Well, yesterday I suddenly got the inspiration to write moody, dark things. These are little lantern slides, little blips in time. Tell me what you think I was thinking when I was writing them. They really have nothing to do with each other, but you can actually link them, if you squint.
Disclaimer: I only wish…
Dedication: To the ink, booze, and blood that's coursing through all of us.
What do you do when the person that you love loves someone else? And that 'someone' just happens to be you best friend. What do you do then?
You let the blood slide down your wrist, a little faster now, no longer drips, but little rivulets down the pale expanse of your arm. The night lays waste to everything you despise about yourself. You turn away. You hate yourself just a little bit more.
You look down at the annoying red fingerless gloves on your hands. You don't remember them going all the way up to your elbows, and you were sure you took them off. Oh, you realize. It's blood.
The moon's risen. The silvery light illuminates the blood-soaked field you're standing in, surrounded by the dead. It's turned everything dark-ish and black. Sweat soaks your face, sticking you pink hair to that overly large forehead they always teased you about. You force out a little more chakra (because people need it), and you almost keel over from the effort. You're completely exhausted.
You slam a chakra-infused fist into the wooden dummy. It splinters, and then shatters, and a sharp shard of wood catches you cheek. It leaves a trail of shining, crimson blood, and you wipe it away with a satisfied smirk. It smears.
Loose indigo hair whips in the wind from the open window; it reminds you of the knives your best friend is so skilled with. You pull the long strand towards yourself, and you examine them. Without thinking about it, you grab the kunai off your bedside table. Without thinking about it, you hack the long strands off, with no care, no regard, to what you've just done. You like your hair better short anyways.
Ice cold fingers, alabaster in the dim light, brush over your naked back. This is not the first time, and it is definitely not the last. Ice cold lips touch the hollow below your throat. It's always like this, you muse. He's so cold.
Weirdo. Loser. Freak. Bitch. You tear through another enemy, leaving a wake of bodies behind you. A smirk sears across your face and for every name anyone has ever called you, you destroy another life. Revenge (a dish best served cold) is sweet.
The fluorescent light hurts your eyes. You haven't slept in three days, and this is not helping. Your sleeping pills aren't working, because you constantly wake up anyway. You're exhausted, you can't think, and all you want to do is sleep. This is truly your own personal hell.
Blank stares, empty smiles, lost souls. All this (it's all yours and you hate it), under the flashing lights on the dance floor. You smile, just a little, as a city light flashes over your face through the car window. A wraith of a girl, with dark hair, lost eyes, and a rootless soul, stands on the corner of the street. She's smiling brokenly.
She's dancing in the rain, arms raised to the sky. Her eyes are closed, little droplets clinging to her lashes. You wonder (jut for a moment) whether she's lost everything that she's ever cared for. You know you have.
A broken heart, a picture, and an orange pair of clips is all you have left. They were the first pair he bought you, and you treasure the memory attached to them. That was a good time. It's been days, weeks, months, years since you've felt anything quite so strong.
Goodbyes always hurt more when there's no real reason for them.
Sunlight pours in through a window on a cloudless day. It does not suit your mood at all.
You're lost in the music, the bass pounding out a steady beat so hard it's causing your frame to shake, and your teeth to rattle. Your best friends are up on stage, and you're spellbound. You didn't know they were so good.
A teddy bear with a broken heart sits on your bed. It always has, but it might not be there for long, no now. It was a gift, from someone else who's just as tired and broken and fucked up as you are. You curl up on that bed, grip that teddy close, and you let yourself cry. Losing someone important always makes life so unbearable.
You wrinkle your nose. There's blood, booze, and ink all over the place. It's messy, but it's all you've got to call home.
It's the story of every writer you've ever met. Their notebooks are full, with story ideas scribbled into the margins of textbooks that they don't own, and little doodles that really are just nonsense. But they're strong, too, and you wish you could be so brave.
You let your hair hang forward; let it cover your eyes. You let it hide the emotions you know are swirling just beneath the surface of that goddamn façade you keep on at all times. Let them make fun of you; it's not like you care, anyways. You know how dangerous a beaten animal can be. Maybe the bastards around you should know it, too.
A grimace touches what's left of your heart, and you hate the people around you for not stopping this. The little girl (the one being sold) stares at you, eyes wide and scared. She can't be more then eight years old, and they're dooming her to a life of constant rapes and beatings. You know that if you bid, you might save her life. You bit your lip, stare back at her for another minute, and then you raise your hand.
It's magic, you know. All those little pictures, pictures from days, weeks, months, years ago. You smile down at them, even though you're trembling. Not every one of these picture have good memories attached to them. Not all of these picture have happy endings.