Stories and drabbles and oh my! Part 1
So, a little something I started to keep me occupied on the baby laptop while I`m traveling and get creative juices flowing. All titles are actually song titles that inspired said drabbles, so sorry if it`s a bit gloomy at times. You can all feel free to add prompts with a time limit no more than an hour in the comments. There`s definitely more to come. :3
There was something about the fire in front of him. The blaze was strong and going wild, getting so close , too close. It was a comforting thing, a scary thing. That he could bring it to life, coax it to such grandeur was an amazing thing. He wanted to be smothered by the flames, feeling the heat lick at him like the tongue of a lover, making him feel hot, too damned hot. He could feel the sweat roll how his brow under the mask, the thick rubber barrier his only protection against his harsh love.
Sometimes, mostly after battle, it was quieter. It would look weird to anyone else to see his room, any flat surface covered with flickering lit up candles. He was used to it though, since he was young he was used that the others thought of him as weird. It never mattered, not back then, not now. All the tiny flames were soothing his soul. He was happy being the master of them all, having the right to pick which one lives and which one died.
It was a trickster, that thing. It was shining like a small beacon one moment and ate at his soul the next, like the fires of hell. It held such a fascination to him. Oh, he had burned himself, so many times he stopped counting. Some smaller than others, all depending on the fire's wrath, on its mood and temper of the day.
Right now though, right now it was a blaze, twisting and turning, all curves and warmness and lashing toward the innards of the building. It was an angry thing tonight, a magnificiant thing. The red painted wood popped and snapped, the occupants swore and yelled inside. It had sprung up so fast, spread and ate at everything in sight. They would have little chance to survive the blaze, he had made sure of it. He might have been a bit sad that his teammates wouldn't see his handiwork but at least he had his love all to himself.
(15 minutes)
No matter how much time has gone by, the scars will always stay. They were not just physical scars either, but also mental ones. They would wake you up in te dead of the night, making you shake and frantically look around. They would bring you back in the past at the most innopportune moment. The trigger could be any small thing: a smell, a sound, an idea going through your mind late at night.
Well before that though, well before battle took its told and you walked away from it, time had already taken its hold. Sometimes it would take you a few minutes longer to wake up.
Your running would be a little bit slower than usual.
You would fumble with the knife more often.
Your aim wouldn't be as true as it was before.
Your rocket wouldn't send you as high.
Your drunken habit would get the better of you.
Your heavy weapon would feel heavier than normal.
Your flame wouldn't be as bright as you liked it.
Your wrench wouldn't be fast enough to save your building.
Your hands would shake more, dragging the healing beam down.
Yet, you would keep up, trying your hardest not to let the years show. The toll you knew you had to pay at the end was never put in question, you never ever looked forward to the end. The thrill was there, in the mayhem of battle. You kept thrudging forward as if nothing happened.
Well, that was until the day you couldn't stand up anymore.
Age, slowly but surely, had taken its hold on you. The sole ennemy you couldn't keep at bay. It kept marching forward and in the end it trampled you.
(20 minutes (I think) and distraction of a birdie kind)
Look at me.
Look at me, look at me, look at me.
You know how I like it right? Fast, loud and yeah, you know I'm good at it.
Do I have your attention chucklenuts? I don't think you're listening. What did I say? Unh Unh? What did I just say?
Of course.
Of coursee you don't give a flying shit about it. Nobody give a fucking shit about anything, espcecially not me.
I guess it means I only have to talk louder.
ARE YOU LISTENING? OR ARE YOU COMPLETELY DEAF? MAYBE DUMB? BOTH?
I.
AM.
RIGHT HERE!!!
...
...
...
Who the fuck I ever try to kid. No one but myself, right? As much as I punch and scream and bite and the whole thing, in the end I'll always be alone right? Always the runt left behind. Always the kid no one give a damn about. I could be right in front of you, punching your face in and nobody would care.
I don't hate you though.
I'll just try harder and faster until someone gives a damn or I die trying. It's enough for me. If ou don't give a shit, then why should I? As long as I can run, as long as you can't catch me, I am the one who is invincible. You know why? Because I do what I want and the rest be damned. If you don't like it then fuck you.
Hey....
Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey!
Stay here, ok? Don't....
Oh no, you fucker, don't even dare to...
I told you! Geez, you are really dumb, are you?
Don't you realize?
I.
Need.
You.
Can't make a show without an audience right?
Just...
Please, don't leave me alone.
I don't want to be alone.
(15 minutes)
It never stopped, never ever stopped. The enemy yelling in his head, ambushing his brain toward a self-destructing path. He was ranting, a blood-thirsty lunatic, a menace to those around him when he came undone. He had blood on his hands and perpetual war on his mind. It was all-consuming, the need to fight growing stronger and stornger with every passing minutes until they forced feed him those little pills.
How he hated them. It made things too clear, lifted off the bloody fog permeating his mind. How many orderlies he fought with, until he was too tired to fight, until they slip the pills in his mouth or the needle in his arm? Too many times to count.
He never noticed just how much it was all in his mind until now. The walls were closing in on him and all he could do is yell like the mad dog that he was. He was barking at and biting anything and anyone within distance. He wanted to be out there, on the warpath, where he was needed. Where he thought he was needed.
" Son, you better get me out of here BEFORE I TEAR THROUGH THAT DOOR AND TEAR YOU A NEW ONE! DO YOU KNOW WHAT WAR IS, SON? IT'S GLORIOUS! BUT OF COURSE YOU PINKO COMMIES SONS OF BITCHES WOULDN'T KNOW WHAT THE HELL I'M EVEN TALKING ABOUT! YOU NEVER HAD BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR COUNTRY!"
He yelled until his voice was hoarse. For someone like it, it took a while before it got there and the orderly on the other side of the door just looked at him. It was a sad thing really to see the man like that. In a place like this though, it couldn't be helped. The younger man slipped the diner tray through the slot at the bottom of the door, when the occupant of the room grabbed his wrist and held in in a crushing grip for a moment.
"You know you remind me of someone, right? I think I told you before, I must have told you. I fought along side a kid, not much older at first than you. He was a fast and annoying brat but... His heart was in the right place, he fought the good fight. I feel sorry I couldn't help him. War is glorious but it's also butt fuck ugly when you come down to it. So please, let me out so I can fight again for him."
He had to fight again, really he had to. For the kid's sake, for his own... What he did that day, he could never forget. He let go of the wrist. The attempt was as futile as his words, as futile as the memories of that day that kept plagging him. So when the young man did nothing, not like he could do anything anyways, he yelled.
(45 minutes and a bumpy bus ride )
There was something about the fire in front of him. The blaze was strong and going wild, getting so close , too close. It was a comforting thing, a scary thing. That he could bring it to life, coax it to such grandeur was an amazing thing. He wanted to be smothered by the flames, feeling the heat lick at him like the tongue of a lover, making him feel hot, too damned hot. He could feel the sweat roll how his brow under the mask, the thick rubber barrier his only protection against his harsh love.
Sometimes, mostly after battle, it was quieter. It would look weird to anyone else to see his room, any flat surface covered with flickering lit up candles. He was used to it though, since he was young he was used that the others thought of him as weird. It never mattered, not back then, not now. All the tiny flames were soothing his soul. He was happy being the master of them all, having the right to pick which one lives and which one died.
It was a trickster, that thing. It was shining like a small beacon one moment and ate at his soul the next, like the fires of hell. It held such a fascination to him. Oh, he had burned himself, so many times he stopped counting. Some smaller than others, all depending on the fire's wrath, on its mood and temper of the day.
Right now though, right now it was a blaze, twisting and turning, all curves and warmness and lashing toward the innards of the building. It was an angry thing tonight, a magnificiant thing. The red painted wood popped and snapped, the occupants swore and yelled inside. It had sprung up so fast, spread and ate at everything in sight. They would have little chance to survive the blaze, he had made sure of it. He might have been a bit sad that his teammates wouldn't see his handiwork but at least he had his love all to himself.
(15 minutes)
No matter how much time has gone by, the scars will always stay. They were not just physical scars either, but also mental ones. They would wake you up in te dead of the night, making you shake and frantically look around. They would bring you back in the past at the most innopportune moment. The trigger could be any small thing: a smell, a sound, an idea going through your mind late at night.
Well before that though, well before battle took its told and you walked away from it, time had already taken its hold. Sometimes it would take you a few minutes longer to wake up.
Your running would be a little bit slower than usual.
You would fumble with the knife more often.
Your aim wouldn't be as true as it was before.
Your rocket wouldn't send you as high.
Your drunken habit would get the better of you.
Your heavy weapon would feel heavier than normal.
Your flame wouldn't be as bright as you liked it.
Your wrench wouldn't be fast enough to save your building.
Your hands would shake more, dragging the healing beam down.
Yet, you would keep up, trying your hardest not to let the years show. The toll you knew you had to pay at the end was never put in question, you never ever looked forward to the end. The thrill was there, in the mayhem of battle. You kept thrudging forward as if nothing happened.
Well, that was until the day you couldn't stand up anymore.
Age, slowly but surely, had taken its hold on you. The sole ennemy you couldn't keep at bay. It kept marching forward and in the end it trampled you.
(20 minutes (I think) and distraction of a birdie kind)
Look at me.
Look at me, look at me, look at me.
You know how I like it right? Fast, loud and yeah, you know I'm good at it.
Do I have your attention chucklenuts? I don't think you're listening. What did I say? Unh Unh? What did I just say?
Of course.
Of coursee you don't give a flying shit about it. Nobody give a fucking shit about anything, espcecially not me.
I guess it means I only have to talk louder.
ARE YOU LISTENING? OR ARE YOU COMPLETELY DEAF? MAYBE DUMB? BOTH?
I.
AM.
RIGHT HERE!!!
...
...
...
Who the fuck I ever try to kid. No one but myself, right? As much as I punch and scream and bite and the whole thing, in the end I'll always be alone right? Always the runt left behind. Always the kid no one give a damn about. I could be right in front of you, punching your face in and nobody would care.
I don't hate you though.
I'll just try harder and faster until someone gives a damn or I die trying. It's enough for me. If ou don't give a shit, then why should I? As long as I can run, as long as you can't catch me, I am the one who is invincible. You know why? Because I do what I want and the rest be damned. If you don't like it then fuck you.
Hey....
Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey!
Stay here, ok? Don't....
Oh no, you fucker, don't even dare to...
I told you! Geez, you are really dumb, are you?
Don't you realize?
I.
Need.
You.
Can't make a show without an audience right?
Just...
Please, don't leave me alone.
I don't want to be alone.
(15 minutes)
It never stopped, never ever stopped. The enemy yelling in his head, ambushing his brain toward a self-destructing path. He was ranting, a blood-thirsty lunatic, a menace to those around him when he came undone. He had blood on his hands and perpetual war on his mind. It was all-consuming, the need to fight growing stronger and stornger with every passing minutes until they forced feed him those little pills.
How he hated them. It made things too clear, lifted off the bloody fog permeating his mind. How many orderlies he fought with, until he was too tired to fight, until they slip the pills in his mouth or the needle in his arm? Too many times to count.
He never noticed just how much it was all in his mind until now. The walls were closing in on him and all he could do is yell like the mad dog that he was. He was barking at and biting anything and anyone within distance. He wanted to be out there, on the warpath, where he was needed. Where he thought he was needed.
" Son, you better get me out of here BEFORE I TEAR THROUGH THAT DOOR AND TEAR YOU A NEW ONE! DO YOU KNOW WHAT WAR IS, SON? IT'S GLORIOUS! BUT OF COURSE YOU PINKO COMMIES SONS OF BITCHES WOULDN'T KNOW WHAT THE HELL I'M EVEN TALKING ABOUT! YOU NEVER HAD BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR COUNTRY!"
He yelled until his voice was hoarse. For someone like it, it took a while before it got there and the orderly on the other side of the door just looked at him. It was a sad thing really to see the man like that. In a place like this though, it couldn't be helped. The younger man slipped the diner tray through the slot at the bottom of the door, when the occupant of the room grabbed his wrist and held in in a crushing grip for a moment.
"You know you remind me of someone, right? I think I told you before, I must have told you. I fought along side a kid, not much older at first than you. He was a fast and annoying brat but... His heart was in the right place, he fought the good fight. I feel sorry I couldn't help him. War is glorious but it's also butt fuck ugly when you come down to it. So please, let me out so I can fight again for him."
He had to fight again, really he had to. For the kid's sake, for his own... What he did that day, he could never forget. He let go of the wrist. The attempt was as futile as his words, as futile as the memories of that day that kept plagging him. So when the young man did nothing, not like he could do anything anyways, he yelled.
(45 minutes and a bumpy bus ride )