|Pages of My Fantasies
Author: Hitsugi Zirkus PM
But that's why Varen did it. He wanted to kill. He wanted to cry. He wanted...someone.Rated: Fiction T - English - Hurt/Comfort/Angst - Varen N. - Words: 464 - Reviews: 1 - Favs: 1 - Follows: 1 - Published: 08-29-12 - Status: Complete - id: 8479361
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: An emotional vent, and I thought Varen would feel the same. Hopefully it works out like that, but yes. It's been awhile since I wrote for Nevermore. I felt it was high time I did, while my emotions could still be channeled. The title inspired by the lyrics of Korn's "Thoughtless."
Pages of My Fantasies
Varen did it for a variety of reasons.
He had been angry. Scalding, hot anger dripping off him in heat waves, scorching the very air. It growled in his chest powerfully, a best ready to pounce from years of being locked up aside.
And Varen knows that's bad, just leaving the beast alone inside him and not being released.
But he had also been sad. Droplets of rain drenching his hair. An abysmal ocean sinking deeper and deeper, the water pressure killing him. The tears had been held back for so long, pooling in his eyes but he'd blink them away before they fell.
And Varen knows that's bad, just letting the tears well up more and not being released.
But he had also been lonely. Cold veins running all over his body, trapping him in an internal coffin of ice that he'd be buried in, would die in. Poisoned needles injecting more wounds in him, killing him slowly, poison full of broken shards of ice that he never lets cut him on the outside.
And Varen knows that's bad, just keeping the broken pieces inside and not being released.
But that's why Varen did it. He wanted to kill. He wanted to cry. He wanted...someone.
So he wrote down the stories in purple ink. Purple. The color of purpose. The hue of imagination, the chakra of the crown. (And it's so, so ironic because everything Varen has wanted to escape from is in the outside world, he wants to just live in his head.) He writes the stories, hoping somehow, he'll melt in a puddle of purple, shimmering and pure and slide into the pages of his fantasies himself.
So he writes.
The anger and sadness and loneliness and frutration and lament and hurt and all just so he doesn't harm himself or anyone around him even though he'd want nothing more than to do both.
And then, one day, the story comes to life.
By then though, fantasy is too late.
Ending A/N: Interpret the ending as you will. Is fantasy too late because Varen has finally given up? Or is it because Varen finally found a reason to live in the real world again (probably implying Isobel in that). That's all up to you. I don't really expect to get reviews for this since it's a vent.