New fic
Title: It's Weird
Rating: I honestly don't know...PG to R.
Author: Excuse_To_Rock (Meeeee)
Pairing: The vampire Lestat and a blue monkey. It's vam, of course!
Summary: Hmm...not good with these. Basically Ville's life is going downhill and a certain someone saves him. Will Ville admit his love for that certain someone or will he continue to deny it?
Notes: It starts out pretty angsty (In my opinion, anyway, But gradually lightens up. There are cutting scenes so if you don't like that, don't read.
Anyway, here we go.
This is the prolouge.
It's weird...weird how I went from a happy, vibrant, sweet little thing to this depressed, silent, scowling shadow lurking about in the darkness. It's weird how, just like that, my life spiraled downhill. How I realized the cruelty of my own parents was killing me slowly, another rusty needle being shoved into my heart every waking moment of my life. And it's weird how fucking long it took me to realize all this. How long it took me to actually look at myself in the mirror and realize that I'm nothing but a failure. A fucking worthless punching bag that hardly deserves to even be a punching bag. The few people that consider themselves my 'friends' always grab me and stare at the endless rows of scars on my wrists, asking just as many questions and telling me I'll end up in some mental institution or even rehab if I continue down the path I'm on. Tell me that if my parents find out, I'm definately headed for someplace I'll hate, and that it's a wonder my parents haven't found out. But...they have. They know about the scars. They've seen them, but haven't asked questions, haven't said a word. I'm used to it, but for some reason it still hurts. The teachers at school saw it too. They called my parents, sent me to the nurse, the counselor, even the shrink down the street. Seriously. They gave me a pass and shoved me out the door. But...That was years ago, and the shrink didn't understand me at all, much less help me. The nurse didn't either, nor did the counselor. Nobody fucking understands me, or the little things I do to make myself forget about my life for as long as I can. The little things I do aren't even little, in all honesty. Is doing drugs a 'little' thing? Is slitting your wrists nearly every night a 'little' thing? Is creating a gaping wound on every concealable part of your body 'little'? No, none of those things really are little, especially the part about slicing yourself so deep your guts nearly fall on the floor. It sounds really grotesque, but....I dunno.....seeing my own blood flow in pretty little rivers down my arms, across my stomach, just...comforts me. The cool bite of the razor when I cut does the same. Maybe I'm sadistic. Maybe I'm a vampire. The one brave soul who dared to date me called me a vampire when I bit their neck. It was an urge....I love the taste, the look, the feel of blood. So...I guess you could call me a vampire.You could call me a lot of things, really...a vampire, a druggie, a suicidal freak.....they're all true, and they don't phase me. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me. But it's not really like that. Being called every name known to the human race does hurt, but I'm so used to it I hardly notice it anymore. And my bones being broken would hurt, but the feeling would probably make me feel like that again. Like I'm drowing in black water, but I'm not struggling to breathe, to swim back to the surface and see the sun again. The feeling is peaceful, the silence is like a home to me...a home I don't have outside the water. I'm just drowning...kind of floating actually, but I'm really sinking farther into the inky abyss. It took me a few times to realize that the water was really my own soul, black, silent, comforting to me, yet frightening to anyone who could see it. They told me the eyes are a window to a person's soul...and I guess mine are the clearest window they've seen in a while. I honestly don't see it though. Maybe it's because the green is so dark and cloudy all the time. Maybe that's how they can see inside of me so well, because of the look in my eyes. The look of sorrow, heartache, loneliness, and even a hint of death. They see all these things just by looking into my eyes. They can see that murky abyss without even trying. They say that I always look so sad, so pale, so heartbroken, so........dead. They say that even with a rose in my hand, I have the appearance of a walking corpse. And...unlike everything else in my life, I quite like the thought, but I put no effort into further 'improving' my deceased looks. And, as I sit here, writing this little piece of my life in this tattered notebook, while I sit here telling you my life story, I think. I think about what it would be ike to actually be dead. To be free of all the things holding me back, to let loose and be able to be happy for once without having to close my eyes and drown in my tears with the result still far from happiness. To be able to be an actual human being, to be spoken to without the speaker being afraid of me, to be....alive. It's kinda weird, ya know? How for me to feel alive, I'd really be dead. It's weird how, as I pick up my razor, put it to my wrist, and drag it, how I lay back, eyes shut, that I begin to feel alive. It's weird how I feel myself slipping away, drowing in that inky abyss inside myself. It's weird how long it's taken me to let myself go this far. And it's weird how, for once in my life, I feel alive.
____________________________________
Like it? Love it? Comments keep me writing, loves!
Rating: I honestly don't know...PG to R.
Author: Excuse_To_Rock (Meeeee)
Pairing: The vampire Lestat and a blue monkey. It's vam, of course!
Summary: Hmm...not good with these. Basically Ville's life is going downhill and a certain someone saves him. Will Ville admit his love for that certain someone or will he continue to deny it?
Notes: It starts out pretty angsty (In my opinion, anyway, But gradually lightens up. There are cutting scenes so if you don't like that, don't read.
Anyway, here we go.
This is the prolouge.
It's weird...weird how I went from a happy, vibrant, sweet little thing to this depressed, silent, scowling shadow lurking about in the darkness. It's weird how, just like that, my life spiraled downhill. How I realized the cruelty of my own parents was killing me slowly, another rusty needle being shoved into my heart every waking moment of my life. And it's weird how fucking long it took me to realize all this. How long it took me to actually look at myself in the mirror and realize that I'm nothing but a failure. A fucking worthless punching bag that hardly deserves to even be a punching bag. The few people that consider themselves my 'friends' always grab me and stare at the endless rows of scars on my wrists, asking just as many questions and telling me I'll end up in some mental institution or even rehab if I continue down the path I'm on. Tell me that if my parents find out, I'm definately headed for someplace I'll hate, and that it's a wonder my parents haven't found out. But...they have. They know about the scars. They've seen them, but haven't asked questions, haven't said a word. I'm used to it, but for some reason it still hurts. The teachers at school saw it too. They called my parents, sent me to the nurse, the counselor, even the shrink down the street. Seriously. They gave me a pass and shoved me out the door. But...That was years ago, and the shrink didn't understand me at all, much less help me. The nurse didn't either, nor did the counselor. Nobody fucking understands me, or the little things I do to make myself forget about my life for as long as I can. The little things I do aren't even little, in all honesty. Is doing drugs a 'little' thing? Is slitting your wrists nearly every night a 'little' thing? Is creating a gaping wound on every concealable part of your body 'little'? No, none of those things really are little, especially the part about slicing yourself so deep your guts nearly fall on the floor. It sounds really grotesque, but....I dunno.....seeing my own blood flow in pretty little rivers down my arms, across my stomach, just...comforts me. The cool bite of the razor when I cut does the same. Maybe I'm sadistic. Maybe I'm a vampire. The one brave soul who dared to date me called me a vampire when I bit their neck. It was an urge....I love the taste, the look, the feel of blood. So...I guess you could call me a vampire.You could call me a lot of things, really...a vampire, a druggie, a suicidal freak.....they're all true, and they don't phase me. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me. But it's not really like that. Being called every name known to the human race does hurt, but I'm so used to it I hardly notice it anymore. And my bones being broken would hurt, but the feeling would probably make me feel like that again. Like I'm drowing in black water, but I'm not struggling to breathe, to swim back to the surface and see the sun again. The feeling is peaceful, the silence is like a home to me...a home I don't have outside the water. I'm just drowning...kind of floating actually, but I'm really sinking farther into the inky abyss. It took me a few times to realize that the water was really my own soul, black, silent, comforting to me, yet frightening to anyone who could see it. They told me the eyes are a window to a person's soul...and I guess mine are the clearest window they've seen in a while. I honestly don't see it though. Maybe it's because the green is so dark and cloudy all the time. Maybe that's how they can see inside of me so well, because of the look in my eyes. The look of sorrow, heartache, loneliness, and even a hint of death. They see all these things just by looking into my eyes. They can see that murky abyss without even trying. They say that I always look so sad, so pale, so heartbroken, so........dead. They say that even with a rose in my hand, I have the appearance of a walking corpse. And...unlike everything else in my life, I quite like the thought, but I put no effort into further 'improving' my deceased looks. And, as I sit here, writing this little piece of my life in this tattered notebook, while I sit here telling you my life story, I think. I think about what it would be ike to actually be dead. To be free of all the things holding me back, to let loose and be able to be happy for once without having to close my eyes and drown in my tears with the result still far from happiness. To be able to be an actual human being, to be spoken to without the speaker being afraid of me, to be....alive. It's kinda weird, ya know? How for me to feel alive, I'd really be dead. It's weird how, as I pick up my razor, put it to my wrist, and drag it, how I lay back, eyes shut, that I begin to feel alive. It's weird how I feel myself slipping away, drowing in that inky abyss inside myself. It's weird how long it's taken me to let myself go this far. And it's weird how, for once in my life, I feel alive.
____________________________________
Like it? Love it? Comments keep me writing, loves!