fiction - deceit + decoy
Title: deceit + decoy
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Angst, dark, psychological
A/N: I haven't written in a long while. Intense writer's block. Problems. I hope someone missed me >< Anyways. Here's a new thing I pulled out of nowhere. It's dedicated to billibelle and the male character is an incarnation of MYK. I hope you enjoy.
P.S. The "3-6" piece of fiction stemming from Trompe L'oeil is no more. I decided to let that be its own piece. Sorry to those who were looking forward to it, but I hope you'll forgive me nevertheless.
He woke up, rubbing lids singed from last night's laptop session, tears shed during painful memories and the morning sun. He sat there, the cream-colored bedding wrapped around his torso, and listened. He listened to his watch tick with each waking second, realizing all the time that he was wasting just sitting there. He had written ten pages of lyrics, each piece of lined paper complete with scrawled, almost illegible words, unfinished sentences, crossed out phrases and ink stains. He mindlessly reached for his glass of water on the night stand, now warm and almost non-potable. He drank from it, only resulting in a faint 'ick' sound mumbled from his chapped lips. He then hurriedly snatched those ten pages and groggily walked to the kitchen table. She had already made his coffee, an original yellow post-it note stuck to the cafetière. He carefully read it, drowsy eyes making words dip and twist.
Better than caffeine jitters, he thought to himself.
"Saturday night? Next time don't leave the cigarettes out."
Puzzled by her somewhat cryptic message, he nonchalantly peeled it off and crumpled it up. Frustrated, he threw it across the room, dismissing its future accumulation with similar balls of paper. As he picked up the cafetière in a flurry, confused for no apparent reason, he pressed down too quickly and consequently a wave of scalding hot coffee splashed across his face and his precious papers.
Between random curses and cries of pain, he rushed to towels and water, coats of Polysporin and a manly "I'm not going to the hospital" self-statement, his heart beat in a most unusual way. It wasn't exactly a beat, and it wasn't a drum. It was more like a rhythm.
His breathing became quick and heavy, taste reminiscent of tar and ash, sight blurry yet clear and he became enticed with the coalesced scents of fresh coffee and tobacco. As the palpitations increased, he experienced a high. It was his epiphany, his euphoria, his soul seeking out this stream of quiescent peace. His mind ached, his body became heavy, his pupils dilated, his cheeks flushed and his hands became restless.
What seemed like minutes later, he found himself leaning on the rail atop the balcony of a new club in Apgujong. She whispered sweet nothings into his ear, tantalizing, tempting yet all too unreal. A smooth, honest voice, the voice of a male-- Tablo, Pe2ny, Kero One? --whomever it was, he spoke softly, calmly.
"Don't let her get to you. You're falling into her again. She's bottomless. A black hole."
He didn't ignore the warning nor did he abide by it. Time slipped past his grip once more and he was once again sitting in his swivel chair, toying with the Apple computer, mixing and editing.
"Hey, bro, what happened to your face? Did she get ya?"
"No. Coffee. Spilled."
"You alright?"
"Yeah. Good. Later."
"... Later."
He had become bitter. He seemed to have grown in age, in spirit. He no longer had that jovial, excitable personality that came to mind when you thought about him. As he continued working on his project that would never get finished, his swivel chair became an old lawn chair, his iced coffee became eau de vie, and his mindset shifted from blurry, somewhat focused to angry, agitated lust. As he sat there, brooding over mumbled words and lost sounds, she quietly sauntered through the bland apartment, attaching little notes here and there, further confusing the product of her insanity.
She went to brew herself a cup of coffee, drawing minute attention to scrub every last bit of the pot, making sure there were no remnants of her sleeping-pill and caffeine brew. As she drew away into the darkness of the midnight sun, he stirred, leaving the hot summer to come indoors for a cool sleep.
As he lifted up his right wrist to check the time, he realized that his watch was gone.
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Angst, dark, psychological
A/N: I haven't written in a long while. Intense writer's block. Problems. I hope someone missed me >< Anyways. Here's a new thing I pulled out of nowhere. It's dedicated to billibelle and the male character is an incarnation of MYK. I hope you enjoy.
P.S. The "3-6" piece of fiction stemming from Trompe L'oeil is no more. I decided to let that be its own piece. Sorry to those who were looking forward to it, but I hope you'll forgive me nevertheless.
He woke up, rubbing lids singed from last night's laptop session, tears shed during painful memories and the morning sun. He sat there, the cream-colored bedding wrapped around his torso, and listened. He listened to his watch tick with each waking second, realizing all the time that he was wasting just sitting there. He had written ten pages of lyrics, each piece of lined paper complete with scrawled, almost illegible words, unfinished sentences, crossed out phrases and ink stains. He mindlessly reached for his glass of water on the night stand, now warm and almost non-potable. He drank from it, only resulting in a faint 'ick' sound mumbled from his chapped lips. He then hurriedly snatched those ten pages and groggily walked to the kitchen table. She had already made his coffee, an original yellow post-it note stuck to the cafetière. He carefully read it, drowsy eyes making words dip and twist.
Better than caffeine jitters, he thought to himself.
"Saturday night? Next time don't leave the cigarettes out."
Puzzled by her somewhat cryptic message, he nonchalantly peeled it off and crumpled it up. Frustrated, he threw it across the room, dismissing its future accumulation with similar balls of paper. As he picked up the cafetière in a flurry, confused for no apparent reason, he pressed down too quickly and consequently a wave of scalding hot coffee splashed across his face and his precious papers.
Between random curses and cries of pain, he rushed to towels and water, coats of Polysporin and a manly "I'm not going to the hospital" self-statement, his heart beat in a most unusual way. It wasn't exactly a beat, and it wasn't a drum. It was more like a rhythm.
His breathing became quick and heavy, taste reminiscent of tar and ash, sight blurry yet clear and he became enticed with the coalesced scents of fresh coffee and tobacco. As the palpitations increased, he experienced a high. It was his epiphany, his euphoria, his soul seeking out this stream of quiescent peace. His mind ached, his body became heavy, his pupils dilated, his cheeks flushed and his hands became restless.
What seemed like minutes later, he found himself leaning on the rail atop the balcony of a new club in Apgujong. She whispered sweet nothings into his ear, tantalizing, tempting yet all too unreal. A smooth, honest voice, the voice of a male-- Tablo, Pe2ny, Kero One? --whomever it was, he spoke softly, calmly.
"Don't let her get to you. You're falling into her again. She's bottomless. A black hole."
He didn't ignore the warning nor did he abide by it. Time slipped past his grip once more and he was once again sitting in his swivel chair, toying with the Apple computer, mixing and editing.
"Hey, bro, what happened to your face? Did she get ya?"
"No. Coffee. Spilled."
"You alright?"
"Yeah. Good. Later."
"... Later."
He had become bitter. He seemed to have grown in age, in spirit. He no longer had that jovial, excitable personality that came to mind when you thought about him. As he continued working on his project that would never get finished, his swivel chair became an old lawn chair, his iced coffee became eau de vie, and his mindset shifted from blurry, somewhat focused to angry, agitated lust. As he sat there, brooding over mumbled words and lost sounds, she quietly sauntered through the bland apartment, attaching little notes here and there, further confusing the product of her insanity.
She went to brew herself a cup of coffee, drawing minute attention to scrub every last bit of the pot, making sure there were no remnants of her sleeping-pill and caffeine brew. As she drew away into the darkness of the midnight sun, he stirred, leaving the hot summer to come indoors for a cool sleep.
As he lifted up his right wrist to check the time, he realized that his watch was gone.