carob wildberry
Flavors: carob 27 (existentialism) wildberry 28 (a curse)
Characters: Alex
Rating: R for violence and some upsetting themes.
Story: Abbadon.
Summary: The last of this bit of background on Alex, not too long before he met Keziah. He showers and cleans his wounds.
Notes: I lied about writing something more cheery, sorry =(. This is kinda rushed since it'll probably be my last entry for a few months (no computers, boo) and I should be packing and what not likerightnow, but hopefully it makes some sense. Let me know what you think!
The water swirled down the drain in pools of brown and red as the blood spilled from his bottom lip and the dirt seeped from his skin. He winced as his fingers traced gently over the darkening bruises and scrapes on his arms, trying to get the dried blood and mud off his battered skin without crying out. His mom was in the next room, she didn’t need to hear this.
He kept his head low and crossed the yard, past the playground where the younger kids were playing. A group of boys stood by the doorway, and Alex bowed his head even lower. The bruises on his arms still lingered from the week before, and he didn’t want to risk another round.
“Keep walking, monster.” A sandy-haired boy jeered to boisterous laughter. Pain shot through his body as a boy much larger than himself grabbed his arm, opening a nearly-healed scab. He did his best not to react, keeping his eyes averted. Not today. Please, please not today.
A fist collided squarely with his chin and mouth. Alex tasted metal.
That night, it tasted like shame, suffering, guilt. He spat it out, letting it swirl down the drain with the layers of dust still thick in his hair.
The back of his skull hit the ground with a brutal shock of pain. Heavy boots drove themselves into his ribs mercilessly. The taste of metallic blood mixed with dust and gravel as he was pushed onto his side, his face forced halfway into the dry earth beneath him.
He delicately moved his fingers through his wet hair, searching for new scabs or wounds and extracting the most deeply entwined scraps of gravel. His gentle prodding drew out a strangled yelp of pain and he quickly pulled back his fingers. They came out deep red. No wonder there was so much blood.
Something was wrong with his body. The boys kicks and punched. They shoved him and threw him. He knew it scared them just as much as it scared him. The longer he held on the harder they hit, the more brutally they attacked. He choked on his own blood, vomitted on their shoes at the sickening sound of his own bones cracking, but he lived on.
He should be dead. He knew he should have died, he felt himself passing the point at which death was not just welcome, but inevitable. But he didn’t. He didn’t even lose conciousness. With each bruise and broken bone he wanted to hate them. He wanted to kick and scream and fight and cry, he wanted to say that they were the monsters, not him.
But he was wrong. He was the monster. His body was warped, it was diseased, it was wrong. And he couldn’t even die - they couldn’t even get rid of the aberration.
The older he got, the more it felt like his body was rejecting itself. On Sundays every house was empty, every shop closed. His mom and dad, the kids from school, the woman from the bakery and the teachers from his school were all at church, but he wasn’t allowed. At fourteen he tried to break in one Saturday night - he made it as far as the steps.
He shivered under a high fever that night. His mother rocked him in her lap as he cried between bouts of violent illness. Ever since that night, he knew they were right about him.
He choked on dust as one last shoe buried itself in his stomach and the boys, grown bored with their game, walked away.
A few years after his attempted break in, he started to get sicker. He didn’t mind missing school, but it made the rumors worse. The pain was almost unbearable at first, but he got used to it - he had no choice. The skin on his back fought a war, tearing itself open and sealing itself back up in the same moment it seemed, struggling in brutal tears and accelerated bands of healing. The bandages kept him from bleeding all over his clothes and bed, but he’d learned long ago there was no risk of death from blood loss. When the wings finally broke through it was almost a comfort. The feathers were bright and white and even when he broke the bones to keep them from showing through his clothes. He wasn’t human, he was a monster, and they were right. They’d known all along, and finally, he understood.
The water flooded into his mouth and eyes, washing away the last thin streaks of dirt on his face. He held his breath, held himself in stillness and silence for that one precious moment where he was nothing. He could forget his sick body. His weak body. His cursed, filthy, unholy body. He could forget the anger that haunted him, he could forget the hate he knew he was evil just to feel. The guilt faded, the water consumed him.
Finally, he gasped for breath.
The dust settled on the schoolyard, and though the grime and pain stung his eyes, Alex did not cry.
Characters: Alex
Rating: R for violence and some upsetting themes.
Story: Abbadon.
Summary: The last of this bit of background on Alex, not too long before he met Keziah. He showers and cleans his wounds.
Notes: I lied about writing something more cheery, sorry =(. This is kinda rushed since it'll probably be my last entry for a few months (no computers, boo) and I should be packing and what not likerightnow, but hopefully it makes some sense. Let me know what you think!
The water swirled down the drain in pools of brown and red as the blood spilled from his bottom lip and the dirt seeped from his skin. He winced as his fingers traced gently over the darkening bruises and scrapes on his arms, trying to get the dried blood and mud off his battered skin without crying out. His mom was in the next room, she didn’t need to hear this.
He kept his head low and crossed the yard, past the playground where the younger kids were playing. A group of boys stood by the doorway, and Alex bowed his head even lower. The bruises on his arms still lingered from the week before, and he didn’t want to risk another round.
“Keep walking, monster.” A sandy-haired boy jeered to boisterous laughter. Pain shot through his body as a boy much larger than himself grabbed his arm, opening a nearly-healed scab. He did his best not to react, keeping his eyes averted. Not today. Please, please not today.
A fist collided squarely with his chin and mouth. Alex tasted metal.
That night, it tasted like shame, suffering, guilt. He spat it out, letting it swirl down the drain with the layers of dust still thick in his hair.
The back of his skull hit the ground with a brutal shock of pain. Heavy boots drove themselves into his ribs mercilessly. The taste of metallic blood mixed with dust and gravel as he was pushed onto his side, his face forced halfway into the dry earth beneath him.
He delicately moved his fingers through his wet hair, searching for new scabs or wounds and extracting the most deeply entwined scraps of gravel. His gentle prodding drew out a strangled yelp of pain and he quickly pulled back his fingers. They came out deep red. No wonder there was so much blood.
Something was wrong with his body. The boys kicks and punched. They shoved him and threw him. He knew it scared them just as much as it scared him. The longer he held on the harder they hit, the more brutally they attacked. He choked on his own blood, vomitted on their shoes at the sickening sound of his own bones cracking, but he lived on.
He should be dead. He knew he should have died, he felt himself passing the point at which death was not just welcome, but inevitable. But he didn’t. He didn’t even lose conciousness. With each bruise and broken bone he wanted to hate them. He wanted to kick and scream and fight and cry, he wanted to say that they were the monsters, not him.
But he was wrong. He was the monster. His body was warped, it was diseased, it was wrong. And he couldn’t even die - they couldn’t even get rid of the aberration.
The older he got, the more it felt like his body was rejecting itself. On Sundays every house was empty, every shop closed. His mom and dad, the kids from school, the woman from the bakery and the teachers from his school were all at church, but he wasn’t allowed. At fourteen he tried to break in one Saturday night - he made it as far as the steps.
He shivered under a high fever that night. His mother rocked him in her lap as he cried between bouts of violent illness. Ever since that night, he knew they were right about him.
He choked on dust as one last shoe buried itself in his stomach and the boys, grown bored with their game, walked away.
A few years after his attempted break in, he started to get sicker. He didn’t mind missing school, but it made the rumors worse. The pain was almost unbearable at first, but he got used to it - he had no choice. The skin on his back fought a war, tearing itself open and sealing itself back up in the same moment it seemed, struggling in brutal tears and accelerated bands of healing. The bandages kept him from bleeding all over his clothes and bed, but he’d learned long ago there was no risk of death from blood loss. When the wings finally broke through it was almost a comfort. The feathers were bright and white and even when he broke the bones to keep them from showing through his clothes. He wasn’t human, he was a monster, and they were right. They’d known all along, and finally, he understood.
The water flooded into his mouth and eyes, washing away the last thin streaks of dirt on his face. He held his breath, held himself in stillness and silence for that one precious moment where he was nothing. He could forget his sick body. His weak body. His cursed, filthy, unholy body. He could forget the anger that haunted him, he could forget the hate he knew he was evil just to feel. The guilt faded, the water consumed him.
Finally, he gasped for breath.
The dust settled on the schoolyard, and though the grime and pain stung his eyes, Alex did not cry.