Intentions

"You're making a mistake."
"What?"
"In your assumptions."
"I don't understand."
"You think I want to fix you."
"Why not? Everyone does."
"I don't."
"No?"
"Not even a little."
"Huh."
"Does that scare you?"
"No."
"No?"
"No."

Laughter echoes through the night.

Silver and silent

Prompt: A line from 'Peacemaker' by Green Day that I’ve been sort of obsessed with – Call up the Captain, hey hey, death to the lover that you were dreaming of.
Characters: Unnamed.
Word count: 563
Author’s comments: I realise it’s not very long. There was room for it to be expanded, a bit of exposition probably wouldn’t go amiss - between introducing her and before he emerges. I was going to do it, but it flowed out this way and I am just too tired at the moment to force my brain into thinking of it. She’s a character I’ve been toying with for a while, a sort of ethereal being with an independent shadow. I’ll probably write some more for her at some point.


It’s cold, rain chilling skin that the wind hadn’t yet reached. Her long coat twists around her legs but she pays it no mind. Superficially, there is nothing particularly strange about the scene. Stares would glance off the lone figure standing against the wall and they would not look back. They would not give her a second thought. Silent. Unmoving. A shadow against the night. She watches.
He emerges some two hours later, collar turned up against the elements. His pale skin seems stark against the dilapidated surroundings, and where the night tries to swallow him, he seems only to stand out more. Blue eyes flash brightly in the glow of the last unbroken street light. Oh, so impossibly bright. He strides down the alley like he owns it, and there is unexpected grace there. She swallows and moves to follow. Her shadow extends towards him. He tenses. She closes in.
At the corner, he stops and turns. She is traces and smoke, he does not see her. Still, he senses something. Her shadow wraps around his, pawing and pulling unseen. His knees buckle and he falls. He scrapes his palm, bewildered as he tries to rebalance. The metallic tang of blood dictates what is to come. He looks up and sees her now, tall and fierce as she stands before him. He thinks Lyssa, the goddess of fury herself, has come to walk the Earth. He also thinks no amount of knowledge can save him now.
Her shadow cradles him close, softly like a newborn, as she stares down at him with eyes as green as the promise of spring. She touches a lock of dark hair, pushing it from his eyes. Eyes which are so impossibly pure that Neptune’s seas could barely compete. He is beautiful, pale and scared though he tries to hide his fear beneath a mask of cool defiance. There is devotion and loyalty beneath the shallow pools of these emotions, hidden depths of so much promise. Her breath catches except…she doesn’t have any. She suddenly loves this man, the antithesis of everything she is.
Her shadow tightens around him; her fingertips graze the soft promise of his cheekbone. She leans close as she whispers, “Call up the Captain.”
At the simple sentence, he recognises her purpose. A shiver wracks through his too thin body. He can’t respond but he still tries, just as he tries to struggle. Brave then, as well as knowledgeable. She traces his jaw as she moves around him, her shadow tightening with every step she moves further away. His posture goes rigid, almost as if he’s drawing himself up. He knows. Oh, how she loves him. Fiercely and proudly as only she could be capable of. There’s so much only she’s capable of.
It’s a soft sound, the tiniest pop that impossibly shatters the back of a skull. She stares inexpressively at the crumpled form, her shadow twisting around her.
“Death to the lover that you were dreaming of,” she murmurs, the corner of her lips twitching.
The dark clouds part for a moment, the pale, sickly moonlight reflects in the spreading pool of dark crimson and an older woman screams as she stumbles unwittingly upon the scene.A silhouette on the roof shimmers briefly, and then disappears from view.
She wishes she still had a heart.

We always long for the forbidden things, and desire what is denied us.
- Francios Rabelais

Music: 'In the shadows' audiobook
Mood: Still cold, even more so in fact

Sweet relief now that you're here with me

Prompt: Clearly a song, ‘Into the ocean’ by Blue October which I was listening to on the train home.
Characters: Unnamed.
Word count: 2, 262
Author’s comments: Well, like I said, I was listening to this song on the train and felt like writing something around it. It’s been happening a lot lately. Maybe it’s a little emo. I don’t know. You’ll have to forgive me. I watch a lot of that sort of thing. I just wanted to write something purely for the sake of writing and not have to think, you know? Cause uni just stresses me out and I have this damned essay on Proust to write (yes, yes, I know, shut up already) and so much work I just keep putting off. And yes, this is just adding to putting it off, but this at least feels vaguely productive. It’s good to exercise those creative muscles every now and then. Also, sorry, I realise it’s quite long. If I had an LJ, I’d put it under a cut, but I don’t. So deal.

***

The tips of my ears had gone numb. Logically, I knew that I must be shivering, but I didn’t notice. Noticing would require feeling, and feeling would require energy I didn’t have. I definitely didn’t have the energy to pretend. I didn’t know how long I had been there, whether it had been minutes or hours. Time had lost all meaning. Well, traditional meaning. Now it would simply be measured in long agonizing seconds since I lost the only thing that meant anything to me. Regardless of my personal feelings on the matter, the world continued to turn, paying little heed to the Greek tragedy of my own making. Before long, the sun was putting in its first appearance of the day, soft yellow challenging the dark blue for dominance. If I was inclined to make up shitty metaphors, I’d say it was a sign for new beginning, for chasing the darkness away, but I’m not that type. Not that type. Jesus.

I'm just a normal boy
That sank when I fell overboard
My ship would leave the country
But I'd rather swim ashore

At some point in your life you realise you really don’t know yourself at all. You look in the mirror and you don’t recognise the person staring back at you. That’s fair enough, that’s growth and development and whatever other bullshit psychobabble they’ve come up with. I’m too young to have to deal with shit like that. When I looked in the mirror four nights ago, I saw only desperation. I saw a pathetic vision of someone who would do anything for a loved one, regardless of consequence. I had absolute faith that my absolute faith would be enough. I didn’t know who that person was, or how that person had gotten there. It was nothing like the person I saw at six, sulking over my brother eating my ice cream; or at twelve, crying over a dead dog; or at sixteen, giddy on teenage romance. It was definitely nothing like the person I saw at twenty, cocky and smart-arsed, so sure that I had found myself. Two years later I had a job, a relationship, a life. It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t exceptional, but it was comfortable and hey, I was happy. I’d found my place. I didn’t know what I had looked like then. I never looked in the mirror; I had better things to do.

Without a life vest I'd be stuck again
Wish I was much more masculine
Maybe then I could learn to swim
Like 'fourteen miles away'

The guilt is worse than anything. It’s inescapable and dual. There’s the whole trying to talk yourself in and out of things, constantly see-sawing so often, you don’t know whether you’re coming or going anymore. I lost count of how many times I thought that it must be what it feels like to be mad. To have two distinct personalities demanding attention, fighting for dominance and each of them had damn good points. Then there are old fashioned concepts like duty and honour, dedication and trust. Things the twenty year old me would have scoffed at, but now seemed to be the very centre of my world. I gravitated around them, around responsibility, because somehow in the last few years they had become my life. It had come to define me.

Now floating up and down
I spin, colliding into sound
Like whales beneath me diving down
I'm sinking to the bottom of my
Everything that freaks me out
The lighthouse beam has just run out
I'm cold as cold as cold can be

I had been cut loose. I was a boat without an anchor. No wait, I said I wasn’t the type for shitty metaphors. But what type am I? The very things that defined me, everything that I had built myself on, was gone. There was no way of getting any of it back, and it had so taken over my life that I had nowhere else to turn. There was only me, and I barely gave myself any consideration. I felt invisible. I had failed. I was in no fit state to look after myself. If I was in said fit state, I would probably have appreciated the irony. I had gotten myself into a situation where I thought I had meaning but inevitably the situation led to the meaning being ripped out from under my feet, without even so much as a warning. And I know I brought it upon myself. I know. The chances were there, chances to make a change, chances to move on, and chances to run and never look back.

I want to swim away but don't know how
Sometimes it feels just like I'm falling in the ocean
Let the waves up, take me down
Let the hurricane set in motion, yeah
Let the rain of what I feel right now come down
Let the rain come down

Running was still an option. If anything, it would probably have been the best time for it. I had no guilt to grind my conscious, no honour to bind me. In a click of fingers, those responsibilities had disappeared. I could get in touch with that twenty year old me again…was it really only four years ago? It seems impossible. Thinking about that time, my childhood even, feels like watching someone else’s home movies. I can see myself standing there, watching it all unfold, but emotionally I don’t feel it. I smile and nod and make the appropriate observations in the appropriate places but there’s no real effect on me. The ‘me’ I had become could no longer recognise the ‘me’ that had been. I supposed I could go back home. My parents would no doubt have expected it. Isn’t a traditional place for mourning with one’s family? Then again, I never was big on tradition.

Where is the coastguard?
I keep looking each direction
For a spotlight, give me something
I need something for protection
Maybe flotsam, junk will do just fine
the jetsam sunk, I'm left behind
I'm treading for my life, believe me
How can I keep up this breathing?

I had to have fallen asleep. One minute I was staring at the horizon, the next I was in the water. The current surprised me, it pushed and pulled and disorientated me. I vaguely registered the impulse to swim, my limbs put in a token effort and I managed to grab a lungful of air. It hurt. The thought struck me as funny, and I laughed even as I floated further from land. I was a liar. At the heart of the matter, that was the truth. Lies had gotten me where I was, and I was still suffering from little lie aftershocks. I was still feeling guilty. Of course I was. It had just mutated into a different guilt, a warped sort of survivors guilt. There was also a healthy dose of shame that came with it. It had moved right into the vacuum left by ‘hope’ and ‘desperation’. All I was left with was guilt, and shame, and fear, and anger. Although the latter had dissipated within minutes of its first appearance, merely transforming into the vague shadow of a feeling I thought that I should perhaps feel. I had no real claim on it and that rendered it powerless. Fear, on the other hand. Fear was the key to all of this.

Not knowing how to think
I scream aloud, begin to sink
My legs and arms are broken down
With envy for the solid ground
I'm reaching for the life within me
How can one man stop his ending
I thought of just your face
Relaxed, and floated into space

The flight-or-fight response forms the first stage of general adaptation syndrome that regulates stress responses, namely the consequences of the failure to respond appropriately to emotional or physical threats, whether actual or imagined. The initial threat was most definitely emotional, and it was certainly not imaginary. I hated to admit it, but the response was flight. Flight, then fight as it were. I didn’t think I’d ever know whether that was due to my personality or simply necessity. The threat followed me, the flight failed, and the fight…well, it was the fight of a lifetime. It raged over a year that seemed to last forever, a war of attrition that ended in the blazing wreckage of all I had built. I lost the battle and I lost the war. Yet, here it was again, fight-or-flight. Consequences stacked up ten feet high on either of side of me, a single word would bury me and rightfully so. Why bother though? Why am I so torn up about losing something that was forced upon me? This life, the one I was mourning, it was all just consequential.

I want to swim away but don't know how
Sometimes it feels just like I'm falling in the ocean
Let the waves take me down
Let the hurricane set in motion, yeah
Let the rain of what I feel right now come down

That vague impulse registered with me again – to swim, to get back to shore, to stop wasting time. The odd texture of wet jeans against my skin struck me as far more pressing. I was too tired. Too tired to appreciate the way the pinkish blue hues of early morning simmered above me. Too tired to pretend everything would be alright. Too tired to remember what I’d lost and what I hadn’t. I was definitely too tired to maintain any sort of control over my body, to keep it from sinking. Fuck fight-or-flight. Morality, consciousness, rationality, wasn’t that what it meant to be human? My mind was tired. My body was tired. But most of all, my mind couldn’t care less about my body right now, not while lulled by the soft push and pull, the pressing of silence all around. It was a weight that blanketed me and, blissfully, allowed my mind to finally shut up.

Now waking to the sun
I calculate what I had done
Like jumping from the bow, yeah
Just to prove I knew how, yeah
It's midnight's late reminder of
The loss of her, the one I love
My will to quickly end it all
Set front row in my need to fall

Acceleration of lung action as oxygen in blood decreases, and carbon dioxide increases. Slowing of heart rate. Restriction of blood flow to extremities. Shifting of blood to the thoriac cavity. Dilation of pupils. Laryngospasm. Hypoxia. Cardiac arrest.

Into the ocean, end it all
Into the ocean, end it all
Into the ocean, end it all
Into the ocean...end it all

I felt arms wrap around my chest. The quietly insistant push and pull was replaced by a very firm direction. Up. I hadn’t sunk much, and I hadn’t been submerged for long, but the minute my head broke the surface my lungs pulled in air like it had never known the substance before.
“It’s ok, it’s ok, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”
The voice was familiar and cut straight into my heart. If I had any sort of control, I would have resisted, pulled away. Instead I only slumped back into the hold, clinging to the forearm across my chest. My body was a traitor. I threw up the second we crawled back onto dry land. He kept his hand on my back the entire time, soothingly rubbing small circles. The heat of his skin seeped through my sodden clothes and I found comfort in his presence. I had no right to feel that comfort, or to expect it, but he was there and I was too tired to feel the guilt I knew usually accompanied this. I rolled away and collapsed onto my back. Morning had settled in, life was slowly returning to the bay. Somewhere off to my left a seagull squawked and to my right he sat, looking down at me intently. Confusion was etched across his face. Confusion and fear. My mind railed against it. I shifted my gaze to the sky.
“I don’t want to die.”
My voice was hoarse and I became aware of my throat burning. How long had that been going on? Was it because of what had just happened or because of all the crying I had done during the night?
“I know,” he replied softly.
“I was just tired,” I mumbled, pulling myself into a sitting position and hugging my knees. I became viciously aware that I was shaking. “I’m so tired.”
Arms wrapped around me and pulled me to him. I didn’t resist. He was shaking too, the wind playing havoc with our wet clothing. I pressed closer, trying to make the most of what little warmth our bodies and the weak sun could offer us. He pressed a soft kiss to my temple and I breathed out a shaky breath.
“I don’t want to die.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, pulling me even closer, “I’ve got you.”
I pressed my face to his chest and let him hold me. Maybe I would regret it later. Maybe it would all blow up in my face. But in that moment, I felt the warmth for the first time in months. Hell, I felt. And yeah, I was still hurting and things weren’t even remotely close to being ok, but maybe it would be. He had come for me, I had a clean slate, and more importantly, I wasn’t going anywhere.

Into the ocean, goodbye, end it all, goodbye...

Music: Starving your friends - Envy on the Coast
Mood: Lethargic

I've figured out every hour in every day, except tonight [completed]

Prompt: There wasn't really one. Just Amped bringing its drama.
Characters: Kiley Marshall, Phoebe Marshall, Chris Fraser, Harrison Blake, Tyler Wilcox, Eric Hayes, Tristan Emery (Amped)
Timeline: Start of Season 2.
Word count: 4, 162 (Total). This part, 2, 238.
Author’s comments: The second, and final part, of what I posted last night. I wasn't really going to do this much on it, I was daunted by the whole epic conversation re: backstory and didn't want to go into it (epically draining), but I pushed on anyway. Probably would have been wise to quit while I was ahead, but whatever.

---

The crowd was slowly dispersing, the effects of drunkenness floating up to her perch on the stairs. The night was in its final death throes and Kill shivered as the cool breeze wrapped around her. She couldn’t find the energy to care enough to go back inside though. It was that very same feeling that stopped her from turning around when she heard the door open behind her.
“I don’t want to talk Pheebs,” she muttered, assuming it was her sister, wanting to attempt another heart to heart. She’d been doing that an awful lot lately.
“That’s ok. I just need you to listen really.”
Kill stiffened at the voice and turned around to watch Tristan cross the small distance between them before settling next to her with a slight huff.
“We’ve never actually met.” he said, angling towards her.
“No we haven’t,” she replied, holding out her hand, “Kill.”
“Tristan,” he smiled, taking it, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Same.”
“All scandalous lies, I promise.”
Kill couldn’t help but smile. “I wouldn’t be so quick to write it off, if I was you. Overall, it’s been good stuff.”
Tristan chuckled “Well, I do try.”
Kill looked out into the night, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze. After a few moments, he broke the silence.
“There’s nothing between us, you know. Not for a long time.”
Kill kept her gaze firmly ahead, barely daring to breathe. He sighed and continued.
“Sometimes I don’t think there was anything there at all and that I just wanted there to be. Saw what I wanted, you know? I’m not used to not being wanted.” He chuckled softly under his breath, and then turned to face her. She could feel his gaze burning into her cheek. “He wants you though.”
Kill snorted and met his gaze. “Please. He doesn’t know what he wants.”
“I think he does. He just doesn’t know how to admit it, even to himself.”
Kill sighed, dropping her eyes to her hands. In all the various situations she might have envisioned for herself, this definitely wasn’t one of them. Sitting on a deserted step in the middle of the night with Tristan Emery discussing the object of both of their affections. Hell, what were the odds. Still, something about the dancer made her feel completely at ease, completely open. He’d understand after all.
“Sometimes...” she began hesitantly, “Sometimes he looks at me like I’m the only thing keeping him sane. Then other times it’s like he can’t stand it, as if my just being there actually hurts him.”
“He looks right through me,” Tristan said softly.
Kill looked at him. “He does like you though, you know that right? I mean he always said he enjoyed hanging out with you –”
“Oh I know,” Tristan interrupted, waving his hand, “And I don’t blame him for any of it. It’s mostly my own doing. One of the things to understand about Eric is that he has a lot of skeletons in the closet, and that’s where he likes it. There’s so much more going on with him than I really understand and he just doesn’t like me enough to try to get over whatever it is that’s holding him back.”
“You aren’t alone there.”
“He hasn’t been the same since he’s been back,” he said shrewdly. When Kill didn’t reply, he continued. “He’s been way more self-destructive than usual. He missed the band, he missed you. He’s been beating himself up over it.”
“We aren’t the ones who left him. He wanted to come back.”
“I think he feels obligated to finish what he started here, but he hasn’t been happy.”
“He’s never happy.”
“He is when he talks about you lot.”
She sighed and looked up at him, searching his face. “What exactly do you want from me Tristan?” she finally asked.
He looked away, taking a deep breath as if weighing his answer.
“Give him a chance.” he said quietly, meeting her gaze again.
“What if he doesn’t want it?”
“He wants it.”
“I wish he’d just talk to me.”
“He’s a lot of work.”
Kill flashed him a small smile, before looking away again. “I wish he’d trust me.”
“He doesn’t know how.”
“That’s a bit presumptuous,” Kill replied, doubtfully.
“Hey, I’ve watched him. He hides away everything that means anything to him. It’s like pulling teeth trying to get anything personal out of him. I mean hell, did you know he had a sister?”
“Yeah.” Seeing his look, she explained almost apologetically. “I overheard him on the phone.”
“See? It’s all skeletons in closets with him. It’s like he doesn’t even trust himself, let alone anyone else.”
Kill thought about this for a few seconds before turning to Tristan again. “You know what Tristan, the rumours are true,” He looked at her confused. “You are more than a pretty face.”
Tristan laughed, squeezed her arm and got up. “I can see why he likes you.” He looked down at her, sobering slightly. “Don’t give up on him.”
She gave him a brief smile and after searching her face, he nodded once and headed back inside.
Kill allowed the stillness of the night to settle around her, barely registering the faint thrum of music and laughter that floated along on the breeze. She sighed and rested her head against the wall.
“I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to.” she murmured into the night, allowing it to secret away what she wouldn’t even admit to herself the last few months.

***

Eric was angry – angry for losing control of himself like that; for thinking she’d still want him; for wanting her to still want him. This was better after all. She was better off without him around to bring her down too. He was better off not having anyone who actually gave a fuck about him, which made it so much easier not to give a fuck about anyone else. He was so wound up he nearly threw a punch at Tyler when he came through the door.
“Whoa there man, I come in peace,” Tyler quipped, throwing up his hands and flicking his head trying to get his hair out of his eyes.
Eric merely glowered at him and continued to pace along the small confines of the room he had, well, fled into. Tyler watched him thoughtfully for a few moments before speaking.
“I saw Kill. She seems almost as upset as you.”
“Just leave me alone Tyler,” he forced out between clenched teeth, his fists clenching and unclenching on their own accord.
“Bad things happen when you’re on your own.”
Eric threw him a look that would have sent a lesser person ducking for cover. Tyler merely looked back at him serenely.
“You have to allow yourself to love Eric. It’s a key part of the human experience.”
Eric’s eyes flashed and Tyler actually took a step back. “You did not just fucking say that to me!” Eric was vaguely aware that he was shaking. He was also vaguely aware that he shouldn’t be getting into this with Tyler. It was Tyler for fuck’s sake. The haze that had settled over his mind made it hard to act on any of this though. All he could react on was the hurt, the humiliation and the anger, so much closer to the surface than it had been in years.
“What gives you the fucking right to stand around offering advice on the fucking human condition?” Eric hissed, taking a step closer to Tyler, “You don’t know a single fucking thing about me. You don’t know what it’s like to wake up and find the love of your fucking life dead! You don’t know what it’s like to watch your world fall to pieces around you just when you had finally dared to think it might actually be worth something! You don’t know what it’s like to lose your family, to lose everything! And to know it’s your own fucking fault! So don’t stand there telling me love is part of the fucking human condition! I KNOW what it is to love!”
Tyler stared back at him, his own eyes wide as he tried to process the words.
“Eric, I…” he paused and looked at him concerned, “What happened?”
Eric stared back at him, feeling utterly defeated. His lungs didn’t seem to want to take in any air, and his heart didn’t seem to want to keep pumping. He turned away from Tyler, running a hand across his face.
“His name was Anthony, and we were seventeen…”

***

Tyler sat next to Eric, not actually touching, but close enough so Eric knew he was there. He didn’t know how long they had been there, but it felt like the world had shifted in that time. Tyler always thought he was very in-tune to people’s emotions, and a lot of things about Eric made a hell of a lot more sense now.
“I destroy what I love,” Eric said quietly, his voice rough from emotion and the raging he’d done, “She’s better off without me.”
Tyler shook his head, shifting slightly on the hard floor. He wasn’t used to sitting still like this. “Don’t you think that’s up to her? You can’t decide something like that for her.”
“I…she…haven’t you listened to anything I’ve said?”
“Of course I have. It’s cause and effect. You’re mad because she makes you want to get better and you hate yourself for it. But you shouldn’t really. And you really shouldn’t write this off under the guise of it being for her own good. She deserves better than that. You owe it to yourself to do better than that.”
Eric merely shrugged. Tyler watched him carefully. Eric wanted this, but he had no fight left in him.
“It’s ok to love her. He’d be happy. He wouldn’t want you to be alone forever. He’d want someone to take care of you for him.”
Eric rested his head in his hands, and Tyler finally reached out and touched him, tentatively resting his hand on his shoulder.
“I don’t want to forget him” Eric mumbled, barely audible.
“You never will.”
Eric too a shaky breath, and lifted his head. “What is it with you, Tyler? Why do you know everyone’s secrets?”
“Poison” Tyler replied shrugging. Eric looked confused so he continued, “You know, you have to suck the poison from the wound? My dad always said people where the same and that sometimes they needed someone to draw it out for them.”
Eric blinked once before leaning his head back against the wall. “Not the weirdest thing you’ve ever said.”
Tyler shrugged and got up, figuring that if Eric could make quips, he was ready to have some time on his own.

***

Phoebe could not find her sister anywhere. She had been searching everywhere since Eric’s impromptu stage invasion, figuring that it would lead to all sorts of trouble. She was getting kind of worried, cause when Kill pulled a disappearing act it was hardly ever a good sign.
“Tyler!” she called, spotting him coming through the stage door, “Have you seen Kill?”
He nodded, and threw a thumb over his shoulder. “I was just talking to her outside.”
Phoebe moved towards the exit but Tyler grabbed her arm. “Uh I think she wants some time alone, Boss.”
“Tyler, I’m her sister.” she replied as if that explained everything, levelling him with a withering stare at the same time.
“But it’s about her and Eric, we’ve finally figured something out.”
“You know something, don’t you?” Phoebe asked, narrowing her eyes.
He smiled serenely back at her. She looked at him shrewdly for a moment.
“You sure she doesn’t need me?” she asked and when Tyler nodded his affirmation, she shrugged, “Okay, but I’m holding you responsible.”

***

Kill knocked on Eric’s door, her mind still reeling from what Tyler had told her. She shifted nervously from foot to foot, chewing on her thumb nail as she waited. After what felt like an eternity, Eric opened the door and she looked at him, really looked at him, taking in his gaunt frame, messy hair, drawn face and bloodshot eyes.
“Kill, I…” he began surprised, eyes searching his face. She simply stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. His own immediately settled around her, words dying on his lips.
“You should have told me,” she murmured into his chest. He stiffened but she held on tightly. “I’m so sorry Eric. I’m so, so sorry.”
“So am I,” he replied, hugging her closer.
She was surprised to find she was crying. Eric pulled back to look down at her, cupping her cheek. She dragged in a breath like it was the last she’d ever have. He closed the door and pulled her over to his bed, wrapping his arms around her and holding her firm against him as she clung to him in turn. After a few moments, when her breathing returned to normal, she looked up at him, meeting his red-rimmed eyes. “Tell me about him?” she asked softly, hesitantly.
Eric kissed her hair and pulled her close again. She rested her head in the crook of his neck and settled in, listening to dawn as they helped each other chase the dark away.

Music: The Long Way Home - The Material
Mood: Geeky

I've figured out every hour in every day, except tonight

Prompt: There wasn't really one. Just Amped bringing its drama.
Characters: Kiley Marshall, Phoebe Marshall, Chris Fraser, Harrison Blake, Tyler Wilcox, Eric Hayes, Tristan Emery (Amped)
Timeline: Start of Season 2.
Word count: 4, 162 (Total). This part, 1, 924.
Author’s comments: So I just wrote this in the last couple of hours, channeling that inner angst and self doubt. It's been a while and it feels good just to churn something out again, so forgive any dodginess. It isn't really structured properly, more broken and offering bits and pieces of the day of ESM's first homecoming show. Different perspectives, mostly Kill though. There is a hell of a lot of backstory happening with Amped, we just can't help ourselves, so this plays on that. I'll post the rest tomorrow night.

- - -

The student union still looked exactly the same. It hardly seemed fair, Kill thought as she looked around the room. In the months that had passed since her last visit here, her life had irrevocably changed and it seemed wrong somehow that there wasn’t a physical manifestation of this. Her eyes danced across the stage, the bar and the tables, dodging memories as they went. Everything changes, but everything stays the same. She ignored the dull ache in her stomach, stopping her thoughts from dwelling on the look, the smell, and the feel of the place, all of which only served as a reminder of the past. In fact, Kill stopped thought altogether and merely concentrated on breathing. In. Out. Constant. Safe. Breathing was neutral ground, a necessity that allowed everything else to just fade into the background if she focussed enough. It was the only was she could keep going, the only way she could keep living her dream. She had wanted this life, she still wanted it. So what if there was something else she wanted too, something more. That didn’t matter anymore. She couldn’t afford to dwell on the what-ifs and still live this dream of hers. So she masked her emotions and did her best to never think beyond the present.

Grounded again, Kill ran her fingertips along the edge of a table, its surface sticky with the evidence of many great nights. Her eyes found Tyler as he pulled the new bassist along beside him – Jim? Dom? Kill never could remember his name. It had been possible for Blake to record most of the bass and synth for the album, but in the end the cold truth had remained. They needed a new member if they were ever going to play live again. They had put it off as long as they could, subconsciously Kill had thought, but now the new guy would have his first show in the very place it had all started. The symmetry of it all would normally have amused her, but Kill had little thought for it now. The only way she could keep up this masking-of-emotions business was if she thought only of the band and her role within it. It was all that mattered. No, it was the only thing she would allow to matter.

A hand on her shoulder made her jump and she turned to find Chris grinning at her. She recognised the mischievous look in his eyes immediately and returned his smile brightly. It was always a welcome distraction when Chris was scheming and he knew she was always in. With only a slight nod of his head, they set off in the direction Tyler had disappeared in.

***

Phoebe watched her sister surreptitiously from the opposite side of the venue. Not that Kill would have noticed if she had simply been staring, but that in itself was part of the problem. She was so wrapped up in watching for any sort of emotion from Kill that she didn’t notice Blake approaching until he rested his chin on her shoulder.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, wrapping his arms around her.
“Nothing.” she replied, leaning back against him. She was still getting used to the new dynamic in their relationship, but she’d be lying if she said it wasn’t damned nice.
“Nothing, nothing? Or my boyfriend’s so hot I have to spend my free time puzzling over it, nothing?”
Phoebe turned to him, arching an eyebrow. “Not everything’s about you, Harry.”
“Shocking!” Blake quipped, looking scandalised.
“I know.”
Phoebe turned back to watch her sister as she absentmindedly trailed her fingers over a table. She was staring into the distance, as if completely oblivious to her surrounding. Phoebe frowned again and Blake noticed, following her gaze.
“Kill?” he asked, looking back at Phoebe.
“Yeah. I’m worried about her.”
“Why? She’s fine.”
“No,” Phoebe said, shaking her head, “She’s not.”
Blake turned his attention back to Kill again just as she smiled brightly at the newly arrived Chris. He watched the two of them lean together conspiratorially before they set off after Tyler and Jim.
“Yeah, she is.” he insisted, “Look at her, she’s just like she always is. Into the band and up for a challenge.”
Phoebe pulled away from him, still frowning after her sister. “But that’s all she is.”
“Ok, you’re losing me here.”
“When’s the last time she’s shown any interest, emotion even, for anything outside of the band? It’s like she’s not in there when she’s not working.”
“She’s always been way into the band though.” Blake countered, still looking confused.
“You’re just seeing what she wants you to see” she said, shooting him an exasperated look, “I know her better than to fall for that.”

***

Kill was still trying to get washing powder out of her hair, evidence of the latest practical joke, when Blake clapped his hands together.
“Right,” he began, game face on and sounding all business, “Better get on with sound check then.”
Everyone scrambled to get organised and Kill watched as he-of-no-name slung his bass across his skinny frame. She cocked her head slightly, one hand still fluffing her hair, as she tried to make sense of the scene in front of her. It simply refused to fit into her picture of the band, no matter how much she wished it would.
“Kill?” Blake called, startling her out of thought.
She looked up at him confused, meeting his questioning stare. “Hmm?”
“You ready?”
“Wha - Oh! Oh, yeah. Sorry.”
She scrambled across to the sound booth as realisation dawned on her. She ignored the pang she felt when she looked back up at them from her position, and bit the inside of her cheek when she noticed her hands shaking as they hovered over the controls. Sound was something Eric had been teaching her and she wasn’t used to doing it alone. In and out, she reminded herself firmly, forcing a smile. None of the guys seemed to have picked up on anything weird, which was a small mercy at least.
“Okay, Blake. Let’s go.” she said loudly, amazed at how steady her voice was. She threw herself into the work, blissfully losing all thought in the noise for the next half hour.

***

Phoebe entered the dressing room to find it deserted except for Kill. She was sitting on the floor staring at the opposite wall without apparently seeing it.
“Where is everyone?” Phoebe asked, watching her sister blink a few times before turning to look at her.
“Outside. Smoke break, I think. You know how they get with this hurry-up-and-wait business.”
Phoebe nodded and watched her for a few minutes. Kill didn’t say anything more, instead dropping her gaze to a book she held in her lap.
“Is everything ok, kiddo?”
Kill’s head snapped up immediately. “Of course, why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know. You just seem a bit out of it.”
“I’m just tired.”
“You know you can always talk to me, right?”
“Of course,” Kill replied, smiling, “But everything’s fine. You really don’t have to keep asking.”
“No harm in checking,” Phoebe shrugged, “I’m going to find the others. You wanna come?”
Kill shook her head, eyes firmly on her book again. Phoebe took the hint, letting her gaze linger for a few more seconds before leaving the room. She didn’t miss the twitch of Kill’s jaw.

***

The room was slowly filling up under Kill’s watchful gaze, the air buzzing with excited chattering and anticipation. Nearly everyone on campus was turning out for the big homecoming show, all looking forward to a good time. Her eyes flicked across the room, taking in the ever increasing amount of faces on every round and searching for familiar ones. The minute her gaze landed on the bar, she felt a slight thrill of recognition thrum through her as she spotted the lean, blonde figure of what could only be Tristan Emery. He leant forward to grab two drinks, the perfect line of his back clear in her line of vision. She had to hand it to the boy, he really was gorgeous. She followed him as he moved through the throngs crowding the bar until he reached a table. As he rested his hand on the occupant’s shoulder in a familiar movement, Kill’s heart found a new home in her larynx. Eric twisted around in his seat to accept the drink, and she quickly moved away to rejoin the others. It didn’t matter. It really didn’t. There was no reason for it to matter. If she was honest with herself, maybe she’d been hoping to see him while at the same time she really hadn’t wanted to. But honesty wasn’t high on her list of priorities these days. It didn’t change anything. He left them. He left her. He always told her nobody waited for anybody, and clearly he lived by his own rules. At that moment, Kill wished she could live by his rules too.

***

The venue was buzzing with excitement. Everything had started out so ordinarily. The new bassist seemed to struggle a bit but everyone was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Before they could really see if their faith would be returned, Eric Hayes was on stage, practically pushing the poor guy off. The crowd went mad. This was Evil Spacemonkey as they were meant to be. This was everyone’s dreams come true. It was definitely shaping up as a night to remember.

***

Kill couldn’t believe it. She simply could not believe it. After everything, he just took to the stage and joined in…like he belonged there. Which of course he did, but that didn’t make it any easier to watch. It didn’t stop her heart from trying to simultaneously jump for joy and shrivel into a tiny insignificant speck, never to be seen again. No. She couldn’t think like this. It wasn’t like that between them, that much he’d made clear. She had no reason to act like it was. That would be pathetic. He was good for the band, and the band was all that mattered. Nodding to herself as to affirm her resolve, she continued stacking the boxes.
“Kill,” he spoke so softly, she would have thought she’d imagine it if not for the feeling of a physical presence behind her. She straightened slightly but didn’t turn around.
“Eric.”
There was shuffling and she stiffened.
“Please don’t.” he said, still so softly.
She squeezed her eyes shut quickly, before turning around. Her eyes immediately locked with his blue gaze and she had to look away before continuing, “Don’t want?”
“Don’t do this.”
“Do what?” She made the mistake of locking eyes again.
“This! This pretending everything’s ok. Because it’s not. Nothing’s been ok, not since –”
He didn’t get a chance to finish because Kill kissed him. She kissed him with all the anger, fear and passion she’d been bottling up for the past three months, and he kissed back. When they pulled apart, Kill drew back her right arm and punched him.
“Jesus!” Eric exclaimed incredulously, hand against his jaw.
“I won't let you fuck this band around again,” she said coolly, glaring at him and refusing to acknowledge the throb of her knuckles, “You’re either in for the long haul, or you’re out.”
Eric stared at her for a minute. Without saying a word, he turned and left the room. Kill didn’t even notice that she had started shaking. She merely sat on the nearest box, cradling her hand against her chest with her eyes fixed firmly on the door.

***

Music: I fill up the time - Rose
Mood: Accomplished

Standing trail for your sins

Prompt: Very vaguely on the following extract of Sonnet 97 by Shakespeare.
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's bareness everywhere!
The entire story itself was originally inspired by the line “I like the skin stretched over your bones” from The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot, by Brand New
Characters: Iris, Dorian, Alexandra [implied] (Limbo)
Timeline: Near the end of the story, before Alex finds out about Dorian's "eloborate scheme" if you will
Word count: 1,148
Author’s comments: I felt like dabbling with the closest thing to immortal characters I’ve come up with. I do love my immortals. I started this story for my Children’s Writing class last semester, so it’s meant to be teen fiction, roughly 24 chapters or so. This is part of the final turning point, but from Dorian's POV (the actual piece is done in Alex's voice) ...Please ignore all the godforsaken bloody adverbs. They have a way of sneaking up on me.

***

The air feels thick as it enters my lungs, grainy and suffocating like dust. It presses in around me. I can feel it in every single pore as I wrench myself back into wakefulness. My chest constricts with a gasp I didn’t realise I had in me, and my ribs ache with the memory of forgotten bruises. My eyes fly open and find nothing but darkness. I have to blink a few times before I am able to identify shapes, before I remember I'm in a bedroom. The panic fades a lot quicker than the bitter metallic taste in my mouth, or the smell of sulphur and decaying flesh. This is why I never slept anymore.
There’s a subtle shift next to me and I suddenly become very aware of a warm form curled against my back. The past twenty four hours come rushing back with all the subtlety of a runaway freight train. A sound somewhere between an exhalation and a strangled sob wrenches itself from my body as I try to fight the guilt that threatens to overtake me. Consume me. Drown me. I know I shouldn’t fight it. I deserved it for what I nearly lost that day.
“Oh please, spare me the melodrama.”
I sit up quickly; resisting the urge to launch myself at the figure perched on the window ledge. Iris merely looks down at me with a self satisfied smirk on her face.
“What do you want?” I hiss, aware that my eyes have narrowed dangerously and my body has shifted to shield the figure still sleeping behind me.
Iris flips her silver blonde hair over her shoulder and it catches momentarily in a breeze that isn’t actually there. It’s all meant to be very intoxicating, mesmerizing, utterly irresistible, whatever…even the most glamorous of tricks lose there shine when you’ve been dealing with them for over ninety years.
“You know, what you did yesterday was rather brave, if incredibly stupid. Isn’t that what got you killed in the first place?”
I flinch despite myself and the melodic laugh that follows makes my hair stand on end. Gracefully, she moves to sit on the edge of the bed, trailing a finger along my cheek. I can practically hear my heart rate slowing. I know I can’t move, but that doesn’t stop me from trying. She leans forward to whisper in my ear, overwhelming my senses with the unique scent of strawberries and flowers.
“You can’t win, Dorian.”
“I already have,” I reply, secure in the feeling of warmth next to me. I feel her smile, a slight flex in her cheek as it brushes mine.
“She’ll be dead before long,” she says as she pulls back, “I win.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I’d dare, you know full well I would. But this has nothing to do with me, this is life. Not that it's something you’ve really ever understood, is it? Oh it’ll seem like a snap of the fingers to you, but her years will be spent. Ultimately, I always win. Nature plays right into my hands.”
“No, I can…”
“What? Give her an option?” she demands roughly, a shadow falling across her features, “Don’t waste my time Dorian. I can’t abide with stupidity.”
I become aware that I’m grinding my teeth. It is with some effort that I manage to unclench my muscles enough to reply. “I will think of something.”
“You took your place in this a long time ago, there are no options at your disposal.”
“There are always options,” I shoot back, glaring at her.
“Not with you,” she murmurs, brushing the back of her hand across my cheek, “No, definitely not. I should have known really, that this would happen with you. Always running, never facing the consequences of anything you start –”
“Stop it,” I interrupt quietly, but she doesn’t pay attention. Blood starts rushing in my ears. I try my best not to listen to her, not to give her what she wants.
“– always going in with guns blazing, dragging others down with you, while you merely skip out in the end. Everyone you touch only has one option, to suffer, for you –”
Anger burns through my entire being. Iris knows exactly what buttons to push, I know this, but it still doesn’t stop the guilt from washing over me with the underlying truth of her words. It stings while the fact that she can get to me, well, that just infuriates.
“Stop it!” I exclaim, drawing it in. The emotions give me enough willpower to break her hold, and I jump up forcing her to follow. I tower over her as she stands with her back against the window. My fists are clenched and I have to remind myself where I am before we start one of our battles. I know I’m shaking with the strain of holding it all in, all that fury and frustration I want to hurl at her ridiculously deceptive face in the form of heat and thunder.
Still she stands there, staring benevolently back at me. I see her laughter course through her body more than I actually hear it. The effect is still the same though and as I break out in goose bumps I can feel the power I held dissipating.
“You forget your place boy,” she says quietly, a soft smile still playing on her lips. I can do nothing but exhale heavily as she steps closer to me, standing on tip toes to kiss my temple.
“Besides,” she begins as she pulls back, smoothing down my shirt, “What makes you think she’ll want anything to do with you, once she’s found out what you’ve done?”
My mouth opens and closes on its own violation as it tries to come up with something to say and my heart lurches painfully when I realise I’ve got no reply. The hollow feeling of dread and horror I’ve felt over the past two days return with enough force to knock me out, and I suddenly feel excruciatingly tired.
Somewhere behind her mask of sadomasochism, Iris almost looks vaguely sympathetic. “That’s why we don’t play with the living Dorian, consider this fair warning.”
She takes my hand in hers and as much as I try to withdraw, my muscles refuse to respond. She smiles encouragingly, as if she enjoys my feeble struggles against her control.
“Good night, sweet prince,” she says quietly. With a sigh she flips over the traitorous appendage, and presses her lips to my wrist.
The last thing I see is purple. I can hear the crash of waves against a cliff face long before I actually orientate my senses again. Not that I need them. I know exactly where I am. I shudder as the wind howls around me, and I only open my eyes when the first raindrop falls. I sigh heavily as I glance around the barren cliff top. It never changes. Staring into the stormy ocean below, I sit and wait for morning.

Music: Rain, thunder, a whimpering dog, and Torchwood
Mood: Aggravated to infinity plus one

Keep us comatose but audible

Forcing myself back into writing with the flash fiction business. It's about time. Honestly, you'd think my Honours thing will simply write itself in excellent style the way I've been floating around.

Prompt: Double prompt from Abbi's flash 'I hate myself' and a pic from my prompts file.

Characters: Kiley and Phoebe Marshall (Amped)
Timeline: About five months before ESM form
Word count: 1,439
Author’s comments: I don't know really. I wanted to show Kill as being grumpy and maybe a bit insolent, but when she realises her sister needs her, she's there for it. I'm beginning to think she really needs to be needed. She wants to solve everyone's problems even if she has no idea what they are or how to go about it. Probably why she can't leave Eric alone.

***

Kiley Marshall hated a lot of things. She hated the feel of wet grass under her bare feet. She hated the smell of vanilla, especially in cleaning products. She hated cinnamon sticks in her hot chocolate, and the smell of nail glue. She also hated driving at night. Driving in general wasn’t exactly one of her favourite things to do. In fact, she never even wanted to get her licence in the first place. Her dad had started nagging her about if before she was even legal, and like any good teenager, the more he carried on, the more she struggled against it. It wasn’t just misplaced teenage rebellion; her father was a terrible teacher. Kill was convinced sticking a needle in her eye would have been better than being trapped in a confined space with him while he gave vague instructions and then made that disapproving noise at the back of his throat when she invariably screwed up. The argument went on for weeks until finally, Phoebe offered to teach Kill herself.
“I don’t need a licence,” Kill had insisted, glowering at her sister.
“Oh come on, you never know when you might need it.”
“This is London Pheebs, it’s called public transport.”
Phoebe had just rolled her eyes and taken a course which Kill had thought to be entirely unfair.
“You’ll never be any use to a touring band without a licence.”
Kill had glowered at her sister, wanting to say that she wouldn’t be of use to one anyway, but she had recognised that look in Phoebe’s eyes. It was the one that meant business, the “resistance is futile!” look.
Of course, Phoebe never really got around to the actual teaching. Her job made her life pretty hectic, and she was always running from one place to the other, apparently never standing still. Kill had envied her that and with that reason, she had finally sucked it up and faced the torture her father dubbed ‘teaching’. In retrospect, it probably worked out for the better – half the time Phoebe’s driving was two minutes shy of a car wreck. That didn’t mean Kill enjoyed it, from the monotony to the traffic, it was hardly her idea of a good time.
“Jesus,” Kill muttered as a car rounded the corner, high beams momentarily blinding her. It was only a few seconds before they dimmed apologetically, after all who expected anyone to be on the road at 1am on a Thursday?
“Jesus,” she said again, swiping at a stray hair irritably as the wipers swiped at the rain. The rhythmic thud was almost hypnotic as the rubber drew bleary wet lines across the glass when any stray light fell across it. She sincerely hoped it wouldn't be like this all the way to bloody Birmingham. Birmingham! Kill sighed and turned up the music. It was going to be a long night.

~

Phoebe was sitting on the kerb when Kill arrived. She pulled up and was about to switch off the car, but before she could even move, Phoebe was already clambering into the passenger seat. Kill cocked her head.
“Err…Pheebs?”
“Just drive,” Phoebe replied with her eyes fixed firmly in front of her.
Kill sighed and rubbed her neck. “Do you think I could get some coffee – ”
“Please…please, I just want to get out of here.”
Phoebe’s voice broke slightly on the first word. Kill turned to really look at her, taking in her slumped posture, her blank face, the way her hair was plastered to her forehead and dripping slightly and she didn’t even seem to notice. She frowned, uncertain if she should say something or not. This was the indomitable Phoebe Marshall after all. Force of nature. The one with all the answers. Or at least, she had always had all the answers to Kill’s questions.
“Please.”
Kill bit her lip and shifted back into drive.

~

The caffeine rushed through her system almost immediately, and for the hundredth time in her short life, Kill thanked the illustrious god of the coffee plant. She brought the cup to her lips and just breathed deeply. It might be service station coffee, but goddamnit, it was coffee. After being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night on a cross country drive she sure as hell wasn’t going to be picky. She had grabbed a couple of Red Bulls for good measure too, and now stood in front of the plate glass window watching Phoebe dozing in the car. Well, Kill thought she was dozing. She could just be pretending so she could avoid talking, but that was hardly necessary, Kill had no idea what to say anyway. Still, she supposed she had to say something. She drowned the rest of her coffee in one go, and moved back to the car. Phoebe didn’t even stir as she slammed the door behind her.
“Red bull?” she asked, half-heartedly holding the can out to her sister. When no response was forthcoming, Kill sighed and placed the cans in the cup holders. She moved to turn the key in the ignition but stopped, turning in her seat to face her sister again.
“Pheebs?” she began, “Pheebs look at me please.”
Phoebe sniffled. “I’m trying to sleep here.”
“Yeah, funny thing, I was trying to do that not too long ago myself.”
Kill waited, but her sister seemed completely shut off. Taking a deep breath, she decided to go for the obvious.
“Phoebe, what happened?” she asked gently, resting a hand on her arm, “Did something happen with Van?”
Phoebe jerked upright like a current had run through her. She rounded on Kill, eyes burning. “I don’t want to talk about Van!”
Kill gaped at her, startled at the severity of the reaction. Before she could respond, Phoebe slumped back into her seat, looking so utterly defeated, Kill could hardly believe it was actually her sister.
“Just take me home Kiley, please” she mumbled, turning her face back to the window, “I just want to go home.”

~

Kill pulled up outside Phoebe’s apartment feeling utterly spent. It wasn’t just the five hours worth of driving in the middle of the bloody night that did it, it was the sense that her sister was falling apart and there was nothing she could do about it. They hadn’t spoken at all on the drive back into town and except for the brief exchange when Kill tried to convince Phoebe to come back home with her to which Pheebs had reacted violently against, there was nothing but a draining silence in the car. Kill had no idea what had happened and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Whatever it was, it had to have been bad. She’d never seen Phoebe like this, and she couldn’t even begin to imagine what could have led to it. All she knew was that she desperately wanted to take it away. Whatever was crushing her sister, she wanted to make it disappear and make sure it never came back. She had no idea how to do that though. If there was one thing Kill hated more than anything else, more than cinnamon sticks or vanilla or driving at night, it was feeling helpless. So when Phoebe eventually managed to get out of the car, and stumble along the path to her apartment block, all Kill could think to do was to run after her and just draw her into the biggest, tightest hug she could possible give. Phoebe seemed resistant at first, unwilling to be touched, but eventually she relented and allowed Kill to just hold on to her for a bit.
“Do you want me to stay?” Kill asked quietly.
“No.” Phoebe drew in a shaky breath, shaking her head slightly. “No, I just need space. And time. Time’s good.”
Kill pulled back to look at her. “Are you sure?”
Phoebe nodded.
“Call me, ok?”
Phoebe nodded again.
“Will you be – ” Kill began, but Pheebs interrupted, waving her hand.
“Fine, fine. Go. I’ll call.”
Kill took one last uncertain look at her before moving back to the car. She buckled her seatbelt and watched her sister’s form disappear into her apartment block. Taking a shaky breath of her own, Kill pulled away from the kerb. She ran two red lights on the way home, the last one earning her an angry beep from another driver. Kill found she didn’t care. She also didn’t care whether a licence made her more useful to a touring band. All she cared about was that for once she could actually be of some use to her sister. Huh, Kill thought as she finally pulled into the driveway, the ends justify the means. Who would have thought it?

Music: Good to know if I ever need attention - Brand New
Mood: Tired

Etched with marks, but I can deal

Prompt: This was spontaneously prompted by the following two lines - “The palest ink is better than the sharpest memory” [Chinese Proverb] and “I will follow you into the dark” [song by Death Cab For Cutie].
Characters: Eric Hayes (Amped), allusions to Kiley Marshall and Anthony Galvin.
Timeline: Shortly after the end of season 1
Word count: 446
Author’s comments: Another tortured Eric fic, oh the poor boy, stuck with an evil creator like me. Not that I’ve been alone in the creation of his demons, mind you. Still, I just had the buzz to do something a bit more introspective. ESM have gone off to record an album but he’s stayed behind, unwilling to leave uni when it’s the only thing that he’s held on to for so long. He was unable to actually explain this to Kill of course, so there’s a whole other level of angst to be had on her behalf. So he’s sitting around feeling conflicted, still longing for what he lost and for what he’s given up. I also just realise how appropriate this song is - “That face is tearing holes in me again.” Actually, I should do another one based on the last line of the song – “I’m holding on by letting go of you.” Hmmm *ponders*

***

This isn’t the first time.

My vices are all lined up. The drugs. The booze. The sex. It all comes back to one thing. Your face swims in my mind, blurred by an ever present guilt. With you, I was whole. I had a purpose. I had plans. You made me want it. For a moment, I saw the future and it was magic. The problem with magic is that it doesn’t last. It’s all smoke and mirrors and quick hands. I wasn’t fast enough. I missed a trick. Everything imploded. Everything but me.

Self destruction.

I kept going for you. That didn’t mean I had to enjoy it. Hell, I couldn’t enjoy it. There was nothing left in your absence, time stretching ahead to the precipe of a yawning cavern. In a way I followed you into the dark. Mine was just a living hell strewn with nameless faces, interchangeable scenes, and hateful flings…all just to accentuate the fact that nothing meant anything, and there was no consolation.

Then there was her.

A persistent image, both impossible and infuriating. Splashes of colour and life, threatening the careful boundaries I carved in order to justify my existence, to tolerate it. Something stirred and with it came the shame, the betrayal. Everything I had was tied to you. I lost myself. She found the pieces, and with it came dreams and inspiration. She made me want it. The edges of my existence glowed in technicolour. How could I let her get that close? There was meaning again, and it was dangerous. I had no right to want this. I didn’t deserve it.

I was right.

Your shadow lingers, I can trace the echo of it. It’s an unconscious move I have perfected in the years I’ve spent alone. She left when I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I can’t leave you behind. I can’t let go, and lose what little of you I have left. I also can’t hold her back. What would you say now, if you were with me and we were watching the disintegration of some poor lovelorn soul? Would you lean against me, shaking your head, and outlining the pros of just going for it? After all, you always were a hopeless romantic.

These thoughts tear holes through me.

I line them up metaphorically, logical and neat. The sex. The booze. The drugs. Not to think, not to feel, just to exist and forget that any of it is real. I knew you’d haunt me forever, welcomed it in fact, but I never thought I’d be haunted by another ghost of missed chances.

This isn’t the first time. I don’t have the strength to make it the last.

Music: Straitjacket feeling - The All American Rejects
Mood: Pensive

If I didn't care, would it feel this way

I'm stealing the proper header thing from Abs.

Prompt: "Between an immensity of land and an immensity of sky they sat there, incomprehensible, smiling at a continent."- Douglas Adams, Last Chance to See.
Characters: Phoenix Nesser and Quentin Mitchell (Soliloquy)
Timeline: Close to the end, before she heads to San Francisco.
Word count: 884
Author’s comments: I have no idea what I'm doing here. The prompt seemed to call for something nicer but I couldn't really come up with anything. Besides, Phoenix is going to settle soon so it is kinda optimistic in that sense. She's making peace with her lot, and things will get back to normal with Q and Jameson eventually. She just can't be around them. But yeah. It won't be anything like this when I FINALLY get around to writing it. For one thing, Soliloquy is in first person. I've noticed all my exercises so far have been third, which is probably good, I need the practice. Since I've discovered first person, I hardly ever write in third if I can help it.

***

Phee stood at the edge of the lake, staring across the calm water. A faint breeze freed a strand of hair but she ignored it, completely lost in thought. A figure emerged and made its way towards her. Quentin walked carefully, watching his feet, hands jammed firmly in his pockets. She seemed to feel his presence and her postured tightened. She stood straighter, seeming more rigid somehow. Phee made no overt move to recognise his presence, and kept her eyes trained on the horizon. He hesitated for a few moments, reading the subtlety of her body language that their years of friendship had well versed him in, and then moved to stand alongside her.
“Phee.”
He merely breathed the name and the wind took it and blew it across the water. The distant shore felt as distant as the girl next to him. She squeezed her eyes tightly, she seemed to be waiting for something but Q didn’t say anything more. Glancing at her passive face from the corner of his eye, he suppressed a sigh and turned his attention to the water instead.
Q didn’t understand the awkwardness that was now between them. He couldn’t understand how he could have been so stupid. He wasn't used to this Phoenix, the unreachable one, the one who was an expert at removing herself from others. He remembered the Phee who broke Luke Tucker’s fingers in the sixth grade after he tripped Q in the hall, or the Phee picking him up after a particularly rowdy house party that left him feeling drunk for about two days afterwards. He remembered a Phee that helped him memorize Shakespeare quotes for his exam, and who then yelled at him for not paying attention cause X-Men was on. Now he didn't know if he could still reach that particular version of Phoenix Nesser.
“Are you happy Q?” she asked, startling him out of his thoughts. He dragged his eyes up from the water to look at her, but she was still staring across the lake.
“I am. I really am. Well, I mean, I’d be happier if we....”
“Are you in love?”
“I…well…I don’t…” he stuttered, unsure of what the appropriate answer would be, and wondering if he even had an answer at all, let alone an appropriate one.
“Does he love you?” she asked quietly, interrupting again.
“I don’t know.”
Phee glanced at from the corner of her eye. The movement was quick and subtle, Q missed it completely.
“Why do this then? Why act on it?”
“I didn’t plan this you know.”
Phee sighed and closed her eyes again. Q took her hand and the simple gesture made her breath hitch slightly. It felt like everything was crushing down on her, suddenly and unexpectedly. Her hurt told her to pull her hand back but she was scared that letting go meant being lost in all this uncertainty.
This was familiar. This was how it was meant to be, how it used to be. When Phoenix was six, she tripped during a game of tag and skinned her knee. Q never left her side and he had held her hand while his mum cleaned the cut. At eleven, when she broke her arm, it was Q who was there for her. Then there was fourteen, where he held her hand all through the night after a particularly bad fight with her mother. Phee had always needed Q, and he had always been there. In fact, the only reason he had come to town in the first place was because she had needed him. All this had happened because he thought he should be around, just in case. She had raged and ran away, not once, but twice. She had hurt him, and used him, and still there he was, after all the madness, still holding her hand.
He squeezed her hand lightly and she returned the gesture.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. Phee finally turned to look at him.
She knew it was selfish of her. He had nothing to apologize for. But this time was different from all the others. It had always been her battles, her demons, and not his. He wasn’t just there to hold her hand this time, he had accountability. Phee needed to hear those words. It had hurt. It did hurt. But deep down she knew it wasn't his fault.
Phee leant into him, nudging him with her shoulder and nodding her head across the water.
“Still feels like the beach, huh?”
He smiled and nudged her back. “Always.”
“Tell me this is something you’ll be missing.”
“Always.” He repeated earnestly, meeting her gaze.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Q wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. They stood staring out across the water. Phee sighed and her posture changed again slightly, a resolute expression on her face. Q instinctively knew what the change meant and pulled her closer to him.
“Where are you running to this time?” he asked quietly.
“Wherever the first flight takes me.”
“Don’t go.”
“You know I have to.”
“I’m sorry.”
She sighed. "Feels like all we're doing is apologizing."
"But I am sorry."
“Don't be.”
They stood in silence as the last few traces of daylight faded from the sky. Then slowly, Phoenix extracted herself from under his arm. She pecked him on the cheek, and when he didn’t turn, she gave a faint smile and walked away.

Music: Claire de lune - Debussy
Mood: Tired

I'm a fool for you

Okay, writing prompt exercise numero duos. It be this picture -

The piece doesn't really adhere to it strictly, but the underlying principle is the same. This time it features some of the cast of Soliloquy - Phoenix Nesser, Jameson and Zildjian Wright, and the random Tate twins who I namedrop whenever it suits me. Word count at 477.

***

Phoenix stood at the glass doors, staring out at the pool beyond. Jameson lay next to the edge, lazily trailing his hands through the water, while Michigan Tate floated along on the water lounge. Her unbelievable blonde hair, which had no right to exist outside of a shampoo commercial, fanned out around her like a halo as it seemed to trap the sunlight. Michigan’s twin brother emerged from the far end of the pool, blinking water out of his sleepy blue eyes as he shook his head like a wet dog. It earned him a splash as reprimand but the action only made him smile widely. Phee shook her head. The word impish came to mind.
“What is this? A halfway house for misguided celebrity offspring?” she muttered, narrowing her eyes as Jameson propped himself up on one elbow as Michigan floated closer to his side.
A snort behind her made her turn around. Zil was sitting at the dining room table, arching an eyebrow over the piece of paper he was holding up.
“Pot. Kettle. Black.”
“Where did you learn to talk like that?” she asked, casting another look at the pool.
“TV. Shocking, isn’t it?”
Phee threw a grin at him only to find him focused intently on the paper again. She sighed and moved closer to glance over his shoulder. The dark wood table was barely visible under the sheaves of paper, all covered in what ranged from scribbles to random detailed images to what looked like storyboards. Phee moved a few around, picking one up to study it more closely.
“You’re making a comic book?” she asked, surprised.
“Graphic novel.”
“That’s very um –”
“Nerdy? Yeah, I know.”
“I was going to say awesome.”
He looked up and grinned at her, and she returned the gesture fondly. There was a smudge of graphite on his left cheek but Phee didn’t say anything. It suited the boy somehow. He turned his attention back to his work, blonde hair falling into his eyes as he bent closer to his creation. Oh yeah, she could see him as an artist. An artist and a heartbreaker, given a few more years. Just like his brother, she mused, only with more introspection and less swagger.
Her eyes followed the natural progression of her thoughts out to Jameson who was now making a show of diving into the pool. He cut through the water smoothly, sending out ripples across the surface. The metaphor didn’t escape Phee; after all Jameson sent little ripples out around him with his every movement. Or at least he did where she was concerned. She watched him resurface and he caught her eye, grinning and tilting his head back in a clear invitation.
“Such a sucker for a sweet talker,” she murmured under her breath. With a sigh, she stepped out onto the deck.

Music: Supermassive Black Hole - Muse
Mood: Caffeinated

With every mistake, we must surely be learning

The first of my new writing exercise regime.

The prompt for this was the following line from Hey Jude by The Beatles (of course) - The minute you let her under your skin, then you begin to make it better. It features Eric and Kill from Amped, and comes in at 844 words. It's probably not the best, but hey, practice makes perfect (and for those who don't know, no, I don't write mindless romantic dribble, there's some real shit going on in Amped, but this is just a snippet of a bigger whole...all these exercises will be like that, I am more trying to just write as opposed to actually convey an entire story in a few hundered words, so yeah, just keep that in mind.)

***

How did things come to this? When exactly did he let things get so out of his control that he ended up punching some or other tour manager and standing in the flowerbed outside a label party? Eric wished he knew.
Another wretch from the girl next to him distracted him from his thoughts and he turned to her, rubbing soothing circles on her back as she doubled over. He didn’t bother masking his concern as Kill shook with the force of her body exorcising the litres of Snakebite she’d downed during the night. Her hair fell haphazardly across her face, sticking slightly to a pale cheek. Eric noticed her hair was getting longer and more dishevelled. They were all going that way. There was hardly time to sleep on tour, let alone maintain hairstyles. Of course Phoebe had been threatening to tie them all down and shear them, but Tyler had been a little too keen on helping and no one really wanted to let him near a pair of scissors if they could help it.
He smiled at the thought and almost unconsciously brushed the stray hair behind her ear. He liked it that little bit longer. It made her seem more fragile somehow, like someone who might actually need him. Kill’s eyes snapped open at the motion, and when she looked at him, it was both grateful and angry. There was something else too. Something that made his stomach tighten but he quickly suppressed it, forcing himself to deny he even saw it in the green depths of her gaze in the first place.
He looked away quickly and she straightened. Yeah sure, she needed him. She needed him like he needed Tyler’s Metallica binges when he had a hangover.
“I don’t get you Hayes,” she said quietly. He titled his head slightly at the sound, but didn’t turn to face her. He could imagine her perfectly, outlined in the haze of the not-quite-full moon surrounded by trampled flowers, with her hands on her hips and her eyes narrowed.
He couldn’t do this. Not to her. He didn’t deserve it, and she certainly deserved better. If he turned around and met that gaze, the one that was always searching and which always seemed to see too much, he wouldn’t be able to turn away, and he knew that he should. He was broken and a part of him didn’t want to be fixed.
He scrunched his eyes and tried to hold onto the feelings, the loss and the guilt that kept him up so many nights. It was too easy to forget things when he was with Kill, too easy to want to be whole again. He sighed and opened his eyes only to find her standing in front of him, concern outweighing the wealth of emotion in her eyes. God, she had such honest eyes.
“Are you ok?” She touched his arm and he started, backing away from her. Kill immediately brought up her defences, fire in her voice again as she stared him down.
“What do you want from me?” she spat, hand on her hip just as he’d imagined it.
Eric opened his mouth to respond only to find he had no witty reply, no sarcastic observation to hide behind. He tripped over his words and cursed his overenthusiastic alcohol intake which was no doubt to blame for this entire fucking mess.
“I – I want to love you.” The words tumbled out on their own accord and as Eric heard them cutting through the night, he blinked in surprise to find that they were in fact his. Kill stared at him, a mirror of his own reaction.
“I want to let myself love you,” he said again, barely more than a whisper.
She shook her head, slowly, as if rolling the phrase around her head. She didn't take her eyes off him before she moved, closing the distance between them again.
“You don’t know what you want, do you?”
Eric dropped his eyes to the floor as he gave a barely audible reply. “I wish I did.”
Kill said nothing. Instead, she took his hand and squeezed lightly. He stared at their hands for a second before he laced his fingers through hers. What was it about his girl that always put him so off his guard? She was determined to break through his best defences and he wanted to let her through. But he knew where that would end. Still, the basic human contact, the comfort of being touched, of being cared for…it felt better than he was willing to admit to himself. It all came down to basic risk assessment, and he was far too drunk to make any proper decisions.
“We should get back to the van” he said finally.
“Yeah, we should.”
She shivered and Eric extracted his hand and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She smiled up at him, wrapping her own around his waist. Together they walked down the sloping driveway and into the night, neither one saying a word.

Music: I've just seen a face - Jim Sturgess
Mood: Busy