Novocaine [CD]

Zell · Jul 10, 2015

@"Clockwise Dream"

The shadow was tired.

Not in the same way that a human was tired, not in the sense that it needed to rest--it would be stupid to think that an intangible collection of gaseous ideas could ever be tired about anything. It wasn't even that it was feeling particularly world-weary, though it was true to an extent. But anyone or anything that existed on this planet as long as it had would start to feel tired of the same old same old over and over.

No, the Shadow was tired because it was hungry.

Ever since school let out the general feeling on the island had been too happy for its liking. It couldn't feed off of happy, happy didn't do anything for it. When the sun was out and people were enjoying themselves at the beach there was nothing it could do but starve.

It had been saving up strength for the summer, but it could already feel itself weakening to the point were it was barely more than a grayish cloud ruining a bright blue day.

Through the trees it went, its every molecule yearning for the sweet taste of misery.

Clockwise Dream · Jul 10, 2015

RE: Novacaine [CD]

@"Anzellous"

Everything hurts, and he doesn't know why. Perhaps it was the fact that the school had finally let out, that there are no classes he can be pushed into attending, but that doesn't make sense, not considering that he had been praying for weeks now for at least that part of his torture to end, at least temporarily. Not considering that he had not attended that much of his classes anyway.

Perhaps it is the fact that he had been stuck in his room for too long now, his last outlet that fight he had gotten himself weeks ago; the one in which he was beaten so bad he had barely found his way home, which left new scars on his skin there, and still hurting wounds here, everything coloured with the bitter taste of defeat even though he had given as good as he had gotten. Every fight not ending in tears and blood, broken bones and any other body part he can get his fists onto, was not considered a victory, not in his world and mind.

It was definitely a reason why he had run away, his feet carrying him far and long before they broke under exhaustion. He had to get away, from Spirit and his worried looks and soft touches of fur offering comfort. From stability of Warrior always standing in the corner, worried as well, but never showing it. From speeches almost given but not quite, or does given which made his blood boil in defiance and anger. Even from the quiet presence of his little deer-girl room-mate. Because, in the end, it was perhaps the fact presence of other people in general which had set him off, because each phone call, each laugh, each student missing from the room reminded him that it was summer time, family time. A time for something which he had never had, a time for a word which in him instead of happiness invoked nothing but darkness, and pain, and confusion, memories of the consequences of the destruction he caused without the memories of actually causing it. Memories of blood, of broken bones, soft cries, a breath escaping from somebody's lungs. He did not know whether that last one was real, whether he had actually killed someone with that explosion, but it did not matter to his soul: it still haunted it, like a ghost, almost tangible in the air. He could almost feel it, touch it, see it... Punch it. Because that was all he actually wanted to do.

With each feeling that rose in his chest that he did not want to feel, with each memory of pain, of darkness, of, of everything that had been done to him, he only became more and more angry, at the world, at himself, at everything and anyone standing in his way. More than once in the days before today he had felt darkness rising in his chest, whispering in his ear, asking to be let out and destroy, like it had asked that they he had destroyed the house in which he had grown up. It scared him, that darkness, scared him to the point of madness, despite that small part of him self that yearned for it, yearned for the pleasure he had felt once he had opened his eyes and saw the carnage ha had caused in the house, pleasure he knew he could feel again if only he gave in and let the world burn...

Voices in his head were getting too loud again, despite the fact that he was no longer in the room, trapped between the walls and stuff thrown all over the floor, both his and belonging to shy little deer girl. He felt like he was running in circles, his breathing heavy as he felt to his knees, each though sharer than a blade's edge, each feeling a knife going causing him unimaginable pain. Suddenly, he screamed, yelled, in pain, in anger, self-loathing and hatred of everything and everyone else. It did not help him. Darkness inside him still grew stronger by the minute, each thought the sharpest edge, each feeling a knife, each memory a sword running straight through him. And he still did not know what set him off. Perhaps that was the fact which irritated him the most. Usually, at least, he knew where the pain was coming from.

Zell · Jul 11, 2015

@"Clockwise Dream"
((ooc: sorry for how long and rambly this is x.x;;; ))

The Shadow didn't handle hunger very well.

It had learned long ago in the eons before the birth of man and their society of petty pointless pleasantries how to dredge up emotions from nature itself. The idea that plants and rocks and even the earth beneath their pitiable toes could feel and hurt and have feelings was really one of the sounder theories that humans had ever cooked up. It was a shame that the earth, as old and strong as it was, didn't give of very much. Actually, sucking from the sweet nectar of the world that was more or less at the mercy of mortals only whetted his appetite, and like the first drop in a parched mouth only made it hunger for more. Its very skin seemed to prickle and swell as it searched, dispersing into a thinner and thinner mist, almost vanishing from its hungry search.

How far I've fallen, it thought with scorn. After only two months of no food it was ready to lose its entire well crafted form. What happened to the days when a drop or two would sate it for days, where it lived on its own without depending on the cattle that chewed cud beneath itself. How pathetic is was, how very debased it found itself in those moments. If The Shadow had had the presence of mind, it would have collected its broad smokey form in a more compact shape in the hopes that in this lay the secret to keeping the hunger at bay. But right now it was hunting. It wanted food. Something succulent and juicy and full of misery that it could grow fat and blobby on.

Its long tendrils, barely darker than the surrounding shady forest air, tasted to emotions that hung in the air. Forests were neutral places in and of themselves, but where else did people go to brood?

While it was thinking this somewhat disrespectful thought, it tasted it.

Misery, utter despair and self-loathing the likes of which it had never known before. It was ambrosia to its hungry soul, and it intended to glut itself on superior quality and sheer quantity of negativity that seemed to come rolling off of this new vessel. Every molecule that constituted the selfish mist moved towards the source, concealing itself carefully as it entered a state in which it could more easily connect with the being who sat there on exhausted legs. He'd been running, that much the Shadow could ascertain, but that much wasn't its concern. This boy was so emotionally tumultuous that it was easy for it to just enter into that see of emotion.

In that moment, the two of them were connected. Those emotions were like a symphony of colors, of russet reds and tired blues, inky blacks and explosive purples. It took the Shadow a moment to actually begin to properly feed and he saw the emotions as not quite colors, but images. Flashes of memories that showed the creation of each emotion, a snapshot of its history, like a movie for the Shadow's entertainment and consumption.

And consume it did.

A home, large and opulent with scornful family that stretched back decades on top of decades with halls being the home for ancestral ghosts, flashing into a seen of carnage and destruction, bodies strewn about in a haphazard fashion resembling sick dolls more than human beings. There was the sharp tug of an unknown malevolence--was it the cause of the terrible carnage? There was a certain sick pleasure that it filled his meal with, quickly accompanied by an emotion--was it guilt?--from these feelings he couldn't control. Such a turbulent meal, suck a tasty, if sad being he was.

In that moment, the Shadow couldn't have possibly been happier.

The memories moved again, to a vision of a small deer girl and possessions strewn on the floor. Her face was fairly round with the kind of eyes that one of these squishy beings might, at a cursory glance, call cute. To the Shadow though, it couldn't help but feel like there was something about her that didn't quite make sense to it. Then again, the appearance of most of the mortals left it wanting and more than a little confused. But she was little more than a flash before it was assaulted with a flood of feelings, so sinful anguished and delicious it didn't know what to do with it all. People like this boy were the type of thing that it needed more of in its long life, those who were in a state of open and almost consistent anguish. If it had lips it would lick them. Its body slid closer, hoping that he would be able to get a more filling experience by being in a closer proximity.

The Shadow had taken up temporary residence in the trunk of a tree. It could see the strands of his hair as he felt those emotions and it suckled on them hungrily.

It was part of the fun--when the Shadow was feeding, its target was so much more susceptible to those horrible self-pitying emotions. Every tiny problem seemed so much larger when it fed off of it. Though, it thought with a small ethereal chuckle, this one hardly needed his help in that area.

Clockwise Dream · Jul 12, 2015

It didn't matter though, he thought later, when he mas actually able to think again without his thoughts becoming jaded, and sharp, trapped in a endless circle of pain-anguish-hatred-loathing-suffering, what had set him off and into the woods, for in that one moment he could not quite remember, in which he was sitting on the forest floor just like he had been doing the moment before, everything grew exponentially worse.

He remembered hating for the first time, long ago, before he even knew and fully understood what hate was, when he stood in front of a long, fully-body mirror somebody had put in his room despite the fact that he was barely five or six years old (maybe seven-he wasn't sure, he didn't care, the point was that he was young anyway) and had absolutely no use of it yet (or ever; he had not once looked himself in that mirror until ten years later when all he managed to capture was a quick glance of his own, rage filled face, and a reflection of a fist, breaking the glass).

He remembered pulling off his shirt (did somebody help him put it on that morning? Or had they already started avoiding them so far back, leaving clothes and food for him before he was awake, cleaning the room while he was at school. He didn't know. It was a blur. But it still hurt, worse than it had ever hurt before), getting stuck in it and crying out in panic before finally managing to pull it off. He remembered throwing away, a frown on his face, as he turned his back to the mirror, and feeling nothing but hatehatehate, the ugly scare-like birthmark of his lower back mocking him as he did so. He didn't understand fully what it meant back then, but he was just beginning to understand that that, that right there was the reason why everything about him was so different, so off, why his cousins wouldn't play with him.

He remembered trying to reach for the mark and claw it off of his back whit his short, five-(six-seven-)year old hands, and failing.

William felt like he had been submerged under water, the memory of that time so strong, so real that he could still remember the clear, cold scent of his room, the silence which always followed him whenever he went, how big the house had felt at that time, when he was still barely tall enough to see over the table.

It certainly didn't feel big (despite the actually size of the ruin) once he had finally opened his eyes those two or three months ago, waking up hours after to see what he had done. Spirit and Warrior might have knocked him out, stopping the damage from growing exponentially worse by each minute he stayed alive and conscious, but the damage had still been done, and that last blast, the desperate act of a creature knowing it was falling into an oblivion it would not leave soon again, must have knocked them out as well, in a way, for they were still all there, lying in the ruins, bleeding, crying out in pain: he, himself, and his family.

He remembered being confused at first, then in pain. It took him almost half an hour of just lying there to slowly start remembering, and once he did... he almost drowned under the guilt.

The part of him did sing, however, in pleasure, such pleasure at seeing those who had hurt him, who had ignored him simply because of something as irrelevant as a mark on his back, all those who had refused to look at him, touch him, play with him, lying there, having been hurt themselves. By him. By the darkness inside of him.

The days after that were lost. He remembered nothing but more pain, more guilty, fear, loathing, fighting with pleasure and the darkness which wanted to come out and be allowed to eat the word. Here and there, there should have been Spirit's calming words and touches of a hand meant for attacking calming him down after he had spent the whole of himself crying. His mind, however, seemed to skip over them this time, focusing on the fear and dark, on all the things which had hurt him, without giving him one glimmer of hope. In some ways thus, sitting through the family trial in his memories had been so much worse than when it had actually happened.

Dark, cold room, again, faces in shadow discussing his death. Stocks and reputation put before the life of their own son. A suggestion of a school, and a plane ride to the parts unknown. And through all of that painpainpainpainpain hate, God I hate them so much

@"Anzellous": *looks at own post* I really don't think there is anything for you to appologize

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Novocaine [CD]

Zell

Well-Known Member

Clockwise Dream

Well-Known Member

Zell

Well-Known Member

Clockwise Dream

Well-Known Member