Post by Takeshi on Jan 24, 2009 22:55:00 GMT
Random things I decide to do when I'm bored, and figured other people might do
Demaxas
Betrayal. And hurt. And Dismay, and so many other things. So many things to feel and comprehend that the brown-haired boy just feels numb, because it means he doesn’t have to try and fathom this. He doesn’t have to try and understand why. His legs hurt, hurt so much that they feel that they are about to split, and the boy falls to his knees, unable to run anymore. He can feel he is in the middle of some place, and crawls to a wall, grasping out to find it. He leans against it and his hands explore his legs. They come away wet, and the boy can smell the strong stench of copper and iron as he rolls his trouser-legs up. As he pulls them over the cuts he hisses, the material snagging on something sharp. Once again, he runs his hand over his shin to find the cause of the problem, and his fingers fall upon something sharp but smooth, coated with some sort of liquid. The boy pales, knowing that what he can feel is a splinter of his shinbone and for the first time the boy is glad that he can’t seem to open his eyes. This reminds him, and he raises his hands to his face. He didn’t know what had happened to his shin, he just remembered the pain, but there would never be a time when he would forget how he gained the deep gashes on his face. Shuddering, he curls into a ball and begins to cry. The salty liquid stings and he yelps, sniffing and trying to hold back the tears. He hears footsteps approaching and looks up, desperately hoping that the person sees him. There is a scream, and the boy is petrified, until he realises that the reason for the scream is him. He raises his hands to his eyes and covers them up, lying on his side and rolling to face the wall he can feel against his back.
“What are you doing? Get off, my leg hurts! Wha- get off! No- don’t, my eyes- no!” A scream. A long, blood-curdling scream and then the piercing sound of silence as the scream falls from lips. Then sobbing, loud sobbing that tears itself from the chest, and cruel, cruel laughter, and more screams of pain and smashing glass. And then footsteps leading away, and panting, stilted breath as smaller footsteps stumble to the door and leave through it, the slam behind the footsteps resounding throughout the room and the night air outside.
The boy sniffs again and sits up, tearing a strip of material from the bottom of his t-shirt and tying it tightly around his eyes so no-one will see, and there will be no more screams. And as if in some miracle gift from god it begins to rain, and though it hurts the boy lays out underneath the sky to let the rain wash the blood away.
Ckata
It’s late, and it’s cold, but the long-haired boy on the swings in the park doesn’t seem to care. He is smiling a naïve, carefree smile that gives nothing away about the life he has led, because he is never sad. Because nothing affects him, and because he takes everything in his stride. Even when his father hit him. Even when his ribs were cracked. Even when that man he met took advantage of him because he couldn’t fight back. Even when his parents kicked him out at 16 and told him he could look after himself. Even when he got hooked on heroine after having it injected into his bloodstream by force and had to fight the addiction completely alone. Even though he has no friends, and no-one to turn to.
Because he is Ckata, and he is never sad.
Demaxas
Betrayal. And hurt. And Dismay, and so many other things. So many things to feel and comprehend that the brown-haired boy just feels numb, because it means he doesn’t have to try and fathom this. He doesn’t have to try and understand why. His legs hurt, hurt so much that they feel that they are about to split, and the boy falls to his knees, unable to run anymore. He can feel he is in the middle of some place, and crawls to a wall, grasping out to find it. He leans against it and his hands explore his legs. They come away wet, and the boy can smell the strong stench of copper and iron as he rolls his trouser-legs up. As he pulls them over the cuts he hisses, the material snagging on something sharp. Once again, he runs his hand over his shin to find the cause of the problem, and his fingers fall upon something sharp but smooth, coated with some sort of liquid. The boy pales, knowing that what he can feel is a splinter of his shinbone and for the first time the boy is glad that he can’t seem to open his eyes. This reminds him, and he raises his hands to his face. He didn’t know what had happened to his shin, he just remembered the pain, but there would never be a time when he would forget how he gained the deep gashes on his face. Shuddering, he curls into a ball and begins to cry. The salty liquid stings and he yelps, sniffing and trying to hold back the tears. He hears footsteps approaching and looks up, desperately hoping that the person sees him. There is a scream, and the boy is petrified, until he realises that the reason for the scream is him. He raises his hands to his eyes and covers them up, lying on his side and rolling to face the wall he can feel against his back.
“What are you doing? Get off, my leg hurts! Wha- get off! No- don’t, my eyes- no!” A scream. A long, blood-curdling scream and then the piercing sound of silence as the scream falls from lips. Then sobbing, loud sobbing that tears itself from the chest, and cruel, cruel laughter, and more screams of pain and smashing glass. And then footsteps leading away, and panting, stilted breath as smaller footsteps stumble to the door and leave through it, the slam behind the footsteps resounding throughout the room and the night air outside.
The boy sniffs again and sits up, tearing a strip of material from the bottom of his t-shirt and tying it tightly around his eyes so no-one will see, and there will be no more screams. And as if in some miracle gift from god it begins to rain, and though it hurts the boy lays out underneath the sky to let the rain wash the blood away.
Ckata
It’s late, and it’s cold, but the long-haired boy on the swings in the park doesn’t seem to care. He is smiling a naïve, carefree smile that gives nothing away about the life he has led, because he is never sad. Because nothing affects him, and because he takes everything in his stride. Even when his father hit him. Even when his ribs were cracked. Even when that man he met took advantage of him because he couldn’t fight back. Even when his parents kicked him out at 16 and told him he could look after himself. Even when he got hooked on heroine after having it injected into his bloodstream by force and had to fight the addiction completely alone. Even though he has no friends, and no-one to turn to.
Because he is Ckata, and he is never sad.
