original fiction: Hollow
Fandom: original - Dying Dreams verse
Language: English
Rating: R
Word count: ~ 1.800
Warnings: reference to past abuse and alcohol abuse, suicidal thoughts, angst, minor character death, implied incest, panic disorder.
Summary: He isn’t obsessed with her, because one can’t be obsessed with oxygen either, you simply need it to live, as he needs her. Written for the 'panic'
darkfantasybingo prompt.
A/N: Honestly, it scares me that I wrote this. I should have been writing an article, but family drama ensued, so this was the result. Hello there, new character, Jonathan Jacobson, you little sociopath!
Hollow
It starts as if someone is clawing at his chest with ice cold fingers. He gasps and wonders if he’s being cursed right now. He has many enemies and there are more than a few of them who can afford to pay a warlock to put harmful magic on him, and despite the fact that he is always careful with his personal effects to not let anything fall into the wrong hands, he knows he’s not perfect and could easily make a mistake.
The coldness in his chest starts to spread and he feels as if a vine is crawling around him and slowly pushes the air out of his lungs. His breaths become shallower, and a numb feeling creeps into his arms and fingers. His pulse beats faster, a galloping rhythm; as if his heart is a bird wanting to be freed from its cage, and he can easily imagine it, like some gruesome painting: a heart with wings, exploding out of some poor bastard’s torso. But in this case, he is the suffering one, he’s the one who’s dying, because in that moment he is so sure that it’s the end of everything, and all he’s done is for nothing.
He gets up painfully, slowly from his leather couch, and suddenly the world around him moves, slips, turns, and he isn’t sure how he’s not a shivering mess on the floor. He gulps the air, because he can’t breathe properly, and the lack of oxygen burns his lungs. He wills himself to take one step after the other to cross the room, to reach his salvation - or at least his makeshift remedy.
His hand is shaking while he pours a glass of the best whiskey he has, and all he feels is the all consuming hate. He loathes himself for being this weak, loathes his own mind and body because they betray him like this. He’s a goddamned sorcerer, he has magic, he is powerful beyond all things imaginable, he can summon demons and they are at his beck and call, yet he can’t fight these episodes. Not with magic anyway.
As he relishes in the alcohol’s burning feeling down his throat, he tries to catch his breath and stop the shivering, and he laughs out loud. A bitter and harsh sound, it’s like a knife glinting in the night. (He isn’t the type who laughs, maybe only when someone dies bloodily.) It’s so damn ironic, he thinks, that he is the most powerful being on earth, and he can fall apart so easily, he feels like he’s coming apart at the seams slowly and excruciatingly, and there isn’t a fucking thing he can do about it.
He can kill all kinds of monsters which haunt the night, but he’s as helpless as everyone when it comes down to this. He feels ashamedguiltyhumiliatedembarrassed because he is better than everyone else, he had to be, and yet when he’s all alone, he’s not so different.
The memories come unbidden in his mind like a dizzying kaleidoscope: the beatings, the never ending pain, and above all else, the all consuming anger. Anger, that’s what kept him alive, it was a red hotness in the cold and endless abyss of his heart, it was the fuel that kept him moving and planning, and what gave him the strength to do what he needed to. This hatred is like a sentinel being inside of him, he swears he feels it moving, lurking in the deepest and darkest parts of him, like a big and wild feline behind the zoo’s cage. He hates everyone, especially his mother, who was a weak bitch, and would let him die just to please that spineless jerk, who called himself their father.
His grip tightens on the glass and before he it breaks in his hand, he hurls it at the wall, watching satisfied as it shatters into a million pieces and the slivers clink on the hardwood floor. He feels a small release and he can breathe again. Yes, he thinks, breaking things always had a calming effect on him: it seems as if the jumble of dark, cold, numbing and nightmarish things shy away from his violence. With strength, be it physical or magical, he is in control, and that is what matters.
He’s still weak, like he run a marathon, and the tiredness bites into his bones, but he can’t sleep, not yet, he needs to banish every morsel of this weakness, before he can relax again. He does what he forbade himself long ago: thinks of her. It’s like a punishment, his sick and twisted way to torture himself, because he was weak enough to let his monster out, to wreak havoc in his body and mind.
The memory of her is crystal clear, as if he’s looking at a photo of her, and he isn’t likely to forget her ever, as much as he tried, it seems impossible. The gentle smiles, soft and warm skin and even the familiar strawberry smell of her shampoo are as vivid in his mind, as if she’s right beside him. But she isn’t here, and it hits him as a physical pain, tearing at the hole in his chest, making the gap inside him wider. He doesn’t know how much he bears, when he would finally break and never wake up again, but one thing he knows for sure: without her everything is more difficult. It costs more to move, get up and exist. (It’s not living, not since a long time ago.)
He aches for her, and remembers the time when he was little and afraid of the dark, because that was always when the monster came and hurt them. That was the time when he started to get these annoying attacks, as if being betrayed by his own parents wasn’t enough, his body started acting out, too. As if being in constant fear wasn’t enough punishment, he had to cover up this sickness, too. He didn’t want anyone know about his little problem, but it would have been hard to keep it from her, and to his surprise she wasn’t disgusted, she even helped him in this, like in everything else.
Sometimes he got the feeling that they were one person, one soul, just the fate’s cruel twist put them into two separate bodies. Together they faced anything and everything; they freed themselves from their never ending nightmare without anybody’s help.
He misses her, though this word doesn’t even begin to describe how he really feels. She is a part of him, as much as he is a part of her, they would always end up together, he knows, and yet, the past few years without her were torturous. He waits and waits for her to return and even sent out people to search for her, but everyday when he comes to his bedroom and she’s not there he feels a pang of loss all over again. Day by day little pieces of his soul chip off and fade away, leaving him more jagged and broken. He wonders if she would even recognize him now, if she would be disappointed, if she hates him.
He wishes she was there, because she always eased his panic with calming words, loving jokes, soft touches and warm kisses. And because she’s off to God only knows where, he has to improvise, something he’s not so keen on, but does it anyway.
He calls for some girl, he doesn’t even know her name, and it doesn’t matter, none of them expect him to know or even respect them. They are just vacant dolls, jewelry at best in his house, all with the same petite figure, the same shade of honey brown hair and big blue eyes. All of them are bad copies of her, as if someone tried to draw her again and again, but couldn’t quite capture her essence. He isn’t obsessed with her, because one can’t be obsessed with oxygen either, you simply need it to live, as he needs her.
When the girl steps into his room, it’s way past midnight, but she is all smiles and seductive, flirty moves, they all used to his demands and are more than happy to satisfy him. Though the no name girl’s vulgar way is out of place, he suppresses the urge to cringe.
He isn’t shaking anymore, his breath is even, he only feels that mix of weariness and emptiness, but he can cover that up easily, and this little brainless doll wouldn’t notice it, even if it was there in plain sight.
She’s a daring one, she’s the one who kisses him, and in that moment it doesn’t bother him. He reaches into his dark recesses, to his power, and casts a masterfully crafted illusion on her, changing the scarce similar features into Her. He pulls away for a moment, to stare at her, to drink in every curve of her body, every little detail of her face, and though the girl’s stupid, lustful grin ruins his fantasy, he still kisses her hungrily.
It soon becomes a perfect picture of desire: hastily thrown clothes, soft moans, tender touches, sweaty skin, hard thrusts and screams of ecstasy. And after, when she lies beside him, wearing Her face, his self-delusion shatters and leaves a bitter taste. He curses himself for being this reckless again, to try to replace her, because in the end it makes everything worse. It proves that without her, he’s not whole, he’s almost nothing, and tries as he might he can’t replace her. Because when he’s with her, she fills him with her warmth and love, and now he has the same hungry coldness eating him alive as always.
“Violet,” he turns to the girl, who only wears Violet’s façade like some dress that doesn’t really fit her. That stupid doll just smiles at him lazily and his anger is rearing up again. “Why did you leave me?” His question is soft, yet desperate, his voice is full of the need he can’t quiet quench, and it even surprises the girl, but before she can fabricate whatever comforting lie she can concoct, his hands find her neck.
At first, it can be seen as a tender caress and the girl does nothing against it, but in a little while his intentions are clear even to her. Soon it’s all gasping breaths, futile struggling, blood and finally that satisfying crack of a bone. Yes, he thinks as he wipes clean the scratches on his arms, he could always fill his freezing cold emptiness with the sweet thrill of destruction, and the utterly intoxicating feeling of holding someone’s life in his hands. He is in control, at least for now, even if he is utterly lost and a hollow shell of his former self without her.
Language: English
Rating: R
Word count: ~ 1.800
Warnings: reference to past abuse and alcohol abuse, suicidal thoughts, angst, minor character death, implied incest, panic disorder.
Summary: He isn’t obsessed with her, because one can’t be obsessed with oxygen either, you simply need it to live, as he needs her. Written for the 'panic'
darkfantasybingo prompt.
A/N: Honestly, it scares me that I wrote this. I should have been writing an article, but family drama ensued, so this was the result. Hello there, new character, Jonathan Jacobson, you little sociopath!
Hollow
It starts as if someone is clawing at his chest with ice cold fingers. He gasps and wonders if he’s being cursed right now. He has many enemies and there are more than a few of them who can afford to pay a warlock to put harmful magic on him, and despite the fact that he is always careful with his personal effects to not let anything fall into the wrong hands, he knows he’s not perfect and could easily make a mistake.
The coldness in his chest starts to spread and he feels as if a vine is crawling around him and slowly pushes the air out of his lungs. His breaths become shallower, and a numb feeling creeps into his arms and fingers. His pulse beats faster, a galloping rhythm; as if his heart is a bird wanting to be freed from its cage, and he can easily imagine it, like some gruesome painting: a heart with wings, exploding out of some poor bastard’s torso. But in this case, he is the suffering one, he’s the one who’s dying, because in that moment he is so sure that it’s the end of everything, and all he’s done is for nothing.
He gets up painfully, slowly from his leather couch, and suddenly the world around him moves, slips, turns, and he isn’t sure how he’s not a shivering mess on the floor. He gulps the air, because he can’t breathe properly, and the lack of oxygen burns his lungs. He wills himself to take one step after the other to cross the room, to reach his salvation - or at least his makeshift remedy.
His hand is shaking while he pours a glass of the best whiskey he has, and all he feels is the all consuming hate. He loathes himself for being this weak, loathes his own mind and body because they betray him like this. He’s a goddamned sorcerer, he has magic, he is powerful beyond all things imaginable, he can summon demons and they are at his beck and call, yet he can’t fight these episodes. Not with magic anyway.
As he relishes in the alcohol’s burning feeling down his throat, he tries to catch his breath and stop the shivering, and he laughs out loud. A bitter and harsh sound, it’s like a knife glinting in the night. (He isn’t the type who laughs, maybe only when someone dies bloodily.) It’s so damn ironic, he thinks, that he is the most powerful being on earth, and he can fall apart so easily, he feels like he’s coming apart at the seams slowly and excruciatingly, and there isn’t a fucking thing he can do about it.
He can kill all kinds of monsters which haunt the night, but he’s as helpless as everyone when it comes down to this. He feels ashamedguiltyhumiliatedembarrassed because he is better than everyone else, he had to be, and yet when he’s all alone, he’s not so different.
The memories come unbidden in his mind like a dizzying kaleidoscope: the beatings, the never ending pain, and above all else, the all consuming anger. Anger, that’s what kept him alive, it was a red hotness in the cold and endless abyss of his heart, it was the fuel that kept him moving and planning, and what gave him the strength to do what he needed to. This hatred is like a sentinel being inside of him, he swears he feels it moving, lurking in the deepest and darkest parts of him, like a big and wild feline behind the zoo’s cage. He hates everyone, especially his mother, who was a weak bitch, and would let him die just to please that spineless jerk, who called himself their father.
His grip tightens on the glass and before he it breaks in his hand, he hurls it at the wall, watching satisfied as it shatters into a million pieces and the slivers clink on the hardwood floor. He feels a small release and he can breathe again. Yes, he thinks, breaking things always had a calming effect on him: it seems as if the jumble of dark, cold, numbing and nightmarish things shy away from his violence. With strength, be it physical or magical, he is in control, and that is what matters.
He’s still weak, like he run a marathon, and the tiredness bites into his bones, but he can’t sleep, not yet, he needs to banish every morsel of this weakness, before he can relax again. He does what he forbade himself long ago: thinks of her. It’s like a punishment, his sick and twisted way to torture himself, because he was weak enough to let his monster out, to wreak havoc in his body and mind.
The memory of her is crystal clear, as if he’s looking at a photo of her, and he isn’t likely to forget her ever, as much as he tried, it seems impossible. The gentle smiles, soft and warm skin and even the familiar strawberry smell of her shampoo are as vivid in his mind, as if she’s right beside him. But she isn’t here, and it hits him as a physical pain, tearing at the hole in his chest, making the gap inside him wider. He doesn’t know how much he bears, when he would finally break and never wake up again, but one thing he knows for sure: without her everything is more difficult. It costs more to move, get up and exist. (It’s not living, not since a long time ago.)
He aches for her, and remembers the time when he was little and afraid of the dark, because that was always when the monster came and hurt them. That was the time when he started to get these annoying attacks, as if being betrayed by his own parents wasn’t enough, his body started acting out, too. As if being in constant fear wasn’t enough punishment, he had to cover up this sickness, too. He didn’t want anyone know about his little problem, but it would have been hard to keep it from her, and to his surprise she wasn’t disgusted, she even helped him in this, like in everything else.
Sometimes he got the feeling that they were one person, one soul, just the fate’s cruel twist put them into two separate bodies. Together they faced anything and everything; they freed themselves from their never ending nightmare without anybody’s help.
He misses her, though this word doesn’t even begin to describe how he really feels. She is a part of him, as much as he is a part of her, they would always end up together, he knows, and yet, the past few years without her were torturous. He waits and waits for her to return and even sent out people to search for her, but everyday when he comes to his bedroom and she’s not there he feels a pang of loss all over again. Day by day little pieces of his soul chip off and fade away, leaving him more jagged and broken. He wonders if she would even recognize him now, if she would be disappointed, if she hates him.
He wishes she was there, because she always eased his panic with calming words, loving jokes, soft touches and warm kisses. And because she’s off to God only knows where, he has to improvise, something he’s not so keen on, but does it anyway.
He calls for some girl, he doesn’t even know her name, and it doesn’t matter, none of them expect him to know or even respect them. They are just vacant dolls, jewelry at best in his house, all with the same petite figure, the same shade of honey brown hair and big blue eyes. All of them are bad copies of her, as if someone tried to draw her again and again, but couldn’t quite capture her essence. He isn’t obsessed with her, because one can’t be obsessed with oxygen either, you simply need it to live, as he needs her.
When the girl steps into his room, it’s way past midnight, but she is all smiles and seductive, flirty moves, they all used to his demands and are more than happy to satisfy him. Though the no name girl’s vulgar way is out of place, he suppresses the urge to cringe.
He isn’t shaking anymore, his breath is even, he only feels that mix of weariness and emptiness, but he can cover that up easily, and this little brainless doll wouldn’t notice it, even if it was there in plain sight.
She’s a daring one, she’s the one who kisses him, and in that moment it doesn’t bother him. He reaches into his dark recesses, to his power, and casts a masterfully crafted illusion on her, changing the scarce similar features into Her. He pulls away for a moment, to stare at her, to drink in every curve of her body, every little detail of her face, and though the girl’s stupid, lustful grin ruins his fantasy, he still kisses her hungrily.
It soon becomes a perfect picture of desire: hastily thrown clothes, soft moans, tender touches, sweaty skin, hard thrusts and screams of ecstasy. And after, when she lies beside him, wearing Her face, his self-delusion shatters and leaves a bitter taste. He curses himself for being this reckless again, to try to replace her, because in the end it makes everything worse. It proves that without her, he’s not whole, he’s almost nothing, and tries as he might he can’t replace her. Because when he’s with her, she fills him with her warmth and love, and now he has the same hungry coldness eating him alive as always.
“Violet,” he turns to the girl, who only wears Violet’s façade like some dress that doesn’t really fit her. That stupid doll just smiles at him lazily and his anger is rearing up again. “Why did you leave me?” His question is soft, yet desperate, his voice is full of the need he can’t quiet quench, and it even surprises the girl, but before she can fabricate whatever comforting lie she can concoct, his hands find her neck.
At first, it can be seen as a tender caress and the girl does nothing against it, but in a little while his intentions are clear even to her. Soon it’s all gasping breaths, futile struggling, blood and finally that satisfying crack of a bone. Yes, he thinks as he wipes clean the scratches on his arms, he could always fill his freezing cold emptiness with the sweet thrill of destruction, and the utterly intoxicating feeling of holding someone’s life in his hands. He is in control, at least for now, even if he is utterly lost and a hollow shell of his former self without her.