In this world, we fight for things.
But it’s all pointless, isn’t it?
Ideals are a war that just can’t be won, and money isnt around long enough to fight over..
Justice is subjective… love… love is like alcohol…
Because eventually, either it’ll be your downfall, or you’ll become immune..
But even when it’s stripped you of everything, you find yourself needing it, even a tiny bit.. So what else is there? When love becomes your whole world..and you’re forced to go without it...what more is there, Fang?
As my name rang through my head like howling thunder, I woke up with a sweat, my eyes fluttering open to the gray-scale light of the room. I let the voice fizzle out in my head, taking it’s annoying crashing sounds and headaches with it. It’s been almost two months now since these breakdowns started. Time has seemed to cease altogether though, yesterday and tomorrow melting into one long, lonely existence. It fits the stiffness in my bones, the bittersweet taste left in my mouth, and the divide of my left and right brain. I read somewhere the left commands logic, and the right commands emotions, but together they help you make decisions and handle your grief.
“I really wish you two would agree you know?”, I muttered jokingly to myself, “because...you know, I’m could really use a real solution about now..” I felt a tear slowly form in the corner of my left eye, and then another in my right grow heavy and roll down my face. I make this weird choked laugh as one tear rolled, it slowly turning into a sob, then back into a laugh.
“This isn’t what I meant”, I choke out through bitter, hysterical laughter. This continued for a couple minutes, then as my bones give their reluctant cracking, I forced myself to get up. I grabbed a change of clothes, another pair of ordinary kick around clothes, and walk to the bathroom. Suddenly, I felt the weight again, taking my senses away and fogging my mind into a blind numbness. The grey light blending to become one single shade that matches the fur on the back of my hand. I got a view of the past for a second, the small cottage I used to live in with my parents as a kid. As briefly as it came, it disappeared into a black void all around me, and instantaneously, I felt the warmth of another being in front of me. He felt larger, but seems to be stooped to meet me eye to eye. It’s only the reek of dextinian wine that gives it away, I was face to face with my dear old dad. It was clear then, I remembered this very night, and I knew what’s coming next from here.
“We don’t cry here, you got that Kyle?”, My dad’s voice boomed inside my head, just like it did when he first said this, “unless you’ve been cut up in battle, you’re gonna swallow it like a true Stardusk, you hear me!” He grunted lowly, turning away in the dark with disgust. As he left, the room comes to light again, a blurry image of my bare room making itself as real as day. I sat there, still crying as I stared into the doorway. Darkness crawled back against the walls as he walks back in, trudging forward as I found myself pressed against the wall. The last thing I remembered is seeing his lips move, but not hearing his words as the back of his hand crashes into my temple. It shattered my world into a thousand sharp fragments I have yet to pick back up.
When my head cleared again, it was too late for any reluctance. My eyes slowly focused, watching my tears mix in and thin the blood dripping from my arm. My knife was still dripping my dark crimson blood into the dingy white sink. It was the stinging of salt in the wound that brought me back, my eyes fixing on rough scratches across my forearm, and the beginning of a cut intersecting the smaller ones. My hand with the knife had begun to shake, tears forcing their way out of my eyes and blurring my vision to nothing but raw color. I dropped the knife in the sink and dropped down onto my knees, slowly opening the sink cabinet. I pushed past the cleaning supplies, reaching for a roll of bandage and a small bottle of peroxide. I grabbed the peroxide, poured the watery substance onto the knife, and cleaned the blade with the front of my shirt. Slowly I wrapped my arm in the clean, white bandage, creating a makeshift towel to absorb my own blood. It’s not great, but it stops the dripping, which is important. I stared at myself in the mirror, my green eyes dead as a dolls, my face frozen somewhere between discontent and melancholy emptiness. Slowly and robotically, I undressed and started a shower, stepping into the tropical rainstorm. My arm stung as the water soaked my bandages through, but I remember finding this somewhat justified for a monster like me.