Broken.

After reading the suicide stories Storm and Cheese wrote (purely fictional, by the way), I was inspired to write one of my own.

She's always been broken. Born broken, struggled through life, thrown on the crimson floor, permanently fractured. A million scattered little pieces. Insignificant. Ignored. Worthless. No one cared. When they saw her (provided they even noticed) they just turned their heads and walked away. No one gave a damn to those little specks on the floor, unless they were in the mood to crush something, in the mood for a laugh. She was nothing. Her screams, her cries...Nothing.

She's always been different. Some part of her must have broke, got lost and never returned. Impossible to find? Or maybe it was never there from the start. It wouldn't surprise her. She was born broken, remember? Not whole. Different. Hurting. A black spot on a beautiful rainbow painting, something that was never meant to be there but oops, I made a mistake and ended up there anyway. They despised her, they wanted her out. She wanted out, too. She knows she doesn't belong here, doesn't belong anywhere really...Though the shadows do seem comforting sometimes. They wave at her and she reaches out for their cold embraces.

She's always been hated. They stabbed her with painful words, they burned her with their loathing, they laughed at her pathetic being as they cracked it beyond known limits. They wrenched hope away from her pathetic grasp and twisted her world into a dark, cold one. But it's not all that cruel. I mean, they only opened her blind eyes to the truth. That she shouldn't be there. That she shouldn't have lived. That all of it was so, so wrong. They're not the only ones who hate her, really. She despises her broken being with a passion, a passion fueled by heartless creatures. But those creatures weren't broken now, were they? No, they were whole. They had that sort of perfection that life refused to give her.

Life. Life was unfair. Life was cruel. Life was-

She hated it. She just hated it. Hated it all.

So she gave up on it. A knife, a pool of blood and a letter addressed to no one. A blank letter, actually. Because she owed no one an apology and she loved no one. No one loved her. No one was going to miss her. No one gave a damn about her, honestly.

So she lies there, clothes stained crimson, waiting for the darkness to claim her broken soul.

Sempiternal

When I started writing this, I had no idea what I would be writing about. I just listened to Together Again by Evanescence and let the words that wanted to be written, be written. This was really based on the music of that song. Go listen to it. It's amazing.


Oh and the title? I recently learned that word and immediately liked it. It means eternal & unchanging...


---




The darkness. It extends its cold fingers. Grabbing. Snatching. Whispers of smoke swirl around her, looking for a way inside her, to steal her soul, her essence. She stares.


There's a small, flickering light in the distance. Flicker. Flicker. She steps towards it. It disappears. The smoke, it twists and turns, engulfing her. Silent screams.


The world, it turns darker. Darker than dark. Yet there's this sense of calmness in the centre of this fear. Something telling her its all a dream, to open her eyes, to face the truth.


She does. She reaches out, her hands pushing against the ghostly swirls that lack weight but have mysterious power over her, pulling her into a sense of nothingness. She fights. She yearns to escape this place. Eerie. Ghostly. Calm.


She wakes up in a grey world. No sun, no people. There's no light yet she can see. Her black dress flutters in the wind. There shouldn't be wind.


She walks forward and the world seems to move with her. It's a blur and her eyes force themselves close. Soothing darkness. And then there's a splatter of red behind her eyelids. She knows not how it happened.


She opens them again. Same place. But now with shadows. Scary shadows. They wave at her. She runs.


Run. Flee. Get home. She wants to escape but the world is swirling along with her movement. Spots of red appearing in this blurred image as shadows eat up the edges. She runs. She runs.


A ghostly hand extends itself to her. She grabs it with little thought and is pulled into darkness. Again. Again. Again. It's not going to end. It's never going to end.


Cold. So cold. And then she hears it. The song of the dead. Soft, soothing. Eerie, disturbing. The hand pulls her forward and she doesn't understand but she wants to follow it. She wants it all to end. To end. To end. To end.


It fills her ears, the song, the melody. She finds herself floating, this hand supporting her back. She yearns to fall, knows not what's below, yearns to fall. Fall. Fall. Fall...


Her eyes close. The hand covers them.


It's never going to end.

Catch me?

It's happening. All over again.
Repeating, repeating itself.
You weren't satisfied with
one bro
-ken heart.
So now you're out for mine.
And I'm falling, falling
Hard.
And when I smash into rock bottom
Damn it's going to hurt.
But I'm still falling
Falling
           falling
                     falling
Waiting for that loud
Thud.
Waiting for that burst of
Pain.
To knock me back into my senses.
The senses numbed by
your cold actions
That still spark warmth within me...
Because truth and love?
They don't come together.
No. Not this 'love'.

It's like the South pole
and the North pole.
Far
Far
apart
But each as cold as the other.
Freezing.
Numb.
Despicable.
(I hate it.)

I saw what you did to her,
you know.
Saw you toy with her
Wrapped around your little finger
Smile, laugh, joke,
XOXO, hug, kiss, cuddle
Trapped.
Slave to you.
No way out.
Because then all she wanted,
Needed was you.
Crawling to you like you're
water in a desert
Cool liquid to spark survival
When you really were the
hot, ball of flames
High up in the sky
Burning her, killing her
Playing her, breaking her,
While staying oh so
Far
Far
Away.
Distance from both hearts
Like that of truth and love.
Well, that 'love'.

But what does it matter?
What if I know all this?
because it doesn't mean anything.
You've already got me hooked.
But you don't need to pull me in.
Because I'm already falling,
falling,
           falling,
                      falling,


Thud.

B ro ke n.

And I see your silhouette,
strolling calmly away
from the scattered pieces.

Pain.

Please give feedback. Thanks much.

Writing Quotes I Love

Apparently, I should be doing "better" things like tackling my mountain of homework so instead of writing today, I shall instead post other people's quotes on writing. Yay.

You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.  ~Ray Bradbury. 

The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say.  ~Anaïs Nin. 

Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.  ~E.L. Doctorow

I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all.  ~Richard Wright,American Hunger, 1977

The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.  ~Vladimir Nabakov

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.  ~William Wordsworth

Ink and paper are sometimes passionate lovers, oftentimes brother and sister, and occasionally mortal enemies.  ~Terri Guillemets

The story I am writing exists, written in absolutely perfect fashion, some place, in the air.  All I must do is find it, and copy it.  ~Jules Renard, "Diary," February 1895

A writer is someone who can make a riddle out of an answer.  ~Karl Kraus

When once the itch of literature comes over a man, nothing can cure it but the scratching of a pen.  But if you have not a pen, I suppose you must scratch any way you can.  ~Samuel Lover, Handy Andy, 1842 That's why I usually have a pen in my pocket...and a clean hand to write on.

Do not put statements in the negative form.
And don't start sentences with a conjunction.
If you reread your work, you will find on rereading that a
great deal of repetition can be avoided by rereading and editing.
Never use a long word when a diminutive one will do.
Unqualified superlatives are the worst of all.
De-accession euphemisms.
If any word is improper at the end of a sentence, a linking verb is.
Avoid trendy locutions that sound flaky.
Last, but not least, avoid cliches like the plague.
~William Safire, "Great Rules of Writing"  

Be obscure clearly.  ~E.B. White 

Every writer I know has trouble writing.  ~Joseph Heller

If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad.  ~Lord Byron

Write your first draft with your heart.  Re-write with your head.  ~From the movieFinding Forrester

I could go on and on but I'm not sure you enjoy these as much as I do.

Mummy

The meaning behind this story can also be applied to your dad. Or even your grandparents. Actually, any family member who really loves you and who you were once close to but left behind as you became a teenager. I think it's really sad when that happens... 

"I love you mummy."
"I love you too. Sweet dreams."
And she stays there, sitting at the edge of the pink bed (eyes tired, work undone) for an hour just to watch her daughter fall asleep and to act as comfort for the dear girl afraid of the monsters lurking in the dark.

"What about the presentation you've been working on?"
"It's her first day of school. Sorry."
And on that day, she's enthusiastically snapping pictures of her daughter clad in freshly-pressed uniform while the media snap pictures of a proud guy taking credit for her year's work.

"Oh! The movie's out!"
"Want me to take you?"
And it hurts when she hears that her group of friends had already made plans. She hides the two premiere tickets she bought because she knows what her daughter would rather do that Sunday. Two days later, she watches the movie alone.

"Oh look! It's that guy you like."
"Please, mum. Just let go of my hand already and pretend you don't know me."
She lets go, somewhat shocked and her daughter storms off, making sure she walks at least 5 metres away from her. Nowadays, that's the minimum distance between them. And between their hearts.

"No. You're not going to the party, it's too expensive."
"I hate you! Why are you always like that?"
She closes her eyes as the bedroom door is slammed shut. It's not like she had money. (She stares at the letter from her boss. Too many leaves taken. And it's not like she could adjust the timings of her daughter's school activities either. Fired. )

"Do you need help?"
"Just freaking leave me alone!"
She longs for the days when her company was wanted, needed and begged for. When the girl would cry just to get her attention. When she would hug her after school. When she would wish her "good night" before falling asleep instead of making her wait fruitlessly in the other room, wondering when her daughter would burst in to do so.

"Uh. I got you a card."
"Thank you."
No cake. No present. Just a flimsy piece of paper with a few scribbled words and another forgotten birthday. But it was better than nothing. Or at least that's what she tells herself as she pulls out a smile and hugs her grimacing daughter who attempts not to squirm.

 "Stop it!"
 "You don't control my life!"
The horrible fights. The exhausting nights. She wishes they would just end. What happened to that sweet little girl?

"We might have to move."
"What? Why are you always ruining my life?"
Why are you always blaming things on me?

"I'm moving out to John's place."
"Oh."
That's all she can say. She knows her daughter's grown up now but it just doesn't seem fair. She never got to let that princess-tiara girl go. Instead, her tiny daughter was forced out of her grip. Snatched away just too fast by reality.

"When was the last time she visited you?"
"I don't know."
One old lady in one lonely old house. She's forgotten what laughter sounds like. Ironic considering how twenty years ago, high-pitched childish laughter was all that had ever echoed through the house.

"Your mother loved you."
"I loved her too. Just forgot to show it."
The graveyard is cold. So cold.

This is rather simple. Simple story, simple language. But I hope the intention is clear.
How can you not be ashamed for doing all this to your parents?