blue-tinted room, to the right of the image, is a window showing trees outside and beneath it a gas heater is attached to the wall. The boy's wearing a similar orange shirt and on the wall beside him are words, 'it blends and swirls with the oiled water and tidals along the length of the driveway to passer-by's what remains of it asks, begs, to be, memorised.' /end id]

I wrote 'floor-bound...' in a day and made subsequent edits over the course of a couple of days, I tend to write out my ideas and make minor changes to word choice and sentence length before I add in the details that make each poem unique. The isolation of individual letters was a way to almost mimic the process of looking in a cluttered space you'll see something recognizable and latch onto it.

Status: Submitted

[image description: A girl with long black hair, olive skin and a tired solemn expression face forward, an unlit cigarette held loosely in her mouth. She stands in a red elevator, the doors are closed and on the left on the image is the metal switchboard showing she has reached level 12. On her right is the word, 'Peephole'. /end id]

Peephole is a mirrored poem and is split into 'Inside', and 'Outside' with Inside, aligned to the left and Outside, aligned to the right, they are reflective of each other, mirrored. Peephole is about a young drunk woman staying inside her boyfriend's cramped apartment inspired by the 43-Square-Foot rooms in South Korea and an image from the article below inspired the entirety of this poem.

She, aware that the apartment seems to reject her, steps out into the hallway, the 'Outside' which feels apocalyptic with a burning wining sun and a ghost standing by the elevator, a personification of her sickness silently assessing how she is still alive and if she could find her way home in this state. The women in turn assess how this hallway faintly reminds her of the one from 'The Shining' leading into a breaking of the fourth wall.

[image description: A photograph that looks similar to a corrupted piece of film, tinted red and showing a woman's profile looking toward the right. Words on the left of the image read, 'I take an imaginary drag as if setting the scene of some ninety's horror, slasher, mounting suspense with the final girl, alone, a lonely lamb how easy would it be to just end a film right here.' /end id]

The tone of the poem is gritty, realistic and almost elusive in its design. I love writing poems without intending to care about its audience, with no closure, no clarity, no kindness. This poem is an amalgamation of all the recent media I've consumed, 'The Shining', Final Girl, Wikipedia dives into the housing crisis and psychological horror. I love writing poems that reflect a blend of culture, using language as a way to implement distinctive voices in my writing.

[image description: Another room tinted green, on the bottom of the image head barely in frame is a women looking off into the distance, above the cigarrete she holds red smoke reflecting in the shine on her face twirls and unfurls. Text reads, 'Tiger balm and salt, "kapuahi ahi" his whisper hurts my ears and sounds like, toungue on velvet, tooth in cheek.' /end id]

Status: Submitted

[image description: a close up of a brides face covered by a sheer veil in front of a black background, her eyes are tinted with red eyeshadow and she looks forward with a bored stare. Large text in the upper left-hand corner reads, 'Chekhov'. /end id]

Chekhov, my most recent poem is- as the title suggests- from the perspective of a gun, a woman on her wedding day is left at the altar by a cheating groom and hunts him down in the orchard venue with an heirloom of a gun. I love the perspective of this poem, the way it slowly reveals the origin of the 'voice' and grows darker and darker as the wedding dress soils and darkens with dirt and blood. Few of my poems spur from ideas rather than images but the idea of a furious bride filled with anguish and horror brought this poem to life.

[image description: a young bride looking behind her as she runs toward a patch of dark trees in the middle of a field. One hand holds up the edge of her white dress, it's evening. Text on the left-hand side of the image reads, 'Darling when my steel feels soft, revoke your vows and kiss something just as cold and cocky. /end id]

This poem is split into three stanzas, before the wedding, during and the evolving aftermath. I feel like I could extend this into a short story saving the strange gunpoint perspective till the final scene.

Status: Completing

[image description: A black and white image of a boy looking up, his expression a mix of horror and fear while blades point down at him and hold steady inches from his neck. The image is a still from "Ivan the Terrible" by Sergei Eisenstein. Text aside it reads, 'The Sound of Hamlet Rehearsed. /end id]

The sound of Hamlet Rehearsed, inspired by my own recent exploration of scriptwriting and theatre. The sound of Hamlet Rehearsed is about a boy being held accountable during a faux court hearing, on stage on opening night. The narrative slowly switches from fiction to reality as it dawns on him that the punishment is about to be dealt and he struggles with understanding how much of his reaction is performance or authentic. It's structured in a sporadic unbroken series of words and moments.

Tone-deaf touchtone tipping point Ziplock bags and scented zip ties off script the boards atop the trap door tremble imagine the conductor beneath torch amongst teeth briefly making out direction from diction.

Status: Editing

Those are the poems I've been working on! I'm not going to write any more poetry until I come to my poetry course next trimester and instead are going to focus on short stories (I'm developing two right now, three-course meal and Wren versus the Russian Government) and continuing by Worldbuilding Diaries series.

-E

#poetry #brokenartistscollective #wip #bac #amwriting #writeblr #poems #poets on tumblr #writing #writeblogging

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dat-town · 7 years

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The edge of light where Darkness begins

Characters: Seokjin & You

Genre: psychological horror, angst

Setting: lidérc* au

Warnings: emotional manipulation, mental illnesses like ptsd and agoraphobia, mentions of blood, past minor character death, implied sexual content

Summary: The monsters are always closer than you think.

Words: 3.6k

Part of the Stories no one dares to tell Halloween collab. Check out the other stories too, you won’t regret it! ^^

Moodboard

*Lidérc [ˈlideːrt͡s] is a folklore creature similar to incubus. They are really handsome/beautiful but usually they don't seduce their victims but instead give them nightmares and feed on their fears while making them sick.

Title is taken from Christy Ann Martine‘s poem, the header’s background is from here.

“I told my therapist about you.”

Your voice is a chime of bells in the defeating silence of the room. Scary, isn’t it? That you can hear your own thoughts so loud when everything else is mute around. The whispers you can’t identify as yours make you feel less lonely, less alone. You are not sure if it’s a good or bad thing.

Only a low hum is uttered by the person whom you are talking to, but he barely acknowledges your words. He’s too endorsed in the Russian classic you are reading nowadays and left mindlessly on your coffee table a while ago. Crime and Punishment by Dostoyevsky, a fitting book and as it seems, your guest also finds it fascinating. You take your time resting your gaze on him: following the curve of his neck, the way his black dress shirt hugs his wide shoulders, his long fingers caressing the book cover as gently as one would do with a lover. The setting sun behind him paints him in the colours of dying dreams and it strikes you once again how utterly handsome he is. Every inch of him is way too perfect to be real: the sharpness of his jaw, the darkness of his soul coffee eyes and that lazy smile he often wears.

Isn’t it too convenient? You are in a vulnerable state and a handsome man comes suddenly? your therapist asked when you talked about him, how he comforted your lost soul and how he made you feel like you belong somewhere finally after being stuck in limbo for so long.

Yet, he doesn’t pay attention to you at all now as he casually walks around in your living room as if it was his. So you add with a cracked voice, meaningfully: “She thinks you aren’t real.”

And it seems to pique his curiosity. He stands up straight, turning towards you, a calculating grin spreading all over his devilishly handsome features and suddenly you feel bashful with his eyes on you. You can’t help the tremble that runs along your spine when he comes closer.

Kim Seokjin, he introduced himself when you first met. Or not… You can't recall when or how it started, you feel like he has always been a part of your life. You don’t really know him, the past of this man who keeps reappearing in your apartment, always willing to take you apart then putting you back together piece by piece, moan by moan until you forget everything but him. As if you were made to taste those bittersweet syllables on your tongue and chant his name like a prayer, a name so mundane for somebody like him.

“And what do you think?” he whispers right into your ear and you let your eyes flutter closed. His musky, smoky scent fills your nostrils and your hands are itching to touch, to pull him even closer but you don’t want to seem too eager.

“Does it feel like a daydream, an illusion?” he breathes brushing his lips against the sensitive skin under your ear and presses feather light kisses onto your exposed neck.

“A bit,” you shiver, already sort of breathless even though he barely touched you. Still, you welcome this sensation; he seems to have that effect on you. He has always made you feel too good to be true, he made you forget about the mess in your head and the reason why you stay between the four walls.

The truth is: you haven’t left your apartment since the day you were discharged from the hospital. Agoraphobia, not rare for patients with PTSD, the doctors said when you realized you cannot open the door without having a panic attack. You despised even looking at the knob or at your windows, those showcases of the world's madness. You don't need that, you don’t want that: the screams, the tires screeching, the vivid red on the asphalt. You know every corner of this place, each crack and nail so you are safe here… right?

Only a few people know you are here anyway.

Your parents visit from time to time but they buried one child already, what's another one in the grave? You hated those sad glances at you, the pity and regret, the why did you survive when your brother didn’t? left untold in their eyes.

The therapist comes every week and she sits on the edge of the couch in the living room. Her posture strict and rigid, ready to hide and run. This man on the other hand looks like he belongs here, like he’s made himself a home in your safe haven. Ridiculous, how could a man so gorgeous belong to the darkness, this grotesque pit of your hidden thoughts? the voices whisper.

“Seokjin,” you whimper eyes closed, finger clenching onto his collars when he flicks his tongue just right mapping out the slope of your neck, making poppies bloom on your skin and leaving goosebumps behind in their wake.

“Oh darling, you should know I am very much real,” he smirks. You can feel its curves on your skin just as his body slightly trembles with a soundless giggle. Such a tease! Did he just hint at your even closer interactions with less clothes and more skin? Just the thought is enough to make you feel lightheaded. What you and Jin have isn't a relationship, not even close, but it's consensual and oh so good!

So of course, logically speaking you know that he is real. You remember vividly how cold he feels against your heated, sweating body that it makes you shiver even harder or the way he touches you now, these featherlike reminders of intimacy. Or maybe it's more of a promise of what comes, oh how you hope it is!

“I’m just... not sure what real is anymore,” you blurt out, a part of you ashamed despite knowing very well Seokjin wouldn't judge you. He understands you better than anybody, like only the Moon would understand the stars

“How come?” he quirks an eyebrow, clearly intrigued, something your therapist has never been. She just gave you pills for insomnia and told you it should be fine.

It isn't.

“Ever since I woke up…” you gulp. The from the coma part is hanging in the thin air because saying it out loud would make it even more scary. Three months being unconscious, always attached to beeping machines and yet, here you are, keep struggling even awake. “I'm afraid of sleeping. I keep having that dream when I wake up again and again. It's like a dream in a dream and sometimes I can't tell dreams and reality apart.”

The confession leaves your body with a shuddering breath, sounding awfully uncertain, full of what ifs. What if one day you won't wake up and get stuck in another never-ending dream?

“Isn't it the same though? There’s suffering in both,” Seokjin hums, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear ever so gently. He’s right, you have to agree. It doesn’t make it less scary, though.

Pulling away just a bit to look at him, you see half of his face covered by shadows. Then you glance at the curtains that fell closed as the sun set which makes the room dark, eerily so. Only flashing lights of passing cars can be seen from the outside. Somewhere in the back of the room, candles burn, their intoxicating aroma filling the air.

You don’t remember lighting them.

��What do you dream about? Before you wake up in your dreams?” Seokjin asks curiously and you snuggle back into his embrace, letting your head rest on his solid chest, closing your eyes, feeling safe...

All your dreams are made out of thorns and blood and claws that tear your skin. It leaves you breathless with a hand around your neck, suffocating you. The purple marks on your skin are bruises from its touch, rotten flowers blooming on your body like an impressionist still-life painting. Dreams are insects you killed but you still feel on your skin, dreams are the tragedies that you know will happen in movies, dreams are like still going back to the person who hurt you so many times.

Dreams like this are called nightmares.

So does that make Seokjin a daydream?

“I don’t remember much of it, mostly just the fear. It’s creeping into my heart and makes it hard to breathe. I remember the dark and the terror I felt. Nothing more,” you back away, pulling the curtains open but don’t let go of the material. You need to hold onto something in order to not feel so lost in your own mind.

Outside, there’s nothing but pitch darkness.

“Are you afraid of the dark?” the young, attractive man asks a few feet behind you, his voice low and resonating in the empty room that feels colder than it should in October. Isn’t it ironic? A part of you died in the summer, the rest of you is dying alongside the withering fall.

“No. Well, not exactly. I’m more afraid of what hides in the darkness.”

You aren’t a kid anymore. You should know better than to fear these things. There are no evil clowns popping out of your closet when you turn around but that doesn’t mean nothing hides under your bed. Would it be childlike to believe that if you close your eyes and hide under the blankets, everything will be alright?

“Why? What’s so scary in the dark?” Jin quirks an eyebrow, casually plopping down on the armrest of the comfy sofa, his satin dress shirt hanging on his frame, revealing just enough skin of his chest to make mouths water. His attractiveness distracts you for a moment and for that you are grateful even though it’s a struggle to come up with an answer.

“Because I feel like they are coming for me. The monsters,” you whisper and a shiver, the wrong kind, rushes through your spine, urging you to shut your eyes in the fleeting moment of sheer panic and listen to your rapidly beating heart.

Little do you know that the monsters are closer than you think. They have no teeth, no bark, no body or bones, they are messes of black made of dark matter and stardust, reaching for you, pulling you in, trapping you right there in a trance of your own personal Hell.

Oh you are already ours, they muse smirking, caressing your soul with soft hands, spreading poison in your veins, kissing you with murderous lips.

The flames of candles in the middle of the living room are flickering violently and you glance up alarmed. The curtain slips through your fingers, setting the room to total darkness apart from the faint brightness candles produce.

“They are coming,” you let out a muffled scream, horrified. What if your dreams weren’t merely just fantasies of your dazed mind?

“Who?” Seokjin seems amused, the right corner of his mouth twitches. It makes you feel pathetic, like a child who needs comfort.

“Them,” you point at the rising shadows on the wall, the blurry images of ghosts, nightmares and haunting memories splattered onto the empty canvas in the dim light of candles.

They come to punish you. You deserve it, you killed your brother after all. It was your fault. If it wasn’t for you, he wouldn’t have come to pick you up from that concert. If it wasn’t for you, he would have paid attention to the road. If it wasn’t for you, he would be still alive.

A mistake was enough and the butterfly effect that pushed you both over the cliff forced you to watch his fall. Down and down. Sometimes, when it’s dark outside and you are all alone, you wonder if you ever hit the ground. You were nothing but a warm body on the cold ground next to your dead brother, only a few fractures of bones on the hospital bed kept alive with machines and yet, here you are staring at the moving smudges on the wall with your hands in fists. Like you could protect yourself if they came alive and attacked you.

Oh no, you poor thing, how could you? How could you fight against something that doesn’t even exist, things only you can see?

“They are just shadows,” Seokjin tries to soothe you, his voice loving as a mother’s embrace but just as he stands up, several things happen all at once: the candles burn out, the curtains swing back and forth fiercely and you can even hear the wind whistling despite the windows being closed. You let out a shriek in fear and don’t waste a moment to tap on the wall in search of the light switch.

In the darkness you can almost hear them moving, circling around you and reaching to you with their clawed fingers. Your skin is covered in goosebumps and you can’t stop shivering until you find the switch. The light bulb from above emits a sinister kind of unsaturated whiteness painting the whole room in an eerie glow.

Still, you sigh relieved, your shaky breaths escaping the confines of your throat as you rest your forehead against the cold wall. It takes a moment to get a hold of yourself and remember that this time, you are not alone. So you turn back towards the coach only to find it empty and untouched like there has never been anybody to begin with.

“Jin?” you call out quietly and tentatively, stepping forward and you swear you can feel the ground moving under your feet. Nothing feels so sure and solid like before.

“Have you heard that only those have shadows who have souls?” a mellifluous voice whispers right behind you and you nearly have a heart attack when turning around you face Seokjin’s tall, gorgeous figure. How did he get there so fast, without making any noise?

“No... I-” you mumble utterly confused, blinking hard to prevent your frustrated tears from falling. The man smiles at you fondly and raises his right hand to your cheek. Out of habit, you would lean into his soft touch but then you realize that’s not his intention but to show you something. To show that despite the light above and you standing between its source and him, no shadow has fallen onto his body. As if you were completely transparent...

“It’s not the shadows you should fear, darling, but yourself,” he tells you and the breathe seizes in your throat.

“How is this possible?” you croak out pulling the blouse tighter around your frame, suddenly cold in a place that no longer reminds you of your apartment but more like a hospital room with the two single beds and machines beeping.

“You tell me,” Seokjin shrugs, still breathtakingly beautiful no matter the games he plays with your fragile heart.

There are secrets behind his midnight eyes telling you stories about dreams, that hidden territory in-between the dead and alive, a place where the two worlds collide. The doomed pandemonium where the evil rise and more often than not people die. Or become monsters themselves.

You almost can’t recognize your own broken voice as your biggest fear slips out of your mouth:

“Am I losing my mind?”

Because who could you rely on if you can’t even trust yourself?

“Aren’t we all?” Seokjin grins at you wickedly, his dark irises alluring you even though you know it’s a dangerous game to play. It feels like a dance with the Devil: back and forth, going around on a carousel. Dizzy but addicting. The kiss of sweet Hell on your lips and the poison to your heart. It sucks the air out of your lungs.

“This can’t be real. I need to wake up,” you shake your head retreating from the man’s tempting presence. You need to think clear. You just need space… but why does it make it hard to breathe? “Come on! It’s only a dream.”

But it feels so real, you cry inside, hysteria building up in your system. For once, closing your eyes tightly and hugging yourself doesn’t help. Seokjin’s approaching footsteps as light as butterfly touches echo in your mind and you can feel the breeze on your shaking arm as he strokes your skin.

“Doesn’t matter whether you are dreaming or not. If you believe in it then it’s real. Monsters exist and not only in that pretty little head of yours,” he chuckles and it’s wrong, it feels wrong. He shouldn’t be laughing at your misery.

And that’s when you realize something: in dreams there’s always something off. Something tiny that wouldn’t make a difference at first but waking up, it all makes sense. Something like Seokjin being here absolutely unaffected by your chaotic behaviour.

“How did you come in?” you gape at the man suddenly with wide eyes but he only blinks at you indifferently.

“Huh?”

“I- I locked the door.” Yes, you did, that you remember clearly. That’s the first thing you do every day, checking if the door is locked and you sure as hell didn’t opened it today.

“But you didn't locked it well enough,” Seokjin sneaks closer with calculated steps, his voice not so gentle anymore and there’s a wild kind of madness in his burning eyes. The lopsided grin on his handsome features is getting scary but with your back hitting the wall, you have nowhere else to go. You can do nothing but watch in dismay as the man is walking towards you like liquid silk at an agonizingly slow pace. His every movement is so precise, yet graceful and fluid as if he could slip through the smallest keyholes, under doorsteps and anywhere like any other dark matter.

“Or…” he stops right in front of you, towering over you with a hand beside your head. Gulping you can’t bear to look him in the eyes. Has he gone crazy or have you? “Do you really think it would stop me?”

As if he was trying to make a point, to prove himself, the door on the other side of the room creakily cracks open a bit. Your breath hitches is your throat, heartrate escalating to the point of faint dizziness and white spots in your peripheral vision. Is it possible to die of heart attack so young? you wonder.

“Your fears are calling me so sweetly, dear,” Seokjin’s cold fingers fondle your chin forcing you to look up at him and the pet name tastes bitter now spit out of his mouth. “I come whenever they start to eat you up.”

Looking into his clandestine eyes you are reminded of your time together, the lies and secrets. Whenever he kissed you, it felt like he was consuming your being, grabbing your soul in his hands and ripping it out of you with the first moan that escaped your mouth. But now you see his eyes for what they are: pitless black holes, lost stars of the universe. Hungry and full of lunacy and for the first time, you are not mesmerized by his otherworldly beauty but afraid.

So you run. You take the chance and break out of his languid hold to flee out of the now opened door and before you know, you are running in a black void. It’s not the hallway that it should be. It’s nothing like your apartment complex. It’s nothing but darkness, no shadows, no moonlight, nothing.

“You can’t run away from me, silly. You can’t escape this place,” laughter echoes from behind you, from ahead, from everywhere.

You don’t know where you are, you don’t know where he is and not knowing makes you panic more. Seokjin doesn’t need to tell you anything else, you can hear them clear enough. They point their fingers at you, mocking you: we are in your head, pretty thing, you can’t get rid of your own thoughts, your own fears, your personalized doom.

“You want to know why your therapist tried to persuade you and herself that I’m not real? Because people would have worse things to be afraid of than their pity problems if they knew my kind exists,” the way he says it all meaningful and arrogant makes you stop dead in your tracks. You don’t know where you are going anyway and you are feeling tired. Tired of this, everything. Wouldn’t it be better to let the darkness take you?

“What exactly are you?” you ask scared, vulnerable and helpless like a rat in a hole, warm tears streaming down on your face. It looks glistening under the artificial white light that comes in waves like cameras flashing. They blind you yet it’s only because of them that you can see Seokjin suddenly standing in front of you.

“Your worst nightmare,” he smiles and it’s terrifying and beautiful all the same, much like thunder lightings.

The saddest thing is that he says the truth because when he leaves his human form transforming into a horde of crows cawing at you, you fall. Down and down into the endless blackness with hands all over you, touching, tearing, killing you. In horror, you scream louder than ever, making your throat bleed but no matter how hard you cry, no sound comes out of your mouth until you cough up dark feathers. It gets hotter and hotter until you catch on black fire and everything is burning: your lungs, your heart, your sanity. In the end, you fall into the flames, leaving nothing but smoke behind.

And then panting hard, heart pounding, chest heavy, mouth dry, sweat dripping all over your bed sheets, you jolt awake.

... or so you think.

#bangtan bookclub #bts writing squad #btswriters #angstykpopnet #sfwbangtan #halloween collab #bts jin angst #kim seokjin angst #bts horror #bts oneshot #stories #supernatural au

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breadje · 7 years

Text

Songs of a Beauty

Title: Songs of a Beauty Author: A Chinaweeb (my friend) Characters/Pairings: Tahameney, Andragoras III, Osroes V Rating: T Warnings: There will be blood (in later chapters) Summary: The tale of the path of ashes left behind by the mirror image of Ashi A/N: I came across a poem in the film House of the Flying Daggers (highly recommend watching because it's awesome) which naturally reminded me of dear Tahameney. So I wrote Tahameney's life while loosely using the poem as guideline. I know my writing is awful but have fun anyway

Prologue on AO3

The bells rung in the high city, bordering the Parsian empire. In the castle, far above the mist of the lower city, a child was born. Her mother had called the seers whom upon their arrival delivered a prophecy which worried the local lords. It told of beauty so unparalleled that it would influence all in the known world. Upon the birth and announcement of the child, priests and priestesses from far and wide were called in to bring offerings to any god that would hear them, that they might show mercy on the people surrounding this child.

But not just fear was heard amongst the many lords that served in the court of this small kingdom. They schemed, they plotted. The beauty – so they said with hushed voices, behind closed doors – could be used as a bargaining chip with the Parsians. She could be married to Osroes, the prince who would take the throne once his father passed. This would buy the lords of this kingdom safety from the expanding empire. When they walked about the castle corridors or passed the tents of their men, they would hear the whispers about the Parsians. “Immortals” they would hear. Yes, this kingdom feared the Parsians more than the wrath of the gods they abandoned to plead for forgiveness for whatever they had done to deserve such a destructive child.

But fate has a way of toying with those subjected to her will.

Years passed and the child grew. She strode through her chambers when she was two and recited ancient poetry by the age of five. She was not a joyous child, but she was not as cold as she would one day become. At the age of twelve she was more beautiful than anyone in court, by age fourteen she rivalled the goddess Ashi.

The generals began to grow concerned. Soon the time would come that the Parsians needed a wife for their crown prince. So far, they had remained out of the flames of the Parsian fury but it would not last long, this they all knew.

And so came an official request to have the most beautiful lady in all of the known world marry the Parsian soon-to-be king.

‘Open the gates! A messenger from Ectbatana approaches!’

‘Open gates!’ echoed the commander on the wall.

The messenger rode into the castle at a staggering speed.

He did not stop to tie his horse to a post outside the castle and ran inside, directly to the main hall.

‘My Lord! My Lady! Prince Osroes will personally ride here to assess whether Lady Tahameney is a worthy bride! He brings a small protective army as well as his brother; the prince Andragoras. They shall arrive within days!’

The king and queen exchanged worried looks. The reception of a Parsian army within the city walls could go wrong in a multitude of ways. However, if it meant they could avert the rage of the Parsian army it might be worth it. Fairly quickly they had concocted a plan to handle the arrival of two Parsian princes. They ordered their servants to find the most gorgeous dress and the most fragrant perfume for their daughter to wear during the banquet they would hold to receive Osroes and his brother.

Away from the throne room, a young girl – only sixteen – sat on a chair as servants buzzed around her. Two were doing her hair making sure it looked even more silken than it usually did. Two more servants were running in and out of the enormous room adjoined to this one, which held a vast collection of dresses. Jittery, they held up one after another in front of or next to the quiet princess. With impassive look on her face, she watched sceptically as the servants ran about. She wondered what type of guest would illicit such determination to make everything in the palace twice as splendorous as it had been before and even more ostentatiously glamorous. Because she was a girl, she had not received politics and diplomacy lessons. Instead she was taught the arts and other matters, all of which exclusively reserved for women. It made no sense in her mind. What sane person would challenge their military? She had seen them from the tower whilst standing next to her father when he gave encouraging speeches, emphasising the nigh insurmountable strength of their troops. Or when her brother had praised them for defeating yet another fierce enemy. The girl rolled her neck which was getting stiff while the hairdressers did their utmost to make her hair look even better than it normally did. She wondered what kind of man Osroes was for a moment before her mind returned to indifference.

‘My Lady?’

‘I’m ready. Take me to the throne room.’

‘Her Royal Highness, the Princess Tahameney!’

As she was announced, the massive doors to the throne room swung open and revealed the stunning girl behind them. The entire hall fell silent as she strode across the middle of the hall before sitting down next to her mother, by her father’s left hand side. As she sat, Osroes stood.

‘The stories of your beauty seem to have been more than rumour.’ He spoke. ‘Indeed your beauty rivals that of Ashi herself.’

The princess acknowledged the praise with a cold nod towards the powerful prince. As she glanced at him and his brother once more, she spotted a glint of something unidentifiable behind the eyes of Andragoras. She quickly dismissed the thoughts and ate quietly. While her parents and the princes discussed the possibility of marriage, she took the time to evaluate the princes. Osroes was a reasonably handsome man – especially when compared to his younger brother. He carried him with a grace becoming of a future-king. He was well-spoken and eloquent man and actually took the effort of thinking before speaking. The same could not be said for Andragoras who was corrected on more than one occasion by his older brother, and reprimanded at least as many times for not following etiquette. Just for a moment Tahameney was glad that she was to marry Osroes and not his obnoxious brother. Even if her parents only did it to solidify their own position in this world, the young princess was glad that it was Osroes who would serve that goal.

The prince in question stood up as he spoke to her father. ‘My lord, will we have the honour of witnessing your daughter’s dancing and musical talents tonight?’

With a flick of the king’s hand, instruments and musicians appeared from the small doorways on either side of the great hall. When they had prepared they perfectly-polished instruments which were all tuned to perfection, Tahameney rose. She gracefully strode to the middle of the hall where room was made to facilitate dance. With a cold nod, she ordered the musicians to play a piece. As she started moving, the guests grew more quiet as, one by one, they were captured by the grace of this young girl's movments. The young lady floated across the floor as though carried by the wings of angels. When the movement and her dancing stopped, a total silence fell over the hall. All the lords were baffled by the talent that this girl possessed. She made a light bow as she walked over to one of the instruments. She would recite a Parsian poem which would be suitable to the occasion – which meant one about their hero-king, Parsians sure loved their wars. She decided she would play no more than one poem, for her voice had very much the same effect on the great hall as her dancing had. After a long silence, the Parsian heir started clapping loudly – not knowing what else to do. He had no words at the ready. Hesitantly at first, the rest of the lords and ladies in the hall joined

When the young princess returned to her chair, she received a satisfied look from her parents. Once more Osroes stood up.

‘Truly your beauty and talent are without parallel. You might one day surpass the Goddess Ashi herself!’

The smallest of smiles played on Tahameney’s lips. She had this man wrapped around her finger. The safety of her parents’ kingdom would be assured.

#arslansenkifandomday2017 #songs of a beauty #tahamine #andragoras #osroes #my uploads #Arslan Senki

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odderancyart · 7 years

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His Hatred is as pure as his Love

The title is a quote from a comic by xLadyMalice (18+ blog)

The poem/quote in the fic comes from Steven Moffat

I couldn’t find an owner to Disbelief Papyrus

On AO3

Fandom: Undertale Characters: Papyrus, Frisk, Undyne, Alphys, Mettaton, Asgore Summary: Disbelief Papyrus. On a neutral run, Frisk kills Sans. Papyrus’ hatred is born, and that is something you never want to be the victim of.

Demons run ”You killed… you killed hi… I believed in you. I believed in you and you killed my brother.” Gathering the dusty jacket in his arms Papyrus watched the back of the human disappear into Waterfall. Tears ran down his face. His brother, Sans, was dead. The human had killed him in cold blood. Whilst smiling. They had struck from behind, Sans hadn’t stood a chance despite his ability to dodge. The sobs Papyrus let out started to die, changing into giggles as he stared at the dust at his feet. He put it into a container he had stashed in his inventory, before putting it back, and then he grinned widely. He stared at the path the human had taken. His giggled turned into laughter as he put the jacket on. It was too small. But what did that matter? Papyrus continued to laugh as he stalked after the kid that had dusted his family.

He would make them regret ever coming here.

When a good man goes to war His eye blazed orange as he made his way through Waterfall. It was almost interesting, how most of its inhabitants seemed frightened, talking about how a human had dusted their friends and families, but a few only had nice things to say. Once, Papyrus would have seen those few as proof that the human wasn’t all bad, but now he knew better. They were taunting him. Pointing out that they had spared a few, just like Papyrus had spared them just before they killed Sans. He did stop to help a few monsters who was in need of his aid, but most scuttered out of the vengeful monster’s way. His eye sparked as he heard two Temmies talk. One of them had seen the human dust another Temmie, and one had liked the human. He grinded his teeth, scaring them off. He hated it. He hated the human. And he would get his revenge.

Night will fall and drown the sun Undyne had tried to stop him. The human had spared her as well. For this, he was almost grateful. His best friend lived. But she had tried to stop him from punishing them for what they had done to Sans. Said to leave it to the Guard, to let her take care of the human. She had already failed once. There was simply no way he would risk her messing up again, letting the human go once more. He told her this, with cold voice. She had looked hurt, but still tried to stop him. He had attacked.

Undyne was stronger than him, he knew this. She was the strongest monster Underground, Sans had once said she had a natural well of Determination – something extremely unusual for monsters. But she was still hurt and tired from her encounter with the human, and Papyrus was not going to allow anyone to stop him. He pinned her to a wall and left for Hotland, in his brother’s killer’s tracks.

When a good man goes to war Mettaton was alive. His body was completely, utterly, destroyed, only the SOUL container not in a thousand pieces, but he was alive.

Papyrus knew he should feel something, anything, when hearing these news. MTT was his idol after all, but nothing. It was like all his compassion, all his love, all his hope – everything he was – had disappeared together with Sans. There was not much he cared about anymore, except getting revenge. He had felt something like relief over the fact that Undyne was alive, but otherwise Papyrus was not able to find another positive emotion in his body.

All he knew was this great hatred.

Friendship dies and true love lies ”U-Undyne?” The skittish royal scientist asked the captain of the Royal Guard, who was currently sitting on the floor of her lab. When Papyrus had beaten her up Alphys had immediately sent Mettaton to pick her up before leaving to meet the human, so she could patch her up. ”A-are you o-okay?”

”Okay?” Undyne replied, and let out a light laugh. It sounded forced. ”Of course I’m okay, Alph. I’m always okay. That my best friend just nailed me to a wall in blind rage doesn’t change that. Neither does the fact that there’s a human killing their way through the Underground, and Papyrus is going after them, wants to kill them. Papyrus!”

Alphys could only nod as she watched the person she was sure was the love of her life keep in sobs, grinning a grin that looked slightly unhinged. She was scared.

Night will fall and the dark will rise The Hall of Judgement. The golden room that had been Sans’ primary work place. The Hall of the Royal Judge.

But as the Royal Judge was not there anymore, Papyrus would just have to take his place. He had gotten here before the human, thanks to his ability to ignore and manipulate gravity; much like Sans had been able to manipulate time and space and therefore teleport. He grinned where he stood, leaning at a pillar. It was feral. He had waited, and watched, and his hate had grown with every life the human had taken and spared. Footsteps was heard, coming closer, and Papyrus clutched Sans’ jacket a little closer.

”Don’t worry, brother.” He whispered quietly, darkly. ”I will avenge you.”

When a good man goes to war The human looked surprised to see him there. Apparently, they had thought that since they killed the Judge, they would not have to face judgement, like they had in all earlier RESETs, Papyrus realized. It was almost enough to make him feel slightly giddy.

Then the human shrugged, smiling their weird smile, and kept walking until they reached the middle of the Hall where he stood.

Pushing himself of the pillar he faced the human who had murdered Sans. ”LET’S JUST GET TO THE POINT, SHALL WE?” He asked, back to his normal volume. The black of his eye grew more compact. ”YOU DIRTY BROTHER-KILLER.”

Calling them into a fight he grinned at the way the human almost flinched back at his tone. They did not look worried, though, which Papyrus knew was because they had never had too much trouble with his fight in the past. But he also knew he would make them regret underrestimating him. He called down a shower of bones, letting them rain over the human.

Demons run, but count the cost They were both panting, sweat dripping down their faces. Papyrus couldn’t remember the last time he had been sweating at all, let alone this much. But while the human got slower and slower, he still had a lot of energy left. The training he had gotten since childhood assured that he could fight for days at a time.

He dodged, threw bones, fired Gaster Blasters. He got a twisted joy from seeing their face when he called on the Blasters the first time. He had ten out at all times, more than Sans ever had been able to manage for more than a few moments, so even if they had fought Sans in an earlier RESET there was no preparing for his attacks. They were completely without a pattern; Papyrus was too furious to care about that. He did not know who had taught him to fight without patterns, nor did he care.

He laughed, the sound giving the impression of coming from the edge of madness, and fired on the same time as he let a wall of blue bones rise from the ground. He dodged the human’s attack and turned their SOUL blue.

The fury on their face was great, but the exhaustion in their body even more evident. They were down on 2 HP and he knew their inventory was empty. The battle had been going on for hours. The human screamed as he purposefully only dropped their HP with 1 while still making sure it hurt. Badly.

”FINE!” They yelled, voice filled with a hatred not nearly as pure as the hatred Papyrus felt, but extraordinary nevertheless. ”FINE! I GIVE UP! KILL ME THEN, I GIVE UP!”

The human just stood there, and Papyrus grinned. Finally. He lifted his hand, before bringing it down, firing one of the Blasters.

The human’s body fell to the ground with a final thump, burned almost beyond recognition.

The battle’s won, but the child is lost Papyrus stared at the body lying on the golden tiles. He felt a rush of victory going through his bones. He had avenged his brother’s death. As that thought came into his mind he felt a sob forcing itself up his throat. Sans was avenged, but he was still dead. Papyrus was still alone, without his family.

And who knew when the human would RESET again, and what kind of human they would be?

The orange glow around his eye disappeared as he crumbled to the floor, clutching the jacket tight. He sobbed violently, shaking, as he again called on his magic and had bones impale the dead body again and again and again.

Sans was dead and he was alone. Sans was dead and he was alone. Sans was dead and he was…

”Sans?” A soft voice came from behind, but Papyrus hardly noticed it.

”Oh dear.”

A hand on his shoulder, and he jerked so violently he almost lost his balance. He would have, if the fuzzy paw holding him hadn’t helped him keep it.

”You must be Papyrus.” The voice said. ”Undyne and your brother have told me so much about you.”

Papyrus managed to look up toward the one speaking, through his tears. A goat monster he recognized well was looking down on him, eyes soft and sorrowful. The king. Papyrus couldn’t even bother to care about the fact that the King of All Monsters was in his presence.

Two fuzzy arms wrapped themselves around him, and he cried into the king’s chest, grateful that someone was there to keep him from falling apart. It hurt. It hurt so much. Sans had been the one constant in his life, had been there from the start. Sans had been the most important person in his life. Sans had been the one person he loved more than anything else. His lazy, hot cat-selling, joke-telling, slacking, kind and brave brother.

Once the tears had dried out, he looked at the human body, which was now hovering a few feet above the floor, held up by his bones. His hatred still burned brightly, as strong as ever, not only toward this single human, but toward humanity. He looked up at the king, determination in his face.

”Let me into the Guard.” He simply said, quietly, voice almost void of any emotion except determination. ”I killed the human. The seventh human. You can take their SOUL and break the Barrier. A place in the Royal Guard is the least you owe me. And I will fight when we go to war against those demons.”

While he almost felt bad for forcing his way into the Guard through Asgore instead of waiting for Undyne to allow him in, he would not wait anymore. Then all Papyrus felt was grim and cruel satisfaction as the king, looking pained, nodded.

He would fill the void Sans left behind by making those who killed him regret ever being born.

…

RESET

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perspectivewords · 7 years

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Survival (Part 1/2)

What is the worst thing you have ever been through in your life?

There are multiple ways someone will answer this question. Some will avoid it completely, digging a bigger hole to bury their deepest wounds deep underneath the Earth’s surface. Some openly talk about it because they know it can help another going through the same things. Some openly talk about it for attention. Some will answer that question, but not with the truth. We all have been through something. Something that, when it hits us like a flash of light, the hairs on our arms stand up and our skin creates goosebumps. You can feel something has taken over you, a sensation you hoped you wouldn’t have to identify with. Ever. Yeah all of us have felt that. Even myself.

Unfortunately, pain is inevitable. Most people say, “Why does this have to happen to me? What did I do wrong?” But it doesn’t matter what you did right or what you did wrong because life doesn’t work like that. The truth is we are human beings, and whatever happens to us will happen. Good AND bad. The good doesn’t happen only to the good and the bad doesn’t happen only to the bad. The truth is, we’ve been influenced by this preconceived notion that this, in fact, is what happens. Life. It’s not something that is meant to be depressing, no. Don’t let that be your assumption in your mind. It’s meant to be realistic. It’s meant to be REAL. I believe our purpose in life is to get as much knowledge out of it as you can. From books. From people. From experiences. From everything, good and bad.

So tell me… What have you learned?

I may not know what you have learned, but I know what I have. I can tell you what I have learned over the years of my pain. What do I know about that? You’re asking a great question. Some people know me as something you may call superficial. I’m the girl people think of when they think of the kinds of people the Kardashians are. Self-centered with quite a lot of money. Why self-centered? I guess that’s what happens when you pursue the kind of career I am. Money, modeling, acting, Instagram, Snapchat. My life is based on these things and those in that industry who see this often believe I have nothing better to do with my life than just that. None of it matters because I don’t know them nor do I know of their existence. The others? Well, they’re my favorite kind. Those who see me as happy. Too happy. Too hyper. Too friendly. Too pink. And by pink I don’t mean the color, I mean the personality of pink. Loud, vivacious, not a single ounce of unhappiness. Those who have met me before the age of eighteen don’t really see much of who I have transformed into. No, not even the ones who have come into my life after that and have become my heart and soul. There are quite a few, but no. Unfortunately, they can only imagine.

So that concludes that. The post? Oh no, not yet. There’s more… a lot more. Just wait. But it concludes the impression people have of me. The girl who never has anything to worry about. The girl who has it figured out. The girl who lives the lavish life. With photographers calling my name for shoots, a man who has the body and the looks any girl would drool over, cars that only those with money could buy, and opportunities people think are given to those who have amazing connections, not work ethic. I have it all, apparently. Does it bother me that people think that? No. That is exactly what I choose to make them think. Not once do I negate it.

So why this? Why write? If you’re asking that, then you don’t belong here. The button to close is on the top right and you can have a great time, but for those who want more, let me give that to you.

Depression. Suicide. Bulimia. Anorexia. Binge Eating. Anxiety. PTSD. Insomnia. Panic Attacks. Sexual Harassment. Rape. Violence. Abuse. Bullying. Death.

These are just some things I have been through in life. Yes, every single one of them. There is not one that hasn’t completely changed my life in some way. Almost twenty-four year and so far, I’ve been through almost all of it. Are you wondering yet?

What was it? What was the cause all of it? I used to ask myself this as I got older, sometimes I still do. People usually know but I had no idea when it started or when it ended. I just knew the days I felt it and the days I didn’t. I do know one thing, it seemed never ending. People always talk about the days when they were younger and how things were “simpler” for them. I didn’t feel the same and I still don’t. You know what I remember as a kid? Bullying. Waking up for elementary school being bullied everyday for everything. My dark brown hair that would be in pony tails people used to pull, my skin that was too white that apparently I bathed in bleach, my name that sounded way too funny to people that the worst nicknames were spread around that small school until the last day of 5th grade, how I looked like a man, everything. I was the last to be picked in gym, always. Nobody ever wanted me, I was just something people felt sorry for. Thing. Yes. Because I wasn’t a person. I was the girl who lashed out and would scream at people, and then land in detention because of it. Nobody else got in trouble, just me. Just the one who got bullied, and guess what? I was bullied for that too. Kids… they’re cruel. They really are. I knew that because I was the victim of it all. Even the fact that people were dared to be my friend just to see if I’d fall for it. I was used and I knew it. I wasn’t liked and I knew it. I had nobody and I knew it.

The thing about this is when all else fails and school makes you miserable, you’re supposed to look forward to coming home to a family you love. I didn’t have that luxury. I remember being beaten, kicked out of the house, called every pathetic name in the book, scared of my parents, hateful and envious of my brother. I was always compared to him, always. I wasn’t smart enough because I kept failing. I wasn’t good enough because I kept lashing out. I would get beaten if I couldn’t get one simple math problem from my homework right. The roots of my hair hurt with the amount of times they were pulled, my pale cheeks were bright red on both sides because of the amount I got slapped. I remember a Wednesday night at the age of 8 years old, I wasn’t allowed to sleep until I was finished with my math homework. It was 11 p.m. and everyone had gone to sleep. The lights were off and I wasn’t allowed to turn any of them on. I was crying with the amount I couldn’t understand and I was just scared. Utterly frightened. I sat there on the steps trying to get as much from the hallway light as I could and spent 20 minutes with a math problem. In the dark. Nobody around. Cheeks red. Hair half out of my ponytail. I remember it clearly. And it still scars me. My brother never had that problem. I know that because I never heard the end of his perfection. That ended a sibling relationship for a long time… a long time.

My first poem was written in fifth grade. It was called “My Miserable Life” and nobody thought or realized it was about me. Instead, it was entered in a poetry contest. I won. I denied it being published. I denied $600 as a ten year old. I denied all of it because had I said yes, the whole world would know. My parents would know. Everyone would know and it wouldn’t be hidden anymore. Isn’t it sad? It’s sad that a ten year old girl resorts to a poem that is titled that. No ten year old should have to go through that, no young girl should. Yet that wasn’t it. Winter was always so convenient. Long shirts. Sweaters. Gloves. I had convinced my mom to let me dress myself when I entered fifth grade. I also convinced myself to self-inflict for the first time. I remember piercing myself with the sharpest thing I could find and ripping the first layer of my skin right off. I was ten and I was scared. I was scared of what I was capable of so I never did it again. I never looked back at it, and, instead, I let myself scribble in a little diary.

A diary could only do so much. By the time the teenage years came around I was half-passed scared and more towards the darkest time in my life. Bullying, it never ended. Whispers went behind my back, “let’s buy her a razor for her birthday” “ask her out as a joke” “does your house smell like curry” “jealousy is a bad disease, get well soon” … stolen things, heartbreak, rumors, isolation, fights. Yeah. It was all still there. I was teased for everything and anything I did. One small embarrassing thing turn into a lifetime regret. It was like paparazzi. They were just waiting for me to screw up, and all I wanted to do was to be normal. And although I had friends, it was as if I was more alone than ever. How could someone be so surrounded, yet so alone? Suicide, that seemed like my best friend. I’ve done it all. Sat on train tracks right next to my house, filled a tub and submerged myself underneath, cut myself with any and every sharp object, rubbed an eraser on my skin until it burned, overdosed on pills, held something sharp so tight in my hands I started bleeding. All of it. Sharpness became an addiction, almost like cocaine is for people. Anything sharp I just wanted to put it against my skin. I needed it. I needed that escape. Just one thing that could let me feel free. It was as if I could breathe once it happened. There are only three times something happened to me, and all of those three times I really tried to kill myself. I still remember the last time. Standing there with a blade in my hands that I picked up while my dad was fixing something in one of the rooms. I could see my veins popping out, they were screaming “Cut me! Cut me!” and before I knew it, I sliced them and blood ran down my wrists. I didn’t intend to go that deep, but I did. So when I went to wrap myself, I suddenly couldn’t see. Every sensation was gone except my ability to hear. I was in the living room telling my mom I felt light headed and that I couldn’t see. It was black, pitch black. I was still conscious, and then I wasn’t. I woke up in my mom’s bed. She has no idea what happened.

Self-infliction wasn’t about me trying to die. That is not what I wanted. I was too scared to do that most of the time, but the times that I felt like it was almost happening, I was suddenly embraced with the gift of light. So then what was it about? I can’t exactly explain it. The best was to compare it is like when you drink a glass of your favorite alcohol, and you can finally breathe. Some days I looked at it as therapy. I could always count on a nice sharp knife or a pair of scissors to give me that. Coming home from school was a nightmare, but so was the abuse. It only got worse. Bruises, bashing, punching, slapping, from both my parents. In an indian household, a smack here and there may have been necessary, but I never thought so. Even then… it was nothing close to what I had gotten. I was given way more than a smack here and there. It was almost every day. I was never given a day to forget that I was a disappointment and a mistake. Sometimes cutting myself was all about the fact that I deserved the pain. Sometimes it was the only pain I could control. Everything changed about me. I cried, every single day of my life. Bullying and abuse kept getting worse and I hated my brother. I wanted nothing to do with him. Gothic songs, a hundred poems a day, cuts that would sting every day in the shower, blood that ran down my arms, my thighs, my stomach. Everywhere. I remember sitting in my room and zoning out at it. I remember purposely making it burn. It was madness, but it was the only thing that worked for me. And when I thought I had to torture myself more, then came the eating disorders. I remember one day it got out that I had one, and I don’t know how. Suddenly all teachers had their eyes on me, and it made everything worse. I always hated being the center of attention, I didn’t like it. I just wanted normality. Why couldn’t I have that much? Every single day from the time I was put into second grade until I left middle school I wished for normality. I just wanted to feel normal, to be normal. I was tired of it all.

Middle school was led by a heartbreak, bruises, blood, and just me… broken. Followed by a summer of madness and drama, and the first time I had been sexually harassed. All I wanted was a day of freedom to go out with my friends and have fun, but even that backfired when I left a guy trying to get a little too comfortable with me. Harassment may not be full blown rape, but that doesn’t make it any better. I thought my life would never be normal. Until high school.

High school was easy for me. Abuse had ended, bullying ended, everything and everyone had changed. The first year consisted of the normal drama everything went through. Heartbreaks, friendships ending, etc. I knew they were all bound to happen. I was even harassed again, by a man who was two years older and had me as a prey since day one. I knew that was bound to happen to me too. But then I was fifteen and someone was snatched from me. Someone I didn’t know would ever be taken away in the way that he was. He was my light and soul, and even today he still is. I knew I was the love of his life, and had he never left maybe he would’ve been mine. Losing him I lost a part of myself, a part that I still haven’t gotten back yet. Maybe one day I can go into detail about him, but this post is not one of those times. After that day I stopped hurting myself. I stopped writing poems. I stopped everything, and I walked away. I’d be lying if I said I never did it again, but he died in 2008 and in nine years I’ve only self-harmed three times.

High school. That is when reality kicked in. Or more like shoved itself in me against my will. It was dark. It was cold. It was unexpected. He was heavy and he was powerful. He had no remorse for what he was doing, and I know that because I can still feel his breath in my ear. I remember a big ring hitting my jaw from his backhand slap just to shut me up. I remember all of it. Most people talk about their first time as an interesting memory. I always have to lie about mine because my first time is when I was raped. Raped by a man in a hoodie from my high school. The hallways were tainted, yet again, because I knew that I was walking by my attacker every single day. This, is rape. I knew it. I knew he was watching me. I knew he was giddy inside. He knew he had control over me because he knew exactly who I was, and I had no idea. I still don’t know. The only memory I have from that is… well… everything. Coming back from it and crying to a boy I was dating at that time. He blamed me for all of it. Yelled at me for all of it. That damaged me forever. Never again did I tell another soul until years later because of it. I spent years feeling like it was my fault. But what do experiences like this actually do to you? For me, I lost control of everything. I mean everything. And somehow… I became the center of attention for the wrong reasons.

“Once a whore you’re nothing more, I’m sorry, that will never change”

That was chanted to me every day down the halls. Secrets came out like a can or worms slithering out into the wild. It spread like wildfire. I remember lunches were hard to get by because everyone was looking at me, everyone was talking about me, everyone was whispering to me. I was, once again, a pawn. I was used because I was “easy” and I was tricked into friendships, guys actually having feelings for me when all they wanted were my lips just for satisfaction saying that they got it too. The truth was that it never actually happened. And my name was spread across everyone’s lips. Apparently my mouth being all over their genitals was a lie they conjured out of their mouths, and it was never ending. I had apparently hooked up with guys I never knew existed. Had sex with guys I never did. The only difference between the person I was back then and the person I was in my senior year of high school was that I didn’t go home and cry. I didn’t go home and cut myself. I didn’t do anything, but it still was bothersome. Guys pinging, poking, wanting me left and right just because I was some type of prostitute. I wasn’t. Out of the thirty stories that were fabricated, only three were true. Three guys. Yet it tripled in numbers. I left high school as the whore. The whore that every single Indian, Patel and Shah, hated. Everyone knew my name. Everyone knew what to associate it with, “whore”. Never again did I take that word as a joke anymore.

But it doesn’t end there… this was just half of it. Half of what my life brought to me until I was seventeen years old. I left high school hoping it all would change, but what really happened after?

#depression #depressive #depressing thoughts #depressing quotes #quotes #quotation #life quotes #life #lifestyle #mentor #Deep thoughts #thoughts #high school #survive #survival

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