Re: Fundamental [2/3]
anonymous
July 4 2010, 19:01:57 UTC
It was one of the small blessings of his climate, he occasionally thought, that no-one would question a man for long sleeves and long trousers in all parts of the year. He could feel the fresh cuts in his skin, neatly bandaged so they would not bleed into his blouse or his jumper, never quite smarting unless he moved just right, but ever present. Eternal. Fundamental.
When he went out of an evening, however, that was a different matter. When he dropped his propriety for a few hours, he would retain his sleeves but not bother with keeping them tucked down. Not mind if the holes in his jeans fell over a fresh incision. Not fear for discovery. Even if these people noticed, these comfortable citizens of his-- Soho tonight, home, as much a part of his beloved capitol as the pristine City of London streets-- even if they saw, they understood. It was his own affair, and they knew that as well as he. They would let him find his own way. Not that they didn't care, oh, no! Any one of them would have had a thousand words of comfort and encouragement if he'd asked-- but how were they to know he wasn't, say, weaning himself off it slowly, or that anything they saw wasn't the very last cut he'd ever make? They simply knew to let him take care of his own troubles, and for that he adored them.
Tonight he spent a few hours wandering about the streets. He bought an apple from a vendor, peered at a selection of badges in a shop window. He talked for some time to a few American students on an exchange trip, who had snuck away from their group for the hour they were allowed free reign for shopping (American priorities, he thought, and chuckled to himself). He took to them at once, even if he could see the glimmer of Alfred in their eyes. One of the girls had hair like his, though it looked nothing similar-- brown and straight and... perhaps it was the fundamental American quality of it, the style that so dearly idolised his magazines, his models. He found his gaze drifting to it as they talked, as they asked him about the city and he told them things no mortal should know. They thought he was telling tales.
That girl placed her hand over his for a moment before she left. He watched her brunette head bob away through his beloved streets.
He returned home in a bad state. There was a knotting in the pit of his belly, a guilt and a hatred for he knew not what. He needed to lash out, needed to deal out a proper beating upon himself. His movements as calm as they ever had been, hands not even trembling, he closed his door with a finite click that made him safe again. Here, no-one would find him. Here, no-one would stop him.
The ritual had changed over the years, but was ever a ritual, nonetheless. For a period of time it had been a dagger, then a lash, then a kitchen knife, then a sword. Now he went up the two flights of stairs of the thin, long house, his own possessions seeming almost foreign to him because they weren't inside, weren't inside this head of his with the darkness behind his eyes that had been shouting at him since the evening. All he knew for the moment, all he understood, was that shouting.
At the top of the stairs was his little bedroom, and in the desk drawer was a knife. It was a fine piece, good workmanship. When he'd bought it, it was the sharpest mortal blade he had ever seen, the closest men could get to Excalibur. (He had never held Excalibur, simply stared and marveled at it as it glimmered in the hands of the best king he had ever known.) It was likely made for chopping meat, but seemed almost too ornamental for such a thing-- he remembered how he'd seen it and recognised that it had no real purpose, wasn't certain what it was meant to do. "I will give you a purpose," he'd thought. It was his.
Fundamental [3/4] damn character limits
anonymous
July 4 2010, 19:04:01 UTC
He took it reverentially with him into the bath, laid it on the counter to shrug off his jumper and stare for a good few minutes at his marred skin. It was appropriate, somehow, that he should be so. Truth. Fundamental. There was a particularly nasty whorl of white that contorted the skin on the left of his ribs, another slicing across his belly as though he'd been stabbed-- he had. A gash on his right from some barbed wire during the First Great War. If that war had ended all wars, as they'd all said it would, he'd still be in control of his own body. His scars would be nearly all of his own doing. Instead, his chest and belly and back were a patchwork of lines and patches and curls, twisted, unnatural.
The newest scars were at the top of his right arm, almost the shoulder. Almost a week old-- dear lord, had he really waited this long?-- and straight, thin lines all in a row but for the one that spanned the others at a diagonal, turning every one of his neat cuts into a cross. He'd not planned it that way, but it pleased him. It seemed good. He'd become nearly ambidextrous at this, by now; his right arm was nearly as neat as his left. There was no real semblance of pattern to it, no great vision he was carving into his skin. It was the action which compelled him, the result merely secondary.
He climbed into the bath proper in case he cut too deep and began to bleed more than he could quickly wipe up, staring vaguely at his body to decide where would be best. He decided upon a matrix of cuts on the inside of his left forearm, beginning to fade. They could do with re-opening.
He didn't have to saw like at meat, or even move the little knife much at all. Clearing his mind of emotion and drawing in a calm breath, he simply aligned the edge of the blade with one of the old lines and pressed, pressed down and in until he could see the dent in his skin, no, the cut, that looked like a dent because it wasn't bleeding yet. The pathetic physical reaction tried to take hold, but he was practised at ignoring it by now. He blinked the stinging tears out of his eyes, so he could see clearly again, and drew the knife along the fresh cut as he took it away.
Now it bled, yes, welling up from the depths of the delicate little line. He stared for a moment. The sight was familiar to him, as familiar as the cold feeling that rode along with the pain, alongside and underneath it. It was good. It was good, but slow and neat, pressing and dragging was only appropriate for re-opening. It was maintenance, that was all.
Creation was quicker, deeper, harsher. A long, firm swipe across the curve of his left shoulder, three across his right thigh. The lines stayed shining in his mind, tangible-- if he closed his eyes, they were all that remained of his body. A set of eyes, and a plethora of thin, delicate strokes of pain. Even as he blinked the tears from his eyes, he needed more, wanted more-- he cursed himself for letting go to emotion, as he always did, and more slashes followed almost of their own accord. Under the front of his left knee, across the back of his right calf, what felt like a hundred across the back of his right arm. He passed the knife from hand to hand to reach any place of unmarred or insufficiently-marred skin. He always did, and yet there were always more.
Fundamental [4/4]
anonymous
July 4 2010, 19:05:48 UTC
Blood came down his body in thin rivulets, beading out of the cuts until it was too heavy to remain. It was good, dark blood, thick and red under the bright lights. He watched it for a time, watched it follow the contours of his arms and legs, watched it drip to the bottom of the dry bath and sit, splotches flattening and growing sticky until he could feel them as he peeled himself up from the floor of the bath.
He was sticky and filthy. He turned on the shower with disgust, but no shame.
This was how it went. Simple, fundamental. He washed his hair, making sure his hands were free of blood first so he'd not stain it. He scrubbed his arms and legs relentlessly, gritting his teeth against the pain as the cloth rubbed harshly across the slits in his skin, as new blood poured forth, at the sting of soap and the exertion that made him feel almost faint. It was silly, he hadn't lost that much blood. But he felt faint, all the same.
The blood cascaded down his body and became almost orange, diluted by the water of the shower. He didn't pay much attention to it as it swirled, thin and extruding into the strangest shapes, down the drain. He'd seen it too many times before.
It was a fundamental truth about Arthur Kirkland that half the time his wounds were re-opened before they even had time to scar.
--------- [Captcha says: "the bughouse". Yes, Captcha. If he were human, he'd likely be sent there. Anyway. That's the end, please forgive first-time-filler's fail.]
Re: Fundamental [4/4]
anonymous
July 5 2010, 01:22:45 UTC
T-Thank god for the anonymity. Arthur's train of thoughts was entrancing to read, as were his actions. I almost passed over the fill because it said no happy ending, but I'm glad I didn't. Even if I'll need lots of comedy shows after this to cheer myself up.
When he went out of an evening, however, that was a different matter. When he dropped his propriety for a few hours, he would retain his sleeves but not bother with keeping them tucked down. Not mind if the holes in his jeans fell over a fresh incision. Not fear for discovery. Even if these people noticed, these comfortable citizens of his-- Soho tonight, home, as much a part of his beloved capitol as the pristine City of London streets-- even if they saw, they understood. It was his own affair, and they knew that as well as he. They would let him find his own way. Not that they didn't care, oh, no! Any one of them would have had a thousand words of comfort and encouragement if he'd asked-- but how were they to know he wasn't, say, weaning himself off it slowly, or that anything they saw wasn't the very last cut he'd ever make? They simply knew to let him take care of his own troubles, and for that he adored them.
Tonight he spent a few hours wandering about the streets. He bought an apple from a vendor, peered at a selection of badges in a shop window. He talked for some time to a few American students on an exchange trip, who had snuck away from their group for the hour they were allowed free reign for shopping (American priorities, he thought, and chuckled to himself). He took to them at once, even if he could see the glimmer of Alfred in their eyes. One of the girls had hair like his, though it looked nothing similar-- brown and straight and... perhaps it was the fundamental American quality of it, the style that so dearly idolised his magazines, his models. He found his gaze drifting to it as they talked, as they asked him about the city and he told them things no mortal should know. They thought he was telling tales.
That girl placed her hand over his for a moment before she left. He watched her brunette head bob away through his beloved streets.
He returned home in a bad state. There was a knotting in the pit of his belly, a guilt and a hatred for he knew not what. He needed to lash out, needed to deal out a proper beating upon himself. His movements as calm as they ever had been, hands not even trembling, he closed his door with a finite click that made him safe again. Here, no-one would find him. Here, no-one would stop him.
The ritual had changed over the years, but was ever a ritual, nonetheless. For a period of time it had been a dagger, then a lash, then a kitchen knife, then a sword. Now he went up the two flights of stairs of the thin, long house, his own possessions seeming almost foreign to him because they weren't inside, weren't inside this head of his with the darkness behind his eyes that had been shouting at him since the evening. All he knew for the moment, all he understood, was that shouting.
At the top of the stairs was his little bedroom, and in the desk drawer was a knife. It was a fine piece, good workmanship. When he'd bought it, it was the sharpest mortal blade he had ever seen, the closest men could get to Excalibur. (He had never held Excalibur, simply stared and marveled at it as it glimmered in the hands of the best king he had ever known.) It was likely made for chopping meat, but seemed almost too ornamental for such a thing-- he remembered how he'd seen it and recognised that it had no real purpose, wasn't certain what it was meant to do. "I will give you a purpose," he'd thought. It was his.
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The newest scars were at the top of his right arm, almost the shoulder. Almost a week old-- dear lord, had he really waited this long?-- and straight, thin lines all in a row but for the one that spanned the others at a diagonal, turning every one of his neat cuts into a cross. He'd not planned it that way, but it pleased him. It seemed good. He'd become nearly ambidextrous at this, by now; his right arm was nearly as neat as his left. There was no real semblance of pattern to it, no great vision he was carving into his skin. It was the action which compelled him, the result merely secondary.
He climbed into the bath proper in case he cut too deep and began to bleed more than he could quickly wipe up, staring vaguely at his body to decide where would be best. He decided upon a matrix of cuts on the inside of his left forearm, beginning to fade. They could do with re-opening.
He didn't have to saw like at meat, or even move the little knife much at all. Clearing his mind of emotion and drawing in a calm breath, he simply aligned the edge of the blade with one of the old lines and pressed, pressed down and in until he could see the dent in his skin, no, the cut, that looked like a dent because it wasn't bleeding yet. The pathetic physical reaction tried to take hold, but he was practised at ignoring it by now. He blinked the stinging tears out of his eyes, so he could see clearly again, and drew the knife along the fresh cut as he took it away.
Now it bled, yes, welling up from the depths of the delicate little line. He stared for a moment. The sight was familiar to him, as familiar as the cold feeling that rode along with the pain, alongside and underneath it. It was good. It was good, but slow and neat, pressing and dragging was only appropriate for re-opening. It was maintenance, that was all.
Creation was quicker, deeper, harsher. A long, firm swipe across the curve of his left shoulder, three across his right thigh. The lines stayed shining in his mind, tangible-- if he closed his eyes, they were all that remained of his body. A set of eyes, and a plethora of thin, delicate strokes of pain. Even as he blinked the tears from his eyes, he needed more, wanted more-- he cursed himself for letting go to emotion, as he always did, and more slashes followed almost of their own accord. Under the front of his left knee, across the back of his right calf, what felt like a hundred across the back of his right arm. He passed the knife from hand to hand to reach any place of unmarred or insufficiently-marred skin. He always did, and yet there were always more.
Reply
He was sticky and filthy. He turned on the shower with disgust, but no shame.
This was how it went. Simple, fundamental. He washed his hair, making sure his hands were free of blood first so he'd not stain it. He scrubbed his arms and legs relentlessly, gritting his teeth against the pain as the cloth rubbed harshly across the slits in his skin, as new blood poured forth, at the sting of soap and the exertion that made him feel almost faint. It was silly, he hadn't lost that much blood. But he felt faint, all the same.
The blood cascaded down his body and became almost orange, diluted by the water of the shower. He didn't pay much attention to it as it swirled, thin and extruding into the strangest shapes, down the drain. He'd seen it too many times before.
It was a fundamental truth about Arthur Kirkland that half the time his wounds were re-opened before they even had time to scar.
---------
[Captcha says: "the bughouse". Yes, Captcha. If he were human, he'd likely be sent there. Anyway. That's the end, please forgive first-time-filler's fail.]
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good job o:
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But good job! I really did like the writing style and everything! ^_^
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I grit my teeth through half of this. Very vivid, and a perfect closing sentence.
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