Here is what I have so far. I don’t think I’ll finish it, but it was a fun ten minute write. A few grammatical errors, but enjoy.

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                A crowd of hawks fell from the sky. Lightning shattered the entire northern hemisphere and hailed down a mass of oak trees in the front lawns of each individual identical house. The sky was a mass of unfiltered smoke. In the far distance, a draught of fearful screams bantered and then quieted as their last breaths of life seeped from their bodies. Midnight approached and disappeared as quickly as it had come. The darkness was shattered with a last cry from heaven’s depths, and life stilled with nothing of its former fulfillment.

                The end had come. Life was nowhere to be seen from above. Above. Oh, how the above was what he feared most. Nothing trembled or walked, nothing was left, nothing. Nothing. Martin’s life was nothing now. He was nothing, but the last existence that his species ever roamed the above.

When the first sparks flew across the sky, he knew and took flight for the cold and damned darkness that was underneath the devastated earth above. It was shelter, safety, but no one else followed. Not his wife or neighbor, his children or his friends, his colleagues or his family. They didn’t follow after him. They never had the chance. A pillar from above had dawned down and crushed the city in which he loved. One by one, buildings were leveled to gravel, and everyone he had once known was crushed. But not him, why not him? He asked himself this over and over. How did he survive? How was he still breathing when air was little but nothing? The atmosphere that covered earth once was shattered and the mass of asteroids had hailed down upon the cowering world. He was prepared for this though. Being a scientist, he had known it was coming: the end. And so he sought and spent his life savings to build the underground assembly that now housed only him. He didn’t have the money to build anything bigger but something for him and his family, and now it only housed him.

Kilometers below the above, Martin was sure he was the last of his kind.

Miles from the surface, Martin was the last of existence on this planet.

Centuries below, Martin would only last a few years before the air supply was completely gone, if that even.

Depths below, the last man on Earth sat alone in a room.

And then a knock.

There was a knock on the door.

A stream of light peered through the green blinds, splashing lines of light that illuminated the room. Mark Foster sighed and rolled over, facing head down in the sticky sweated pillow. After a few moments, his phone buzzed violently on the glass coffee table across the room. His eyes opened, closed, then opened again as he tried to fight off answering the phone, and settled back to a closed position as the caller had hung up and the vibrations stopped. Feeling close to sinking back into sleep, he let out a snarl as his phone once again started to buzz.

Hopping out of bed, Mark wrapped his claws around the phone and brought it to his ear, “Hello?” he answered with a measure of hatred towards whomever the caller was that stirred him from his slumber.

“Ah, I woke you up, golly great!” the familiar, deep ashen voice chirped. “Now, go get dressed, we’re going surfing today.”

“Great,” Mark whispered in resentment.

“What was that?” the voice sounded as though his eyes were slanted in confusion.

“Nothing, Ponsi,” he pursed his lips. “Why don’t you and Cubbie go without me today? I’m feeling ill.” He wasn’t ill, though. He just hadn’t a better excuse to not see his band mate ever since the incidents that had been recurring for the past three months.

The last confrontation had ended with Mark and Ponsi toe-to-toe, and then Cubbie had called as though on queue when the staring contest had almost become a mistake that couldn’t be undone. It was wrong, Mark’s mind had fortified. He couldn’t love Ponsi like that, it would never work out, but something in the deepest part of his mind couldn’t stop replaying those images and every so often leaked an aroma so familiar and alluring it made Mark’s head spin. The scent held the salty waters of the ocean, yet at the same time the crystal clear rushing raptors of an uncontrollable river current. Ponsi was a fiery soul that was wreaking chaos in Mark Foster’s mind and heart.

With a snark tone in his voice, hinting that he was rolling his eyes, Ponsi replied, “No, Cubbie is with Bec and her mom today, you know that! They’re going on some crazy shopping spree in Downtown all day.”

He had lost. There was no excuse that Mark could use that wouldn’t hint the real problem he was fighting within him. “Come get me in an hour,” he slid his finger across the screen to end the call and let the phone slide back onto the table in a crooked position.

Throwing his head back, he stared up at the ceiling for a long time before coming to his senses and briskly shuffled to his closet. After a few minutes, he had found his sleek black wet suit and jumped into its protective skin. He ran his left hand through his hair, missing the old swoosh he and so many adored before he had it cut.

Not realizing that he was still sitting in his closet until the doorbell rang, it startled him and he rushed out of the room to answer the door. His hand reached towards the knob after the tenth ring in thirty seconds came. “Hold your fucking horses!” Mark yelled at the tall figure before him.

“You’re really slow, you know that?” Ponsi was never one for patience. He was dressed in an identical black suit that seemed to tone his lean figure more than anything else he wore. Bright orange Vans covered his sock-less feet, and he was tweeting vigorously on his phone or scrolling through pages of the Foster the People tag on Tumblr, Mark couldn’t tell which.

“You’re really fucking impatient, you know that?” Mark argued back. “I was getting dressed, man.”

Rolling his eyes, Ponsi smirked, “I was standing here for five minutes ringing this damn bell. Now, let’s go! The best waves are coming at noon!”

Ponsi was very into his surfing, as was Cubbie. Mark, on the other hand, wasn’t so into it mainly because, contrasted to the other two, he looked like an amateur. But he didn’t complain when they wanted to surf because they all deserves something of enjoyment in their real life when their famous life is such a drag and tiring. He and Cubbie planned for hours on the tour bus where the next great waves would be. They even had once went night surfing at 3 AM because three hours later they’d have to be off on the bus for another twelve hour road trip.

The two headed off in Ponsi’s gray van. When they weren’t on tour, they had all silently labeled that Ponsi’s van was the “surf van”. It was where they kept all their boards and extra gear, and Ponsi had the interior redesigned by a guy he’d met at a venue a few years back which now featured a crazy blue design that resembled ocean waves.

It was a forty-five minute trip to the beach because of all the traffic. Ponsi honked the entire way; he was quite the aggressive driver. When they had finally gotten to the blue, Ponsi hopped out of the van with a huge smile on his face. He inhaled the welcoming scent of what he called home. A peaceful, childlike appearance flickered in his eyes. Mark couldn’t look away, and Ponsi caught him staring from his peripheral vision and a smile hinted at the corners of his lips.

Mark slipped down the seat and brought his left leg up and undid his shoe, then followed the same with his right. He hopped out of the passenger seat and opened up the back of the van to grab his board. Before he had any coherent thought of what was going on, Ponsi was on top of him. He’d somehow managed to turn Foster around and shove him into the back of the van with his lean, skinny body. His golden hair was now dark in his shadow. His arms caged around Mark, who now had the innocence of a trapped animal glimmering in his eyes.

“You’re my best friend,” Ponsi said, looking away. He wasn’t good at talking about how he felt and was trying to avoid making the first move, but it seemed he was the one to make all the moves all along.

Mark came back from his trance as Ponsi’s gaze unlocked from his. Not caring of the consequences and surer than ever, he brought his hand to Ponsi’s chin, forcing him to look back into his eyes. “And you’re mine,” he smiled.

(Source: hellomynameis-mark)

On a different day my feelings will change
I’ll be someone who can be
Without becoming
I’ll be the greatest
I’ll be just me 

He’ll never turn himself around. The boy’s incapable not to frown. There’s something that they’ll always say. He was never a good thing, always delayed. So if that boy had put on a true smile, would they still think he was good or bad? Even if he was worth while, he’d never see it in himself to think that. Always fleeting from himself, that boy can never be pure. They always said he’d be trouble here. They were right.

Bang. And that boy with the forever frown was down.

            A rush of adrenaline pumped through Mark Foster’s veins as he ran the last quarter mile of his daily five mile run through downtown L.A. The air was moist against his sweating body. The smell of pollen polluted the air with its nasty allergy-catalysts. He could feel the tightening in his chest that meant he was yards away from finishing. Pumping out his torso and hardening the muscles in his legs, Mark bolted through the street heading to his home. One didn’t get much exercise on the road, so Mark made sure he worked out as much as possible before the Do Good Tour would have him stranded on a bus for hours on end with four other members. But the only member he was concerned with had golden hair and a smile that could kill kindly.

            He staggered through the doorway and nearly ran into the now laughing Mark Pontius, “Keeping toned before next week’s tour, I believe?”

            “Breathing,” Mark heaved. “Can’t… Water.” He pushed his way past the unhelping Ponsi and headed towards the kitchen. Plying the refrigerator door open with his pulsing fingers, he grabbed the first plastic bottle he saw. The rush of cold nectar ran down his throat almost as quickly as he’d sprinted through the front door.

            Mark downed a second bottle before coming to his senses. “Why are you here?” he faced the golden haired boy leaning against the doorframe.

            “I came to say hi,” Ponsi laughed. “Can’t a guy say hi?”

            Not wanting to play anymore of Ponsi’s games, Mark half-smirked, “Is that really what you wanted to stop by for?” His fingers wrapped around the third empty bottle and tipped it into the trash can a foot away. He fiddled through his pockets for a moment before finding what he probably shouldn’t be doing after such a run.

            “Whatever do you mean, dear sir?” teased Ponsi.

            A cigarette hung from the side of Mark’s mouth as he brought the lighter up to the end of it. Setting it ablaze, he watched the flicking flame for a moment and inhaled a long drag before he had replied, “We need to talk… about what happened two weeks ago.”

            Ponsi was unmoved by Mark’s words, but he drew out his words sarcastically, “Oh! Well, did you want a refresher?”

            Mark was taken aback by the humor in his tone. It made him semi-angry. “You really love to play games, don’t you?” he scorned.

            Brushing against the counter as he walked, Ponsi took three wide strides closer to Mark. “You know that incident with the stylist made me realize how much you truly care for my appearance.”

            “What?” he was confused.

            “You, of all people,” Ponsi rolled his eyes, “knows best that I hate being prettied and dallied and dolled. So let me give you something in return.”

            His hand lifted and swiped past Mark’s cheek admirably. The sweat bead strung down Mark’s forehead as the man was touching him. Thoughts were incoherent. The cigarette smoke clouded his eyes. Ponsi brought his lips closer to Mark’s; his tongue reached out and stole the cigarette from Mark’s mouth and into his own. He leaned back and took a drag before bringing his hand up to the packaged tobacco to clutch between his fingers.

            “What the fuck is with you?” Mark was furious. He couldn’t control his emotions any longer, and he lashed out with his words.

            “Hmm?” Ponsi took another drag. “Nothing is ‘with me’, you, though,  seem a little agitated.”

            “I just don’t understand where all this is coming from!” he threw his hands into the air, frustrated. “What the fuck is this!?”

            “You tell me,” and Mark Pontius’s lips hovered over Mark Foster’s. He took a drag from the cigarette, held it between his smooth lips, and shot-gunned the smoke into Mark’s mouth. Never letting their lips touch, and never confused about anything at all, all along.

It was chaos in the mansion where the Call It What You Want video had been filmed. The foyer was filled with an irresistible scent: food. It was piled everywhere. The chefs were busy at work preparing the plate after endless plates of food for the over fifty guests that were invited to the house via Tumblr inbox invitation. Every single three dozen chefs had woken at the peak of sunrise and began the thirteen hour process of making these meals. As they knew, most of the food wasn’t going to be eaten, but Mark Foster had already made plans to have the leftovers taken to a spread of about a dozen homeless shelters in the Los Angeles area.

Mark, Cubbie, and Ponsi were with their prep teams and stylists to get ready for the evening.

“Your curls are all in knots!” complained Ponsi’s stylist as he yanked the comb from his hair, ripping a knot of golden locks from his scalp. “It will take a miracle and one to fix this.”

“Ow,” winced Ponsi. “I’m going to kill Mark.” His eyes narrowed. He wasn’t one for being prettied up. Ponsi liked to wear what he wanted and to just let his hair flow naturally, but Mark wouldn’t let that happen today. You have to look decent for our guests, he quoted Mark in his head as his lips pursed in a hard line. Who does he think he is? My mother?!

Maybe this was a way of getting back at you for the other week’s happening, guessed Ponsi, remembering he’d nearly kissed Mark after the day of storm surfing. They hadn’t spoken of it since that day, and Ponsi didn’t really worry. But Mark had.

Mark had lost sleep and even written a song referring to the ordeal. He was confused about their relationship. Worse, he didn’t know if his response would ruin their standing point or heal a few seemingly missing patches. They had always been affectionate towards each other, in a brotherly way though. Or was it not brotherly? He couldn’t ponder over it anymore, and he’d have to find mutual grounds before the end of the night.

“Almost done, Cubbie,” smiled his stylist, “just adding this finishing touch and you’re set.”

Cubbie was used to being prepped. He had to be for his wedding, and Rebecca has made him prepped for every outing, even the small walks they’d take through downtown. But he didn’t mind. He liked feeling cleanly groomed, and secretly it made him feel superior in a way.

Joseph, Cubbie’s stylist, half smiled, “You gonna let me finally get your hair cut and that mustache shaven after Thanksgiving?”

“You know, I think I’ll keep the mustache for a while,” he replied. He, like the rest of the group, had grown mustaches for “Movember,” an awareness project for men’s health. “But I think it’s time for a trim,” confirmed Cubbie, to which Joseph sighed with relief. Cubbie’s hair had gone wild all this month, and it nearly gave Joseph heart attacks every time he’d see it.

The guests weren’t arriving until around 7. Another band had joined in with the group to show up as a surprise event an hour before the private concert, they would open up for Foster the People. This band traveled all the way from London, England, for the occasion. Since it was just another day for Englanders, there was no trouble in booking the off-course concert.

Mark was nearly ready when the doorbell rang at promptly 7 PM. “Right on time!” he joyed over having these guests for Thanksgiving. Since reading their blogs individually over a course of three months, he had laughed and jollied over their posts and dedication to his band. He handpicked every single invitation, and sent them out simultaneously. Pleased with their reactions, he knew it would be a concert like no other, with only the most dedicated of fans to play for. Mark had also saw that they posted about another group almost as much as they had Foster, and, with his connections, he had called the group and they happily obliged to coming to celebrate this American holiday.

He, Ponsi, and Cubbie all put on their happiest of faces, and opened up the door to a crowd of fans. Some of the them had saved up all their money to make the trip out to California. They were in the front because it was a chance in a lifetime to even be there once. The more well-lived FosterKids had known this, and happily let them because of the example Mark had shown with the Do Good Bus.

“Welcome!” Mark greeted, and a chorus of hello’s and ooh’s and ahh’s responded as they were ushered in and to the dining hall. There was time enough later for the tour of the house, but the food was on a timeline and had to be sent out on time so it would get to all the shelters.

Before dinner, Mark—who was seated head of the table—stood up to the now seated crowd and said, “I am thankful for you all for coming.” He proceeded with the not-too-lengthy speech he’d prepared of how he had read their blogs and saw their dedication and that he had picked them specially for this event. And at the end of this speech, right on queue, One Direction had appeared into the hall of cheery FosterKids’ faces; Mark having the cheeriest of them all.

(Source: hellomynameis-mark)

Today, it was dreary. The sky wasn’t blue, nor the water from the tap. It was plain and unnerving, un-moving. Mark wiggled the pencil in his fingers, as sweat beaded down from his temple to cheekbones. His smirk deepened as the pearl was entwined with another. He was sitting in the dark at his desk. Cubbie and Ponsi had gone out to try and catch a few storm waves. He didn’t enjoy surfing with them, they’d always out ride him, and he’d feel failure seeping his veins with envy. But, of course, he didn’t word this. He was working on a new song. Something to really say “Fuck you, mainstream music!” like Pumped Up Kicks had but six months ago. The juices just weren’t flowing today.

Ponsi stumbled into the room then, a cheeky grin lightening his face. “Get up, you dusty old mango-depreciating rag!” Ponsi teased. “I need help getting this wet suit off.” He was dripping, tall and bold and looking winded with water. A drowned cat would be a lighter picture. The blond locks had curled even more from the dew, the light he’d flicked on bouncing gold specks as he moved closer towards Mark.

“Get your own fucking suit off,” Mark rolled his eyes and turned his back to the still grinning blond on black-suit surf god.

Pretentiously edging his way closer and reaching out a long arm, he grabbed Mark by the hair and stood him up gently. “No,” he glared into Mark’s eyes, “I need help.”

Their breaths came and went for minutes. The staring contest could switch into a wrestling match in seconds, depending on either of the two’s movements. Ponsi’s grip on Mark tightened, but had moved down to his shirt. Strings from the fabric were starting to tear off as Mark tried to back off, blatantly bored with the scenario. He was moments from tearing away, when the roughness in his hold turned passionate. The wear from the water had made Ponsi’s hands smooth. His hand brushing against the flesh above Mark’s collar bone sending a shiver down his spine.

“You’re cold,” Mark whispered. He chewed the inside of his cheek, hard enough for the vein to break and the hint of coppery liquid dabbed at the side of his tongue.

Ponsi’s eyes sparkled, “It is storming, for your information.” The sarcasm was playful.

“I’ll turn the heater on,” Mark trailed off, his body went rigid as just the back of Ponsi’s hand trailed icily against his collar bones. Goosebumps perked where his hands went. All of Mark’s thoughts were frozen, the only thing that escaped his lips was a faint whimper. “I have to finish the…”

He didn’t have time to finish the sentence, as he watched Ponsi trailed his teeth against his bottom lip. His tongue peeked out teasingly. The goosebumps became razors on Mark’s skin, prickly and sensitive.

“The?” Ponsi smirked. “The,” he asked again, “what, Mark?”

Mark couldn’t reply. His eyes only followed the tongue that was hung out of Ponsi’s mouth, moving back and forth. Hypnotizing. Ponsi dared closer to Mark’s lips. Purposely brushing his tongue along the equator of his mouth and backing off. He walked to the opposite side of the room, instinctively knowing Cubbie was about to storm in.

“It’s fucking freezing,” Cubbie barged in, “the water, I mean.”

Ponsi’s composition never changed, but Mark’s had; it took him a few breaths to realize who else was in the room. In reply to this train of thought, “I’m not helping you out of your wet suit, too,” and Mark stormed out of the room.

(Source: hellomynameis-mark)

Today, it was dreary. The sky wasn’t blue, nor the water from the tap. It was plain and unnerving, un-moving. Mark wiggled the pencil in his fingers, as sweat beaded down from his temple to cheekbones. His smirk deepened as the pearl was entwined with another. He was sitting in the dark at his desk. Cubbie and Ponsi had gone out to try and catch a few storm waves. He didn’t enjoy surfing with them, they’d always out ride him, and he’d feel failure seeping his veins with envy. But, of course, he didn’t word this. He was working on a new song. Something to really say “Fuck you, mainstream music!” like Pumped Up Kicks had but six months ago. The juices just weren’t flowing today.

Ponsi stumbled into the room then, a cheeky grin lightening his face. “Get up, you dusty old mango-depreciating rag!” Ponsi teased. “I need help getting this wet suit off.” He was dripping, tall and bold and looking winded with water. A drowned cat would be a lighter picture. The blond locks had curled even more from the dew, the light he’d flicked on bouncing gold specks as he moved closer towards Mark.

“Get your own fucking suit off,” Mark rolled his eyes and turned his back to the still grinning blond on black-suit surf god.

Pretentiously edging his way closer and reaching out a long arm, he grabbed Mark by the hair and stood him up gently. “No,” he glared into Mark’s eyes, “I need help.”

Their breaths came and went for minutes. The staring contest could switch into a wrestling match in seconds, depending on either of the two’s movements. Ponsi’s grip on Mark tightened, but had moved down to his shirt. Strings from the fabric were starting to tear off as Mark tried to back off, blatantly bored with the scenario. He was moments from tearing away, when the roughness in his hold turned passionate. The wear from the water had made Ponsi’s hands smooth. His hand brushing against the flesh above Mark’s collar bone sending a shiver down his spine.

“You’re cold,” Mark whispered.

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What do you guys think?

Here is the preface to the currently unnamed novel I will be writing. If you followed my earlier post, this novel will be written along the format of The Perks of Being a Wallflower, and the main character(s) will follow the likings of the Saw movies. If any of my characters seem like the ones from either of these two named, I do not imply that they are my own sole creation, but are inspirations for the characters mentioned. This is only a quick rough draft preface, meaning there will be some grammatical errors, mistakes, and such. Enjoy!

Due to being a rough draft, some names will be changed later on to suit my own liking.

(I’m thinking of some names for this novel, here’s a few for starters: Death’s Servant / The Ingenuity of an Ignorant World / The Taker / Bloody Diary. Those are just a few, if you read this and have a suggestion, please message me it!)

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It’s a cold evening. The spawn of Satan would cover itself up with the whipping hallows of the wind splicing at his face. A roaring fire is lit throughout the houses of the same old towns, in the same old homes, warming the same old people. Nothing was imperfect. Life was as it should be: dark, damp, and dreary.

Officer Waling is a thirty-nine year old, same-old-town man. He was born here in Brooklyn, lived through the slums of Hell’s Kitchen. Nothing scared him. Nothing. His life was as it should be: boring, inadequate, missing something… more. Waling was the big man in town. Everybody knew who he was. Gang members fled in his presence. People rejoiced as he redeemed them from the fires of purgatory.

And then the first letter arrived, addressed to:

Officer McKinley Waling
Apartment 212, Brooklyn, New York

Return address:

Anonymous/Unknown/One-way

****************************************

October 31, 1999

Dear Reader,

What you are about to lay your eyes upon is of my own handwriting. This is not forged. This is not fake. This is real.

This is my story. The first piece of evidence that claims I am the primary suspect, which is why I have kept my identity and location unknown. These sentences are thought out for hours before they are penned because, well, I thought of the only ways an adult would listen to a person like me. I want to be known as Tom. My age is irrelevant. Why look at a number through a strange letter from a stranger who may or may not be a killer?

First off, the reason I chose you, Officer, is because I know people look up to you for advice and for guidance. I know that people believe you are the good and everything else is the bad. They believe you are flawless, as though you’re a prophet from God, Himself. Do you claim you are? Huh, why do I even question if you cannot even respond? And I guess I look up to you, too. All my life I followed you everywhere, and when I was old enough I started to search for everything about you. I searched and I searched and I just couldn’t find anything wrong, but I thought to myself: there has to be something wrong. Nobody is that god-fucking perfect. I guess I could call you my hero because you keep the crime off the streets, but what about… in people’s personal lives? There is crime everywhere behind the closed doors of those we love and those we know. A person is so much different when they’re naked and lying in bed with another body that isn’t much different from their own disgusting self. We consume the most ill substances to get a buzz. We find ourselves wandering the streets for that one goddamn buzz. And you know what? When it’s too late, we find that we fucked.

But not you, Officer. You never have done anything of the sort. That is why I chose you. You are not my subject, you are not my ally, and you are not my contact. What you are will be told before the closing of this letter. Can you handle this task? We shall see.

In your lower bottom drawer on the right side of your bed where your alarm clock faces southwest, is a box. The key to this box is around your neck where your dog chains were (do not panic, your dog tags will be returned in time; I know how precious they are to you).

****************************************

Confusion and fear drained the color from Waling’s face as he read the paragraph over and over and over before his humanity finally convinced him that it was just a joke. Some kid around the block was just pranking him. It had happened before, too. So, yes, it must have been a joke.

But he checked the lower drawer anyway. Sure enough, a small tin box the size of a man’s shoe was lying motionless, lifeless, yet bothersome in-between the wooden panelling of his nightstand.

Waling wanted to scream, but he didn’t. He took the chain from around his neck, for a split second not remembering the last sentence about his dog tags, not caring. The human emotion of curiosity washed out any conscious that may have been trying to break through at that very moment.

Sliding the little odd looking key into the tampered, professionally made keyhole, the box popped open with a crash of metal upon the wood. Inside lay a single piece of evidence that this was not a joke. Inside lay an object that churned his stomach and rang clear to him that his life was about to take a twisted, dark turn into the bowels of hell itself.

****************************************

If you are rushing to the bathroom, I am terribly sorry for your inconvenient appetite. But I do hope that settles the further questioning that this may or may not be a joke, sir. Now, will you listen to me?

If you answered with anything of the sort of “yes”, then… let my game begin. And may you choose to join or to take me down, we will see. This is my first test: you. Here is your fate: you are The Messenger.

—Tom

P.S. Don’t bother looking for prints, I wiped every trace. And a P.S.S.: If you’re going to backtrack this letter, I suggest you don’t. Because you will find nothing. Because those who are the messengers are the ones who are unseen, unnoticed, and discerned.

Or am I the one who’s committed these crimes?

I don’t know anymore. I need a cigarette. Checked my last pack: one left. I need a coffee. I need someone to tell me the things that I need to hear. I need to hear stories of something more. I need to get a hold on myself. But I can’t.

I’m someone who doesn’t let go, even if everyone else has. These thoughts will haunt me forever. I’ll bury myself in a pile of embers, not realizing they are the hottest part until the burns have seared themselves into my skin firmly. I’m going to be hopeless for the rest of my life. I’m going to be the one person that I can never stand. I can’t escape my mind.

The headaches are coming back. The emotions are boiling. The stew isn’t finished. This is only the dry ingredients.

God help me. I don’t even believe you exist. I don’t even believe I should exist. But god help me. Fuck it. I can’t help myself. I can’t save myself.

Yet I need to.

I have fallen. I have buried myself. I have suffocated myself. I have dug this grave. But it’s not time to fall freely into it. Something holds me back.

Something makes me remember that I need to do something.

But what the hell is it.

There wasn’t a single ounce of life weighed anywhere. Every dead body packed more pounds on the scale. The girl next door dropped dead. The mail man’s arm was found in the post today. No one alive. This world has finally gotten what it deserved. Did they even notice? Nope, not a single bit: too caught up in their own lives to care.

And it hit me, we could drop dead right now and we’d still believe we’re living or dying or something in between because we live in the between of life and death. We live in a hollow space that not even air can escape. 

What if we’re in hell right now, yet don’t know it? We could be living out our lives just to go to a place we’ve already been.

The boundaries of life and death have no meaning. We go on and on and on, yet it’s like the same things are being said; the same people are being met; the same towns are being burned down; the same children are being lost; and the same parents are being found. What is this meaning of life we all seek so sudden in our lifetime? It’s not just when we are adults that we truly, or at all, understand. From the very moment we are out of the womb, all humans do is wonder. Toddlers throw tantrums because they cannot understand, teenagers let loose their inner emotions/fears/anxieties/everything and believe everything is the end… but it’s just the beginning.

Here is a boy and a psychiatrist. The boy’s name, Aeric; the psychiatrist’s Dr. Daniel Haskett.

Fiddling with the pencil in his hand, Doc—as people refer him—stares back at a newly committed patient. Wood was his choice of weapon, the subject his notepad. There was a slight discomfort in the too air conditioned room. His palms sweat as he goes on with his own mental stabilizing, so as not to frighten the patient or, worse, himself. Doc has suffered many unseen, unheard of acts that no human being should endeavor in any lifetime: thanks to his patients. He wasn’t old, nor young, but experienced. Rumor around the hospital was that he was leaving soon, retiring.

“Hello,” Doc begins the session with a calm voice, retreating and locking away his own inner demons to let in a horde of his new patient’s. “My name is Daniel.”

The boy, Aeric, just stared, bewildered by the fact that this man—a doctor, a person of high importance and intelligence—had just referred to himself with no title, not even the slightest recognition that he was so much more above him. Aeric shied behind the ruffle of tossed golden curls. His bangs never covered his eyes, but when he wanted them to. He had it easy like that. A handsome young soon-to-be graduate of high school with a future of a sea of green. His family was the most respected and watched in this part of the city.

I’m here. I put myself here. ”Hello,” Aeric hesitated before continuing, “I’m Aeric. With an A. A-E-R-I-C.” Why did I just spell my own first name. It isn’t like he doesn’t know it already. It’s probably printed neatly on that piece of paper he’s scribbling on.

Doc: “So what brings you in?” He didn’t understand why this boy, the boy, would drive himself all the way to the other side of the city to see a shrink like himself. What problems could he possibly have?

“Let’s cut the bullshit, Doc,” I am such a fucking asshole. “I know what you’re thinking. You think I’m some kind of nut. That I’m just a rich kid, no—the Rich Kid, as everyone loves to call me—who thinks he has problems, but really it’s nothing but a kiss from mom and dad and a few hundred bucks couldn’t solve.”

—-The psychiatrist’s eyebrow rose in interest. His medical scholarship kicking into play like a reflexive action and diagnosing immediately as the patient went on. Borderline Personality Disorder, Insomniac, Sociopath?—-

3 o’clock A.M., Iasic was late. Tod, a former student of his, paced frantically to and fro in front of a mahogony twin desk, which had carvings of the V’las Family crest and was incrested with studded gems. A bead of sweat blossomed upon Tod’s forehead, and he swiped his hand to wipe it away.

Iasic, where are you? he tried telepathy, but knew there was no use. Iasic would come in contact when he wanted to be found. Only on occasion did Iasic come from his asylum somewhere in another plane to meet with the collegues of a former life. These occasions happened less and less as time went on; it’d been years since Tod had last spoken to the man who once ruled this world. But, as to not drain himself mana so suddenly (for he knew that the Takers were on the watch, they had been ever since Iasic started jumping from one Universe to the next to keep from being found), Tod steadfasted in keeping himself sane and under control.

Tod needed information, help; help only his great teacher could give.

“Damn,” he choked on the single syllable before he snapped from the desk he’d been leaning upon and hurled himself out the door, on the run. The Takers had arrived sooner than he’d planned, and Iasic would not materialize in a place where there was danger. Unlike the Takers, the Nepholym, as Iasic and Tod were descendents, can detect danger but not help.

Jeering a hard left and out doors that led to the precipice of the manor house, Tod closed his eyes in a terrible concentration. Minutes behind him, the Takers brought chaos through the downstairs, making their way up.

“By the Lord, take me. By the Light, guide me,” Tod said these words to let free the wings that kept themselves invisibly attached to his spine.

With justice on his side, Tod felt the wings unfold and spread eight feet apart. They were the color of crimson and had a gold aura shining like a shield around themselves, each wing not made of birds’ feathers but of intricate weaving as though roses and thorns were carefully silhoutetted upon them.

“By the Heavens, save me,” and immediately Tod fell out of his trance, and was levitating off the ground.

Zwooooom! A bullet whizzed through the open air with a screeching thunder, and just barely grazed Tod’s left tip. Giving out a bloody cry of vengence, the angel held up a hand—which glowed with embers of fire—and sent the Taker slamming into the door upon which he barracaded.

Wasting time would leave him dead, Tod ascended into the darkened sky, making cover of the eerie night; leaving the Takers in a whirlwind of curses and Black Spells to follow after him.