STORY STORY STORY! *beam*
YAH! Oh my gosh, I was just thinking about my fan-fiction story: "In Turmoil". It's so good! I really worked hard on it so far; it's prolly the most planned-out story I have ever written. I have an outline, and tons of little, neat stuff all ready to be written. I even have a one-shot companion piece in the works! I have most of the letters written- six I think, maybe all seven. Yeah, I just have to re-edit that last one. It has exactly nine chapters: a beginning, the seven middle chapters with the letters, and an end. Awesome! I am so freaking proud of this. Weird, considering that it's about a gigantic suicide note. It depresses me sometimes when I'm working on it, but then I remember... um, something good about it! I can't wait to see how it turns out. I'm really thinking about turning it into an original work. Heh, all I'd have to do was change the names and some of the situations. I'm pretty sure it's a good idea. Well, I wanted to get the prologue down so I'd have it.
"In Turmoil" Chp. 1 Part A- prologue.
Everything was lost. So the fact that he couldn't find one of his most prized possessions didn't matter, did it? The cause was hopless; that consuming bundle had faded off into an oblivion he wasn't part of. A prize- that was all it was. A final reward for all the years that had gone into shaping his suffering. He was chained to it- at any time, it could abandon him, but he... he would never, ever get away.
The whole room was in shambles, torn apart in a desperate fit of something akin to rage. Papers were strewn about the floor, piles collapsing, some tattered and ripped. Even drawers were out of place, snatched from the desk they rightfully belonged in and pitched clear across the room. The whole scene was a disaster area- a tribute to a fruitless search that had been only a product of desperation and depressive insomnia. Amid the mess, a lone soul sat pondering- aching for the purpose he couldn't seem to find.
He felt so tired he could barely breathe. Even tasks that used to delight him seemed to exhaust him seamlessly. He didn't really know how his life had caved in on him, and honestly he didn't really give a damn. All hope was gone, all belief in happpiness was lost, and everything that ever meant anything had faded away to leave him alone in a dismal, wretched abyss of treacherously deceptive quiet.
After so long, after he swore it wouldn't happen, he had finally been forced to admit defeat. And that fact threatened to break him- no, it had already broken him. He couldn't take another moment of agony; he was weak, he knew it, and he couldn't endure any of his own burdens. He was disgusted by his desire for release; the very fact that he could no longer bear his own suffering shamed him more than anything else ever could. Losing was not something he gave into lightly, and he had never before felt a greater sense of loss.
Previously, the cold leather office chair that stood imposingly in front of the desk with the missing drawers had housed him, but in a fit of frustration he had slumped to the floor. He sat among the papers and the scattered, miscellaneous junk, his head in his hands, staring at a miniscule stain on the floor.
"That's my lot in life," he said dully, a cold observation to the beckoning wind that howled inconsolably outside. "Nothing but a stain- a flaw, an imperfection marring the world." He sighed raggedly, tiredly, and squeezed his eyes shut.
"Why can't I just die? Why am I constantly forced to draw breath? And now I can't even find the one thing that held me together. I can't hold on to anything; even my sanity is slipping away. I'm a failure- nothing but a failure."
Laughter rang through the room, shuddering and disturbed. He couldn't help it; after years of claiming superiority and racing towards victory, he had suddenly found that he was nothing but a failed life- a useless excuse of a man.
Breathing heavily, he calmed his desperate laughing. He blinked twice and slowly brought his hand to his cheek. It was wet. "Am I... crying?" The realization seemed to shock him, but the teardro[s that stained his fingertips didn't lie. "I am. I can't believe it. I'm fucking crying." He never cried, it was only a way to show weakness, to prove that one could not control oneself.
The sudden desire to hurl himself out the window was overpowering. But he just sat there, lost and alone. Slowly, he stood and walked over. He put his fingertips on the glass and gazed outside intently. "Oh look. It's raining."
And as though that decided everything, he grabbed his coat and strode purposefully out of the room. A walk would be just what he needed to calm his shattered nerves. And in the storm, no one would be able to see those disgraceful tears.
*sigh* That's it. I like it, but I think it needs work. It's kind of draining to sit there and read it and type it all out, though. Poor guy; I wrote it and I feel bad for him. Oh well, I'll just have to hurry up and finish the story so the situation will be resolved. I might post the outline or a letter later, too. But like I said, kind of draining. Guess I'll go. bye bye bye
hannah -.-
(line from the companion piece- "As I watch him walk alone in the rain, all I can see is his sadness. And even when I close my eyes, his broken spirit is always there. I still see his world in turmoil, and his heart in pain." The title of that piece is "Walk in the Rain" )
"In Turmoil" Chp. 1 Part A- prologue.
Everything was lost. So the fact that he couldn't find one of his most prized possessions didn't matter, did it? The cause was hopless; that consuming bundle had faded off into an oblivion he wasn't part of. A prize- that was all it was. A final reward for all the years that had gone into shaping his suffering. He was chained to it- at any time, it could abandon him, but he... he would never, ever get away.
The whole room was in shambles, torn apart in a desperate fit of something akin to rage. Papers were strewn about the floor, piles collapsing, some tattered and ripped. Even drawers were out of place, snatched from the desk they rightfully belonged in and pitched clear across the room. The whole scene was a disaster area- a tribute to a fruitless search that had been only a product of desperation and depressive insomnia. Amid the mess, a lone soul sat pondering- aching for the purpose he couldn't seem to find.
He felt so tired he could barely breathe. Even tasks that used to delight him seemed to exhaust him seamlessly. He didn't really know how his life had caved in on him, and honestly he didn't really give a damn. All hope was gone, all belief in happpiness was lost, and everything that ever meant anything had faded away to leave him alone in a dismal, wretched abyss of treacherously deceptive quiet.
After so long, after he swore it wouldn't happen, he had finally been forced to admit defeat. And that fact threatened to break him- no, it had already broken him. He couldn't take another moment of agony; he was weak, he knew it, and he couldn't endure any of his own burdens. He was disgusted by his desire for release; the very fact that he could no longer bear his own suffering shamed him more than anything else ever could. Losing was not something he gave into lightly, and he had never before felt a greater sense of loss.
Previously, the cold leather office chair that stood imposingly in front of the desk with the missing drawers had housed him, but in a fit of frustration he had slumped to the floor. He sat among the papers and the scattered, miscellaneous junk, his head in his hands, staring at a miniscule stain on the floor.
"That's my lot in life," he said dully, a cold observation to the beckoning wind that howled inconsolably outside. "Nothing but a stain- a flaw, an imperfection marring the world." He sighed raggedly, tiredly, and squeezed his eyes shut.
"Why can't I just die? Why am I constantly forced to draw breath? And now I can't even find the one thing that held me together. I can't hold on to anything; even my sanity is slipping away. I'm a failure- nothing but a failure."
Laughter rang through the room, shuddering and disturbed. He couldn't help it; after years of claiming superiority and racing towards victory, he had suddenly found that he was nothing but a failed life- a useless excuse of a man.
Breathing heavily, he calmed his desperate laughing. He blinked twice and slowly brought his hand to his cheek. It was wet. "Am I... crying?" The realization seemed to shock him, but the teardro[s that stained his fingertips didn't lie. "I am. I can't believe it. I'm fucking crying." He never cried, it was only a way to show weakness, to prove that one could not control oneself.
The sudden desire to hurl himself out the window was overpowering. But he just sat there, lost and alone. Slowly, he stood and walked over. He put his fingertips on the glass and gazed outside intently. "Oh look. It's raining."
And as though that decided everything, he grabbed his coat and strode purposefully out of the room. A walk would be just what he needed to calm his shattered nerves. And in the storm, no one would be able to see those disgraceful tears.
*sigh* That's it. I like it, but I think it needs work. It's kind of draining to sit there and read it and type it all out, though. Poor guy; I wrote it and I feel bad for him. Oh well, I'll just have to hurry up and finish the story so the situation will be resolved. I might post the outline or a letter later, too. But like I said, kind of draining. Guess I'll go. bye bye bye
hannah -.-
(line from the companion piece- "As I watch him walk alone in the rain, all I can see is his sadness. And even when I close my eyes, his broken spirit is always there. I still see his world in turmoil, and his heart in pain." The title of that piece is "Walk in the Rain" )