A/N This is just a one shot to clear my writer's block. I'm feeling dark so this is a piece of angst-like shit that I wrote in half an hour. To be honest- every single chapter I write is done in half an hour… hmm. Makes you think.




As the smoke filled his lungs he felt some sort of sickening satisfaction. He didn't smoke because it tasted good… he didn't smoke because it physically made him feel good. He smoked because he could, and it felt good to know he could. It felt good for him to know he had some control, some power.

As he threw the cigarette butt onto the ground a few un-smoked sparks flew up, lighting the darkness suddenly. He stomped it out with the toe of his boot, simultaneously breathing the remaining smoke out of his nose and mouth.

One drop of cold water fell, then two. His dark brown hair was the only thing sheltering his head from the sudden rain. He threw up the hood of his black hoodie/vest that still exposed his striped sleeves, his trademark you could say.

He searched his pockets for his packet of cigarettes, but to find it empty. "Fuck..." he swore under his breath.

He decided he should walk home, so he did. Taking strides with his long legs, he made his way toward a plain-looking house. He paused at the door, hearing yelling coming from inside.

What are they fighting about now? Lash thought to himself, thinking it best for him to walk around back and climb up to his room.

He went around the house as he heard the yelling cease for a moment and then grimacing as it rose again. He used his power to slink inside his open bedroom window. He took off his clothes and changed into a pair of black drawstring pyjama bottoms. His father suddenly burst into his room.

"Where have you been?" Lash's father asked him sternly.

"Out," was his reply. It was said softly as the image of his mother running; crying past his bedroom door caught his gaze.

His father left him to go 'see to his mother'.

Lash turned up the music that had been playing softly in his room. As the Clash played, surrounding his head he attempted to block out the sounds of his mother crying in pain as his father inevitably hit her.

He sat on his bed, his music still on full blast as he stared at the door.

How could his father do this and still call himself a human being? A banging noise from the locked door of his bedroom halted his thoughts.

"Let me in!" the muffled voice from outside Lash's sanctuary boomed in, even over the music.

The banging persisted and Lash just stared at the door, waiting for the eventual crash that always came. Waiting for the pain that never truly subsided. Waiting. Always waiting.

As the door cracked into its many usual pieces of splintered wood, revealing the looming figure of his father, Lash wondered what he was truly waiting for.

He was waiting for peace. He was waiting for a sanctuary that cannot be breached. He was waiting for the pain to stop, for the crying to cease. He was waiting for scars to heal, for blood to stop running. He was waiting for bruises to fade.

Then it hit him as hard as his father did…

He was waiting for Death.


There you go. I told you I was being slightly dark and possibly even heading into EMO country. Sorry for my use of language, I swear a lot. I have a gutter mouth, I know. Sorry if this is reflected in my writing… mostly in 'I Can't Tell'.

See ya,

SlittleA (a-k-a- Bee)