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itsnotzka · 3 hours

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An Arsonist’s Anguish

Richy’s Lament - A Duskwood One Shot

A dark, angsty exploration into Richy’s character as he sets the stage for his death. There is no happy ending. Just some hope that another soul made it out of the mine as it burns. Will also be posted on Ao3 later.

Trigger Warnings are below the line. Please check them.

TW: Suicide, Self Hatred, Hallucinations, and thoughts/descriptions of Death. Read at your own risk. I tried not to be too graphic, but you will know what’s happening.

Richy would never see the sun rise again.

The ghosts of all the beautiful things he killed to protect his secrets haunted his dragging, stumbling steps as he traversed the mine and ignored the cameras he installed. Gasoline poured and splashed from the canister he held as he wove through tunnels and gritted his teeth against the pain in his arm.

It was nothing compared to the emotional torture he felt inside. His thoughts were a tempest raging with the violence of a cyclone. Every destructive gust ripped through the fragile edifices of his grip on reality.

Within the labyrinth of his mind, self-loathing chewed on his soul like a pack of feral beasts tearing at the tender flesh of their fallen prey. Each bite drew forth burgundy rivers of desolation, self-condemnation, and unyielding fury. Blending with the physical aches until he couldn’t tell them apart

His arm throbbed as he ignored the yelling in his mind. Fucking Dan. Dan, who gave him a gun?! Oh, what an idiot! He scuppered all Richy’s plans and left him scrambling to end it before anyone else got hurt. Ensure nothing remains but ash.

Rivers of cold sweat streamed down his grey face as he held his injured arm over his stomach so he wouldn’t bang it into the rough wall. He wanted to punch the stone to take his mind off it. The bottle of pain meds he stole from his mother rattled in his pocket, but he couldn’t risk taking them yet.

His breathing roasted his throat, but his entire body shivered as though an icy glacier engulfed him. The persistent tremble in his body intensified with every labored step.

The combined weight of his physical and emotional agony was an anchor on his back, dragging his broken spirit beneath tumultuous waves, where the agony of drowning and being hammered from all sides echoed through the depths of himself.

It didn’t feel like any of it was unfair. The thirst was the worst thing. He kept smacking his lips together, attempting to inspire some moisture, but his tongue remained bone dry and coated in the remnants of bitter blood rust.

The blood he’d lost stained his skin and the stone as it dripped through the filthy dressing he tried and failed to use as a tourniquet. Everything felt like it happened to someone else. Something otherworldly piloted his body from the inside.

Like some demon possessed him, guiding him down depraved, treacherous paths, and the priest hadn’t arrived in time to exorcise him.

And he’d done it to himself. Every choice he’d made since kidnapping Hannah, it had felt like suicide in slow motion.

He marooned himself on an island surrounded by vipers of his own creation.

Now, the only option to set himself free was fire. It would hurt, he thought, and his stomach wrenched to the side, almost splitting in two as he dreaded it so strongly.

And death. There was a liberating freedom in death. A broken sob tore through his clenched teeth as he thought of Jessy, the emotions he harbored for her, and everything he had never deserved to have with her.

She was a shot of adrenaline after years of lethargy.

So many of his favorite memories revolved around her and their silly inside jokes. He’d used his closeness to her to torment and stalk her. Terrorized her and her friends. She would never forgive him. Her smiling face, her flaming hair, and desire for a life of adventure had made his miserable existence worth living.

She would forget him one day, but never forgive him. He was a coward. An idiot. He’d let them all believe a masked myth was chasing them.

The only masked freak after them was their own friend.

His megawatt smile, stupid jokes, and constant upbeat attitude despite the shitstorm life rained on him had been the heaviest disguise of his brief life. They’d all bought it.

Hook, line, and fucking sinker. None thought to check beneath that smile. Now, it had twisted and transformed into a permanent snarl. If they paid attention, they would have found the rot and ruin underneath his cheerful demeanor. None of his friends had stopped to think about just how stressed he was. How much he had to carry for his family and Hannah—screw her. She was party to his worst decision.

She caused it.

Her wanting to sacrifice herself, him, and Amy to clear her conscience, betrayal. Betrayal was a dagger Hannah concealed in a cloak of mutual trust and unspoken promises to take their secrets to the grave. That blade had appeared suddenly and without warning, piercing the walls of his shriveled heart.

Half of him wished he’d killed her while he’d had her under his control. End the threat, leave her body to decompose in the mine.

No one came here. He’d made sure of it. Everything might—well, it was too late now. She was safe in the hands of Alan Bloomgate. Hannah, perfect, beautiful fucking Hannah.

He hated her. He blamed Hannah. But it was Amy who he blamed the most. Richy blamed everyone but himself for too long. He knew that. And now he would pay the price for it.

He’d already staged his death. Now he just had to commit.

The cloying scent of gasoline infiltrated his nose, thickening in his raw throat, and the empty metal cannister fell from his weak fingers. The thunderous clanging as it bounced and came to a stop worsened the headache he’d had for the last few weeks.

It pounded in time with his thudding heart. Each pulse pushed yet more blood out of the wound in his heavy, aching arm. It tingled and sparked with fiery pain with every paranoid twitch as he glanced behind him, sure he heard footsteps chasing him down.

He gave himself a shake when only his shadow approached. It looked much bigger to him now. Sinister and spreading to encompass the entirety of him.

It had taken him over long ago, and at last, he accepted it. It was too late to beat it back. He’d embraced it. Its hug was gelid and dragged him down, down, down. The shadow had always been in him; his choices had brought it to life, and it was time to eliminate it so it wouldn’t harm anyone else.

If his last victim was to be himself, it would end on his terms.

His last words had been a confession and an apology. To Jessy, and his friends, to the unwitting stranger he’d dragged into this mess, and to himself. His conscience was far from clear, and his reckoning awaited him amongst the flames he would soon ignite.

The cave in which he’d chosen as his tomb would remain safe from the flames, but the poison smoke would choke him. An intangible noose, as he couldn’t bring himself to tie a rope. He shuffled inside and loosed a long breath that felt more like a death rattle.

His stinging eyes couldn’t penetrate the blackness encroaching him on all sides as he reached into his jacket pocket with his good hand, and pulled out the zippo lighter he’d stuffed inside days before. He’d always suspected.

Deep inside, Richy had expected that this was how it ended. The cold silver metal warmed a little in his clammy hand as his thumb stroked over the Garage’s logo and wished he had said goodbye to his parents before he gave himself to the fire.

It was best they learned with the world. His suicide letter would speak for him and he prayed it would ensure his family didn’t suffer for his actions.

Naïveté had always been his downfall.

Before he set his ultimate act into motion, Richy took his phone out of his jean pocket and flicked the flashlight on. The bright beam of white light assaulted his eyes and created a flurry of moving shadows. The skittering of tiny claws on loose stone racing away from him painted a cruel smirk on his mouth as he cast the light around the small cavern and found what he was looking for.

A grubby black backpack sat against the grey rock wall, covered in dirt, blood, and guilt as he scuttled over to it. He unzipped it and pulled out the almost empty bottle of water he’d been rationing for days.

After fishing the bottle of medication out of his pocket, he struggled to open them both, and cried out as his jerky movements irritated his wounded arm. It took five very long minutes to get the pills out. The light from his phone shuddered as he set it down to count the pills.

He’d chosen the strongest ones his mother had. One knocked her out for half a day, and he wanted to numb himself as much as he could before the smoke smothered or flames devoured him. They were heavy on his tongue as he tossed back a fistful of the chalky tablets and chased them down with the last of his precious water.

For a moment, they got lodged in his throat, his mouth flooded with saliva and his eyes prickled with fresh tears.

He couldn’t even kill himself right. Everything he did just failed in spectacular fashion.

He was a monster of his own making, and only he could slay it. He swallowed, compulsive and dry, ignoring the hot flashes creeping up his neck as the painkillers scraped down his throat and into his hollow stomach.

Richy dropped to his knees and crawled over to the wall, and slumped back onto it. Paper crinkled in his inside coat pocket as he shifted to get comfortable. He had about an hour before the full effects of the medication set in. He would light the fire once the gnawing, eroding ache in his chest and arm dulled.

Until then, he sat with his thoughts, his splintering sanity, and cursed himself. Cursed Duskwood and the predator the town had forced him to transfigure himself into.

The weight of hopelessness hung around Richy’s neck like a noose pulled tight, squeezing the light of life from his eyes.

It was a suffocating darkness that swallowed him whole, leaving nothing but the biting tang of despair on his tongue. Each breath felt like inhaling shards of broken glass, cutting deeper with every huffing exhale.

The silence that echoed in his soul was a relentless scream, a haunting, deafening reminder of the emptiness that consumed him.

“I should’ve told someone,” Richy said in a whisper.

The words bounced softly off the rock, a harmony of regret.

He twitched as it fell silent, mouth furling and eyes glazing over as he listened to the racket in his head.

All you had to do was hand yourself in. You could have avoided all of this.

What do you think will happen to your family? They’ll live happily ever after in the town you terrorized?

Do you honestly think your pathetic letter will save them?

The slippery voice of his own darkness broke into a baleful laugh. It made the hair in his nape rise and stand stiff. He shuddered, thrashing his head and gritting his teeth until they squeaked.

“I tried. I always tried. But I’m a failure. I’ve always been a failure. I can make it right. It’s the only way.” He muttered as the disembodied voice agreed.

Make it right? Ha! You think you can wash away the stain of your idiocy?

You’re tainted.

Forever marked by your wrong choices, Richy.

Redemption? You make me laugh.

Redemption is a fairytale, a delusion you’re desperately clinging to.

It is so far beyond your reach…

Richy’s voice was a growl as he said, “No, redemption isn’t my goal. I can’t undo the damage I’ve caused, but I can end it before anyone else gets hurt. I can make sure the world knows it was me.”

The derisive laughter of his demons chafed at his skull as if their talons were scratching their unspeakable names into the bone.

You’re a lost cause. A testament to all your failures.

Each step you take is a step closer to the abyss of self condemnation.

There’s no way out.

Your sacrifice won’t save your soul.

“I accept that!” Richy roared, spittle flying from his chapped lips as he panted like a wounded beast.

“My death might be the only way to atone for all I’ve done. I don’t care what comes after that. But my family won’t suffer because of me. Not any more.”

The voice in his head made a sound of agreement before it crooned his worst fears.

Yes, your death is the ultimate penance.

Your final act of contrition for the havoc you’ve so selfishly wrought.

Then again, have you considered the aftermath?

Your family will endure your actions. Long after you’re gone. Their suffering will echo until they, too, shuffle off the mortal coil.

Searing fiery agony ripped through Richy’s heart. It felt as though someone had taken a knife, heated it up over a fire until it glowed red hot, and then plunged it into his chest. The scent of burned flesh and molten iron filled his nose. The sensation felt so real to him.

His hand clawed at his jacket over his pounding heart, as if to pull the blade free, but his fingers met only dirty fabric.

“They won’t! They won’t! They won’t! I’ve made sure of it. This isn’t their burden to bear!” He yelled, voice laced with an anguish that made his body convulse as rivulets of salt descended his bared teeth.

Helplessness stole over him as his demons taunted and chuckled in a scornful manner.

You should have thought about that before you started donning the guise of an ancient legend.

Idiot.

Weak.

Pathetic!

Your existence is a festering wound that poisons all in your vicinity.

Embrace the fire.

Let it cleanse all the filth you’ve spread.

But just know, your family will bear the scars of your choices, as they’re carved into their souls for eternity.

Richy sobbed through the agonising sensation weaving through his internal organs. He felt as though someone was weaving his internal organs together with a blunt needle, and they had deliberately coated the thread in salt to prolong his suffering. The increasing pressure in his head demanded an outlet as well.

Everything ached, it bled, and it tore him apart. He was so tired. So tired of trying.

This mine, this town, and all it had demanded of him, he was done with it all. He wanted it to burn. His desire was for them all to suffer, just as he had for a decade. He hadn’t dug just one grave that night. No, there had been one accident and four graves waiting for them. They’d just seen theirs too late.

The forest had never forgotten them, though. It had been patient.

That night with Hannah and Amy, it had never ended. It was a living nightmare he had no way out of. Their deaths had simply waited for them to catch up, and even if Hannah could find it in her to exist after all he’d done, he knew she’d died alongside Jennifer and the rest of them.

Ghosts. That’s what they were. He saw it now. There was no point in trying to hold it off anymore.

It was as if the pressure in his head imploded with that thought.

He wasn’t fully aware of his surroundings as his mind fragmented and warped, and his tenuous hold on reality slipped from his grasp.

The cave dissolved in his vision. Something at the very core of himself disintegrated with it.

He was somewhere else. Somewhere he had long tried to forget.

It was ten years ago.

Amy was there. As was Hannah.

He held a muddied shovel. The surrounding forest smelled like home, but his blood had turned cold. Jennifer’s lifeless body lay broken and bloodied, the remnants of shock still painted across her lovely features.

Her hair lay in a sanguine halo around her head as Richy set down the shovel, and silently, the trio worked to lift the woman.

Hannah’s sobs blended with his labored breathing, sweat drip, drip, dripped down his sore neck. He’d wanted to report it to the police. Tried to convince them to do so anonymously. But Hannah, in her fright, had convinced him they’d be signing their death warrants.

His family would suffer. It was he who gave her the keys to a client’s car. It was due to be scrapped, yes, but that didn’t make it better. Everyone would boycott his dad’s Garage and now that mom was growing worse, the sickness in her invading her mind, he knew they needed that income more than ever.

All they could do was hide the body, agree never to speak of this night, and give the greatest performances of their lives to ensure no one ever suspected them once word of Jennifer’s vanishing spread through Duskwood. He felt like something inside him was dying.

His throat tightened, mouth flooding with saliva as the urge to vomit overtook his senses. Heat crawled through him as he swallowed a mouthful of acidic bile and looked heavenward as they shuffled to stand at the edge of the crudely dug grave.

The stars overhead mocked them as the foliage and freshly overturned earth disguised the metallic scent of spilled blood and their sour shared guilt.

“Are you sure you can live with this?” He asked as they hesitated to drop Jennifer into the ground.

Amy chewed on her bottom lip, blood staining her teeth she’d bitten so hard, and her leaking eyes wouldn’t settle on anything as she gave a single jerky nod. Richy’s stomach sank, but he turned his gaze to Hannah.

His friend’s grief mottled face would haunt him forever as she said, “What other choice do we have?”

That answer inspired zero confidence, but Richy accepted it as an affirmation, and said, “Okay, on three—1, 2, 3!”

With a slight swing and a wobble, they released their hold on Jennifer and all three screwed their eyes shut as she hit the bottom of the hole with a sickening crunch.

Amy fell to her knees, her shaking hands gripping the loose mud ringing the unmarked grave as she sobbed uncontrollably. Richy could hardly stand to watch her, and was glad when Hannah, who was crying freely herself, hauled her away.

He nodded once as Hannah and Amy embraced, clinging to one another, wordless apologies pouring from them both as Richy retrieved his shovel.

He felt like they were being watched. Paranoia snaked through his mind like a weed he knew would grow out of control. All he could do was start refilling the grave.

The soft sound of metal scooping up damp earth seemed to ring through the forest as he internally shut down. All his emotions, he forced them aside. He locked them in a cage made of lead and lined with explosives. Life would never be the same.

Life would be a method actors dream after this. He knew this would change them at a molecular level and none of them could breathe a word of it once they left this cursed forest.

Richy took the last deep breath he’d ever experience and watched expressionlessly as the earth rained down on Jennifer. The pattering noise reminded him of rain, of tears. Amy cried harder while he diligently worked to cover up their mistakes.

Hannah watched, her mouth open in a silent scream.

Wetness trickled down his cheeks as he slowly returned to the present.

Hannah’s face floated across his vision as the scene fully dissipated, and he found himself back in the cave. Stale air replaced the aroma of the night dark forest, and a thin haze hung over his eyes as a euphoric rush raced through his bloodstream.

He felt as if he was floating and drowning in a sea of deliriousness.

The medication had kicked in. His legs were leaden as his head lolled on his neck as if on a swivel, and there was an odd sensation in his nose, like the smell of a roaring fire, but none had been lit. The bullet wound in his arm still griped. Infection had set in, he thought.

Only death would cure it. The meds would ease his passing.

A synthetic fatigue draped him like a cloak as he blinked blearily at the dancing shadows creeping nearer. His mouth turned so dry his tongue curdled in his mouth, and his breathing grew shallower as the painkillers burned through the aches in his body. Not long now, his mosaic mind kept jumping between the past and present, footsteps and disembodied voices whispered so close and real that he answered one.

“I should have turned myself in, I know.”

“At least we agree on something. ”

A female said. His suddenly too heavy head swung around to find the source, his sluggish heart raced faster and faster as the voice sounded like Jessy’s.

“Jess? Remember the fish? The names I made up? If I could—No—I’m so fucking sorry...” He said. He spoke with a voice threaded with deepest despondency.

“The fish were just another lie. All of it was. Your life ended the night Jennifer did. Was any of it real after that? Anything you said, did you mean any of it?”

His shrunken heart broke irrevocably, the agony radiated through his chest, and filled him with a coldness that would soon embrace all of him.

“I didn’t mean—please—I’m ready to pay for it. No one else will hurt because of me.” He swore vehemently.

Jessy’s spectral laugh, derisive and humorless, taunted him.

“We will hurt. It won’t go away. Your actions caused wounds that will scar us forever. Death is your relief. Living with what you did to us is our grief. Goodbye, Richy.”

Richy cried silently as her voice faded and the full effects of the painkillers turned his bones to jelly. He had to light the fire before he passed out. A coffin was his only way out of this cursed place.

Bracing a hand on the knobby wall, he gradually rose to his feet as rock crumbled under his fingers, and rained to the dusty ground, sweat on his palm mixed with the dirt as he tottered toward the entrance. He thumbed the Zippo open as he panted, jaw clenched and eyes stinging with slaking tears.

Petrol permeated the air. He breathed it in as he flicked the lighter and swayed on weak knees as the tiny flame ignited. In the dim, damp recesses of the mine, shadows waltzed like specters as Richy, face obscured by the glow of the lighter and shadow, dropped the flame with a snap of his wrist into the pool of gasoline.

Flame surged away from him, hissing along in a serpentine trail until it morphed into a living beast starved and hungry for destruction. He stumbled back. The heat was a physical blow as it sucked out the oxygen, and he trembled like a newborn fawn as he dropped to his knees and stared and stared and stared.

Amidst the cavernous depths of the mine, the candescent light of the furious fire cast a macabre ballet of shadows upon the rough-hewn walls, a surreal tableau of light and darkness. Tendrils of flame licked and lapped at the stone, awakening ember-tinged echoes that wavered and flashed like phantoms in the subterranean gloom.

Billowing smoke, an ash ridden shroud, coiled sinuously through the labyrinthine passages. The evidence he had doused in gasoline would soon catch fire. Relief glittered through him at the thought. An acrid perfume of burning wood and charred earth mingled with the metallic scent of ancient minerals, an otherworldly aroma that lingered in his lungs and clung to all his senses.

There was no going back now. Every breath was slower than the last. It felt like he was inhaling lava as the heat singed the soft tissue and hair in his nose.

His weighty eyelids sat at half mast. The tunnel walls seemed to exhale, releasing murmurs of long buried secrets, as if the very mine itself sought to voice its resignation to the all-consuming blaze. Mirroring his own easing turmoil as he shut down the instinct to flee and welcomed the darkness speckling the edges of his vision.

His lungs were burning as he struggled for air, and it felt like there was a boulder sitting on his chest, keeping them from inflating and grinding his bones down.

The feeling went out of his legs as his hands turned to claws and raked down his neck, leaving scarlet trails of pain scoring his constricting throat.

His world flipped sideways as he collapsed and his head cracked off the rubble strewn ground, but he no longer felt any pain. The roar of the fire, the slowing beat of his heart, and the stones poking into his tear-streaked face were all he knew.

As Richy’s weary eyes teetered on the edge of closure for the last time, a bizarre scene unfolded within the tumult of his fading consciousness.

The nerves in his hands spasmed and his fingers twitched, filthy nails scratching at the dirt to distract himself as he resisted the urge to fight for his life.

No, it had to end like this. If Hell was real, it was best he got used to it.

Freezing panic blasted through him like a blizzard as his blurred eyes caught sight of something that didn’t belong.

Through the shimmering haze of smoke and heat, a figure emerged from a tunnel he hadn’t thought to include in his fiery last act. His heart tried to beat faster as fear spread its icy fingers through his body. The person appeared cloaked in a shivering orange glow and erratic shadows.

Masked and foreboding, the phantom figure raced away without noticing Richy. And lost in the fractured fabric of his perception, Richy could not see who or what it was. If it was a real person, they might’ve tried to drag him out. This would all be for naught. For once, his horrendous luck benefited him.

As it was, the panicked footsteps bolted away from him, barely heard over the howling fire, and vanished into the tumult of smoke.

He hoped they made it out. It hadn’t occurred to him he might take another’s life with him. Just another mistake. Another tally on his list of sins committed. His choices lay before him like an intricately woven tapestry, each thread a testament to the wrong turns and paths he tread, yielding a disturbing, wretched pattern he wished he could unravel and weave anew.

His trembling gaze soon faltered as the slithering smoke filled his lungs, gasping for air that no longer existed as he spluttered and coughed. With every shallow inhale, the world blurred and distorted. Black spots burst like maleficent fireworks in his eyes, shutting down his fleeting thoughts of crawling to safety.

A cacophony of wheezes and whines slipping from his open mouth faded into a distant echo, as his eyelids, heavy with surrender, fluttered closed. He gave himself over to the exhaustion eating him alive from the inside.

The world outside ceased to matter as an alleviating darkness enveloped his mind. His tiny exhales were little more than puffs of air. A whispered farewell to all those he was leaving behind.

Richy had fallen quiet, but the fire raged on, growing stronger as it feasted on wood, and hastily packed boxes, and the papers inside them. His legacy of ash and blood.

In the letter he left for his parents, he had assumed all guilt and taken the lion's share of the responsibility for Jennifer’s death, and his actions after. Hannah, he thought she had suffered enough, and whatever punishment she received, he didn’t want it to ruin her more. Death was his toll to pay, his lethal reputation would exist long after him and pay for the rest of it. He only hoped his parents could move on from this.

They wouldn’t see him again, not until the funeral. It was over. The corrosive effects of his choices had eaten away at everything good in him.

There was nothing left to salvage from his wreckage.

He tried. And he failed. This time, he finally succeeded in something. The complete demolition of him. A tear slipped through his lashes, warm and soft as it fell to the mucky ground.

It was the last. No more fell.

Death came quietly for him, as silent as a falling leaf drifting into a pile of its fallen friends. His chest stuttered as tentacles of smoke wreathed around him like funeral wrappings, falling as still as the rock he lay atop.

Death finally slayed Richy Rogers’ demons, and no one heard their screams.

——————

I have never been so nervous about something I’ve written. I hope that you—I can’t say enjoyed 🙈 but I hope your time wasn’t wasted. Thank you for reading, if you made it this far.

This is in no way meant to glamorise mental illness or anything like that. That is not my intention. I have been where Richy was in this story, I didn’t kidnap or help bury anyone, but I’ve dealt with depression/anxiety all my life. I’ve dealt with suicidal thoughts. There is nothing glamorous about it. This is just a fictional character study to explore his mind and emotions at the end of the game. If you are struggling, please reach out to anyone you trust. Or a stranger, if that works better. Share the burden. You don’t have to suffer alone. It can get better. I promise. I wouldn’t be here if it didn’t ❤️🫂

Thank you ❤️

And the “masked figure,” that was Jake from this story, The Ending You Deserve. Just a little Easter egg for anyone who read that 🤭❤️

#duskwood #duskwood fanfic #duskwood oneshot #fanfiction #duskwood fanfiction #one shot #duskwood x moonvale #women writers #❤️

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itsnotzka · 3 days

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Hello, I wrote a little something. It’s very short, but at least I wrote it. I had this idea of short stories about people’s lives. I’ll probably post something new... someday.

Glimpse of a life - RAIN

The droplet were falling from the grey sky, crashing loudly on the roof. She closed her book and left it on the coffee table, then grabbed her mug of tea before heading to the window. She opened it, placing her hand outside to feel the fresh air caressing her skin. A sharp contrast with the warmth of the goblet she was holding. Rain, carried by the wind, was piercing through the porch and tickling her fingers. She liked this weather. It eased her, comforted her. She hadn't felt at peace since a long time.

The smell of the water on the asphalt of the terrace filled her nostrils, reminding her of the perfume of the city, in her former life.

Here, everything was so much quieter, vivid and real. She watched a bumblebee bravely flying away from the porch, facing the heavy rain to return to the nest. A ladybug climbed up the glass of the window to find shelter inside the house. She had always felt connected to nature, but life had decided otherwise and she had forgotten this part of herself when her job drowned her with responsibilities.

She tried, she really did, fighting to fit this mold, to play a game she knew she would lose. She followed all the rules, though. She got her degree, got a job, got married, bought a way too small apartment with her spouse, she even tried to make a child! This is when things got complicated. This is when they stopped talking, when problems arrived, when the doctors said they couldn't be parents. Not like this, at least. So they gave up, without even agreeing or arguing about this. She couldn't say if she was relieved or sad. She couldn't say if she would have regrets when she'd be older. She just let her life past, as if nothing happened.

But this morning, everything had changed. She was facing the mirror, spreading her anti-age cream all over her face, when she heard the front door closing with a loud thud. Her husband had left without saying goodbye, just like every morning. She'd looked at herself and felt disgusted. How did she let that happen? When did she become this sour middle-age woman, wearing this stupid suit, wearing this fake pinched smiled that had created deep wrinkles she was trying to reduce with anti-age cream? This wasn't her!

She felt like waking up from a nightmare, a very long nightmare. She opened the tap, washed her face and passed comfortable clothes. She grabbed the bag she had packed years ago after an umpteenth fight - perhaps the fact she never took the time to unpack it, should have been the signal she wanted to leave long ago - and left a simple note on the counter top of the kitchen. No explanation, just facts. They never really communicated after all, so why would it change now? He just needed to know she wouldn't return.

When she got in her car, she turned off her phone. She wouldn't call the office either. She started the engine and drove. She knew the way. Adrenaline ran through her veins and she felt as if life was slowly regaining control of her body again. She drove without stopping for hours. She wasn't tired, she was excited by her choice. It was reckless, but it was the first thing she did for herself. She no longer followed the rules, she was being selfish, for her own happiness.

She arrived in the early afternoon. The place hadn't changed since her childhood. It was the same small cottage surrounded by this huge garden her Grandmother had created. She was like her, she prefered animals to human. They were honest and simple. She didn't need to wear a mask next to them. She could be herself. Her Granny taught her everything she needed to know about wild life. How to grow plants and flowers, how to live in harmony with animals that human called pests. How ridiculous it was! The world was dying but it was foxes' fault?

She shook her head and took a sip of her beverage. She had a lot to do here. She intended to re-open her Grandmother's flower shop. She had saved enough money and would use it to realize her childhood dream.

The weather got worse, but it didn't bother her. The sound of the rain was still better than the silence that reigned in her life for too many years. She smiled. It took her twenty years to have the courage to do what she wanted, but now, here she was. She found where she belonged, her safe place, and life could really begin.

#original characters #original writing #original fiction #original content #original short story #short story #creative writing #writers on tumblr #woman writers #❤️

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itsnotzka · 6 days

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At some point in your life, you were taught that being slightly annoying is an unforgivable sin. Maybe it was by your parents or a teacher or a friend or a bully or an older sibling. But someone taught you that being slightly annoying is a crime punishable by death.

You must unlearn this.

You must accept that all people will be annoying at some point or another in their lives, maybe all of their lives, and that this is okay. It is okay for strangers on the bus, it is okay for children in the grocery store, it is okay for people on social media, and it is okay for you.

If you ever want to truly love your fellow humans, if you ever want to truly love yourself, you must have forgiveness for being annoying.

#bless

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itsnotzka · 9 days

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Oneshot - Rainy days

A/N : I had this idea. This text could be about any sad love story but I thought it fited well with Jake and MC's story. It's mostly sad but I hope you'll like it.

I always liked rainy days.

The sound of the droplets against the window has always calmed me down. Even when I was a child I sat for hours in front of the window, watching the rain fall, imagining where it came from.. From the clouds, from the sky. My mother said I must have carried much sadness to prefer rainy days to sunny days. That I should have enjoyed being able to play football with my friends when the weather was soft instead of locking myself inside. To be honest, I liked the rain because I could spend all day in my room playing on my computer on my own, in a quiet environment.

Even now, many years later, I feel most peaceful, soothed by the sound of the raindrops hitting the window of my motel room. I am lying in my bed staring at the shadows reflecting on the ceiling. It's been a while since I have been here. I get up and open the window to let the heavy atmosphere of the incoming storm come in.

It's my last day in this town. I soon have to go because my pursuers are getting closer. But first, I have one last thing to do before running away. With a deep sigh, I close my laptop and gather all my stuff in my black backpack. I look at the room that has sheltered me for the past few days one last time before I close the door behind me.

I always liked rainy days.

I walk on the empty street with the echo of my footsteps on the asphalt as only company. It is a cloudy Sunday afternoon so no-one wanders outside. The raindrops hit the ground with a light thud and crash on my hoodie. I walk along the docks enjoying the sight of the river moving and splashing against the shore. The whole landscape of the city is gray. From the cloudy sky to the empty paved streets. Even the rain and water have this pale blue-gray color reflecting the shade of my eyes.

I arrive at my destination and stare at the gray stonewalls of your house. The building looks the same as before. The only color that comes out is the golden metal in which are engraved the numbers suspended near the door.

I remember the first time I saw you opening the door. You searched for me and as soon as you spotted the young man I was, a bright smile illuminated your face. I remember entering your house, wrapping my arms around your small body.

I remember our shared kisses. I remember your arms around my neck as you pulled me closer to you. The touch of your burning skin against mine. I remember the sound of your voice, the bliss of your laughter. I remember your hot breath tickling my ear. And above all, I remember the love we shared in this house. Your home. We knew it was for a short time but we knew our love was mutual and sincere. But it was a long time ago. Ten years, maybe even a little more.

I always liked rainy days.

A small boy walks past me, jostling me. I look at him, heading toward the house. This time you open the door, but not for me. You crouch and hug the little boy tightly. I smile. You haven't changed a bit. Maybe I can notice the little wrinkles forming in the corner of your eyes and your first gray hair that you don't even bother to cover. But you are still the same. Your smile is bright, your eyes are kind and your voice is still so soft.

A man appears next to you and ruffles the hair of the boy. Before going inside the ten years old child looks behind his shoulder and locks his eyes with mine. A sharp pain stings my stomach as I look into the boy's gray blue eyes mirroring mine. Less than a second later, the little kid disappears into the house.

You get up and smile at the man who wraps his arm around your waist, resting a soft kiss on your hair. You look at him as you used to look at me. My chest tightens when you leave a kiss on his lips. Does he make you happy? Does he love you as much as I do? Is he a good father for this little boy? He probably is a better father than me. He is the one raising the kid and loving him. And for now, this is all that matters.

The man follows the kid in the house and you stand alone at the door. Your eyes try to spot what the boy saw earlier. And I can recognize the look on your face. It was the same look I saw each time we met, eyes full of hope. But it is too late, I have already stepped in the shadow and you can't see me anymore. My whole body tries to fight the urge to run towards you. But I can't. I will not break the family you built. Even if I want to hold you in my arms more than anything. Even if I want to finally meet this little boy. I will just keep on watching over you, protecting you and our son.

I can see sadness cross your face as you look down and turn away, closing the door behind you.

I always liked rainy days.

As I close my eyes, I feel the rain fall on my cheek. My burning tears are mixing with the cold raindrops, washing the sorrow from my face, drowning my pain away.

#duskwood #duskwood fanfiction #<3

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itsnotzka · 11 days

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Why, hello! Okay, I needed a break from other things, so I decided to finish this thingy. Nobody stopped me, so there you have it, haha ;)

Insomniac neighbors AU (:D) Fluff of sort?

Jake/MC (and Richy (mentioned)),

warning: strong language (just a few swear words :))

little over 3k words.

Read below or on Ao3.

Quiet was the night.

The faint murmurs of the city seeped through the open window, blending seamlessly with the gentle hum of his computer. The soft glow emanating from the screen delicately illuminated the room without overpowering the senses.

Outside, the city was sleeping. He sat alone, relishing in the tranquility around him. With a soft exhale, he allowed his eyelids to drift shut, surrendering to the serene stillness. A perfect way to spend the sleepless night.

His bliss did not last long, though.

The tranquility he had just savored shattered like fragile glass as a series of loud thumps resounded from the apartment above, rudely intruding upon his peace. Rhythmic. Regular. Purposeful. It was as if someone—or something—was relentlessly pounding against the wall.

With a frustrated click of his tongue, he glanced upward, his thoughts already swirling with annoyance. This wasn't the first time, oh no. It was the third consecutive night of such disturbances. Three damn nights in a row, his sanctuary invaded by these unwelcomed noises. And, as the noise persisted, irritation simmered within him, threatening to boil over.

Because the nights, the nights were meant to be his and his alone.

He closed his eyes once more in a futile effort to block out the noise. Yet, the relentless thumping persisted, refusing to be ignored.

Fine. Enough was enough.

With a sudden jolt, he stood up, the chair he had been sitting on spinning and nearly tipping over as he strode purposefully toward the door. He paid little heed to the possibility of disturbing his neighbors' intimate moments. Ready to demand they screw their bed to the wall, or simply screw each other elsewhere, he stepped into the hallway, slamming the door behind him. Without any hesitation, he began climbing the stairs two at a time. Before he could even start second-guessing his decision, he found himself knocking firmly on the door of the apartment directly above his own.

The thumping stopped immediately. For a brief moment, there was silence, then the sound of footsteps approaching.

Just as the door began to creak open, he wasted no time in venting his frustration. "Finally! I don't know if you even realize, but it's the fucking middle of the night and—oh, shit."

A step backward was his immediate reaction upon seeing the woman before him. It wasn't just the anger etched in her eyes, nor the furrowed brows and crossed arms that silenced him. No, it was the startling sight of her—all covered in red stains. From her shirt to her hands, even her face, she resembled a character straight out of a slasher movie. And when she casually wiped her sweaty forehead, leaving behind a conspicuous streak of crimson, his shock only deepened.

"Uh-huh. It's the middle of the night. And?" she sighed, seemingly unfazed by her unsettling appearance. "Do you need something? You're the one standing in my doorway, yelling."

“What the h–hell…” Stupefied, he could only manage a dumbfounded gesture, pointing incredulously at her with both of his hands, his eyes widening.

Her frown deepened at his reaction, but it was only after a moment that she glanced down at herself and her hands, noticing the streaks of red. With an amused scoff and a roll of her eyes, she dismissed his alarm.

"Oh. It's paint, genius. I'm painting," she casually fixed a lone strand of hair that had fallen onto her forehead with her fingers stained red. "If I were a murderer, I'd be more careful. Don’t you think?"

His breath caught in his throat as he registered her words, a wave of relief washing over him.

"Well, I suppose I'd rather confront a murderer, then!" he retorted, his voice regaining its composure. "At least I wouldn't have to deal with the constant banging on the walls at night, it seems. What the hell are you even doing?"

"I already told you, I'm painting," she shot back, her narrowed eyes fixing him with a glare. "And, excuse me, but aren't you that loud guy living in the apartment under me? The one who slams his doors no matter what, and always blocks my bike with his?"

"Am I? Well, maybe because your pretty urban bike with that ridiculously huge basket always takes up two spaces, mine included," he countered. "Learn to park, maniac. It’s not that hard! And keep it down! I’m trying to work!"

The young woman's laughter echoed through the hallway, genuine and hearty. "Unbelievable. And what are you doing at night that my painting bothers you so much, huh?"

"None of your fucking business what I do," he barked, jabbing an accusatory finger in her direction. "It's quiet hours, so either you stop banging on the walls or I'll report you. And then your bike!"

"Damn asshole," she hissed, her grip tightening on the door handle.

"At your service," he replied with a mocking bow, a smirk playing on his lips. "Have a good night, psycho. Red does not suit you, by the way."

Whether or not she heard his parting words remained uncertain, as she promptly slammed the door shut in his face. Fuming with anger, he turned on his heel, ready to storm back to his place. But as he reached the door and patted his pocket, a sinking feeling settled in the pit of his stomach.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, you’ve got to be kidding…" he muttered aloud, his hand coming up empty. He grabbed the doorknob, even though he knew it was a futile gesture without his keys.

Could he be that stupid? Could he really leave his apartment with nothing, not even his damn phone?

Apparently, he could.

With a frustrated grunt, he considered banging his forehead against the door in a fit of vexation but quickly dismissed the idea as both stupid and potentially painful.

And definitely loud.

Left with no other option, he reluctantly decided to seek help from the landlord. He cursed his luck because, of course, the landlord lived right next door to that dreadful neighbor who could easily pass for a murderess in the right lighting. Nevertheless, he really didn't like the idea of spending the rest of the night stranded in the hallway.

This time he climbed the stairs with deliberate steps, determined to handle the situation with a little more finesse. Walking to door number 33, he knocked softly, hoping the guy, by some miracle, wasn’t sleeping yet. Or was already awake. Whatever was closer.

Yet, the silence that greeted him was quite deafening. Undeterred, he knocked once more, this time with slightly more force.

His heart skipped a beat as the door behind him creaked open, and a familiar voice broke the silence. "What happened? Is the landlord too noisy, too?"

He spun on his heels, fingers clenching into tight fists at his sides. "Mind your own business, huh?" he retorted, frustrated.

The young woman chuckled, pausing in her task of wiping away the stubborn red streak of paint from her face with a damp towel. "Richy's out for the night," she informed him, nodding toward the landlord’s apartment. "Whatever you need from him, it'll have to wait until morning."

"Well, isn't that just fucking perfect," he growled, more to himself than to her.

Her laughter bubbled louder at his exasperation, head tilting slightly in amusement. Quickly, she covered her mouth, though, mindful of the late hour and not wanting to disturb the neighbors further.

"Let me guess, genius," she remarked with a hint of amusement, her smile softening. "You locked yourself out. A smarty-pants like you? Aww, that’s so sad…" Her lips pursed in mock sympathy as she tried to wipe her hands of the remnants of red paint.

He snorted in response but remained silent. With determined strides, he made his way towards the stairs, fully prepared to spend the night wandering the city until morning. Passing her by without so much as a glance, he was about to descend when she called out to him.

"Okay, wait a minute," her voice caused him to pause mid-step. "I think I can help you out."

“No, thanks,” he snorted, turning to her, “You just want to gloat at my misfortune.”

Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she shook her head. "Maybe a little," she admitted playfully. "But you're the asshole here. I'm just the good-natured maniac whose pretty bike you keep blocking."

Her bluntness caught him off guard, and he regarded her with a mixture of surprise and skepticism. After a moment of contemplation, he let out a resigned sigh, realizing that he was indeed in a bit of a bind with very limited options.

"Come in, will you?" she urged when he didn’t respond. "I'll go get some tools."

"Tools?" he echoed, but she had already vanished inside, leaving him with no choice but to follow.

After a moment or two, he sighed and cautiously crossed the threshold of her apartment, his eyes scanning the space to locate where she had gone. The layout of the place mirrored his own, a spacious studio with an open living area. However, the differences in décor were quite obvious—unfinished paintings leaned against the walls, an easel stood in one corner with a canvas in progress, and sheets of paper littered various surfaces, each with vibrant splashes of color. The faint smell of fresh paint lingered in the air, and somehow it wasn't unpleasant at all.

On the floor in the further corner of the room, his gaze landed on a toolbox, its lid slightly ajar. Beside it lay a hammer and a small painting, only partially framed.

The culprit of the noise.

"Hey, what did you mean by tools–" he started, his voice trailing off as he took a few steps toward the bedroom, only to freeze in place.

She had already taken off her paint-stained flannel shirt and was in the process of pulling a red t-shirt over a snug tank top, the fabric clinging to her figure a little too perfectly. He felt a pang of unease, suddenly aware of his accidental intrusion into her personal space.

He barely had a moment to process his embarrassment before she turned around with a smile as she noticed him there, her laughter hitting his ears. Then, with a playful shake of her head and a casual run of her fingers through her messy dark hair, she made her way back into the living room.

"So you're not just an asshole, but a voyeur, too?" she teased, her tone surprisingly light given the circumstances. "What a combination!"

"S–sorry," he mumbled, feeling a flush of embarrassment color his cheeks as he looked away. "I didn't mean to. I was just–" He clicked his tongue in frustration, struggling to find the right words. "In my defense, you disappeared, and I just wanted to–"

“Relax, eh? Let's open your door,” she interjected, her laughter cutting through his stumbling explanation as she patted him on the shoulder and moved toward a large toolbox.

"What? H–how?" he stammered stupidly, his gaze following her movements as she crouched next to the box, her fingers deftly rummaging through its peculiar contents.

"Yeah, well… Have you ever taken a closer look at me or my apartment?" she quipped, a wry lift of her eyebrow accentuating her point. "I'm the absolute embodiment of forgetfulness and scatterbrained tendencies, in case you haven't noticed. How many times do you reckon I've accidentally slammed that darn door and found myself locked out? Those locks might seem sturdy, but truth be told, they're quite easy to pick…"

He snorted in disbelief. "Wait, wait, hold on... Are you seriously thinking about picking my lock?"

"Why not?" she shrugged casually, as if it were the most natural suggestion in the world.

He opened his mouth to make a cutting remark, but found himself at a loss for words.

"Yup. You're crazy. I'm leaving," he declared, raising his hands in resignation as he turned towards the door.

“Well. Good luck, then!” she chuckled skeptically, waving to him with a small, thin screwdriver and what looked like a hairpin. “I hope your doormat is comfortable… You should know that Richy is on a date, and I guess it went very well, so I have no idea what time he'll be back. Might as well be late in the afternoon. Or in the evening.”

He paused, a mix of disbelief and fascination flickering across his face as he turned back to look at her. Despite the paint smudges and the aura of chaos surrounding her, there was a peculiar glint in her eyes that felt oddly genuine and dependable. Bold. Daring.

"This can’t be happening…” he muttered, his fingers instinctively finding their way to pinch the bridge of his nose.

She only chuckled further, “If it makes you feel any better, the first time it took me about 3 hours to get inside.”

“So you've… really done this before?" he inquired tentatively.

She burst into laughter, her amusement almost contagious. "Yup. I do this every two weeks or so. My own door, of course! But don't let Richy in on my little secret. I just don’t want to bother him too much..."

He hesitated, uncertain whether to trust someone whose toolbox contained an eclectic mix of brushes, paints, and all variety of tools. As he pondered, his gaze drifted to the paintings adorning the walls behind her.

"Hey… Did you paint those yourself?" he asked, pointing to the colorful canvases, most of which were saturated in shades of red.

"Of course. Why do you ask? Want some proof?" she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest, the screwdriver still held loosely in her hand. “Or are you about to critique my masterpieces?”

"No, I just— I... I've seen similar ones. All over the city. In different places," he explained, his voice trailing off uncertainly.

Her brow furrowed in confusion, her gaze narrowing as she processed his words, rising from her spot on the floor. "You mean that street art?"

He fell silent for a moment, his eyes lingering on her still paint-splattered face. "Are they yours? They are, aren’t they?"

"Planning to report that too?" she shot back, a hint of sarcasm lacing her tone as she held his gaze. "Just like my bike and the alleged noise at night? You know you have no evidence for any of it!"

"No, it's not that," he chuckled, shaking his head. "I'm just curious. I really like those paintings. The ones in the city, I mean. I never would've guessed someone like you could be the artist behind them."

“I didn’t say I was.”

"Come on," he gestured towards the red figure on the canvas, "They're identical to the ones in the city. These simple, faceless cat-like characters doing all sorts of amazing little things. Cleverly hidden in various, unexpected places."

"No, they're most definitely not identical," she huffed, striding up to the painting. "Can't you see something's missing in mine?"

"Yes, those big eyes painted with thick black lines, right? Sometimes other details, too. Very distinctive."

"Distinctive my ass! They're just stupid doodles that someone painted on real things!" she retorted, her frustration evident as she gestured toward the artwork.

"Do you really think so? People seem to like them. Have you seen all those pictures all over the web? They got quite popular, at least in the city. They even got a name, what was it…" He rubbed his stubbled chin, trying to recall.

"Night Watchers," the woman sighed, resigned.

"Right," he grinned with an odd sense of satisfaction, "Night Watchers. I like it."

"Well, I don’t!" she snapped, pointing her sharp screwdriver at him once again. "Those doodles are crude and primitive. And so are those who paint them!"

"Fine, fine!,” he laughed, raising his hands in surrender. “You're strangely defensive here, and we're just talking about graffiti, you know? Are you sure they're not yours?"

"Forget it," she sighed, taking her keys and waving them in front of his nose. "Come on. I’ll get you and your arrogant ass home."

He opened his mouth to protest, but seeing her determination, he realized there was no point. Without hesitation, she strode down the corridor, and he hastened to follow.

As they reached his apartment door, the young woman wasted no time in kneeling down, her movements fluid and assured as she began to work on the lock. He watched her with a mix of fascination and disbelief, the scene unfolding before him like something out of a movie. Here he was, in the dead of night, entrusting a stranger with the task of breaking into his own home. and not just a stranger. It was a surreal moment, one he never could have anticipated.

"My name’s Charlie, by the way," she muttered suddenly, her voice cutting through the silence. Despite her focus on the task at hand, there was a hint of warmth in her tone. "You can tell me yours, or I can keep calling you an asshole. Whatever you prefer."

He snorted in slight disbelief, recalling the last name written on an intercom, “Okay, hold on. You want to tell me your name is Charlie Brown*?”

She turned to him, her expression serious and unfazed, “Charlie Brown. Got a problem with that?”

“No, it's…” he scratched his head, trying to contain his smile to a minimum, “It's just cut– curious. That's all. Fits an artist, I guess.”

“Uh-huh. So?” her gaze focused on the lock once more, “Do you want me to keep calling you an asshole?”

"Tempting," he conceded, leaning against the railing with a wry smile. "But my name is Jake."

“Well then, Jake…” Charlie's fingers danced over the lock, her touch deft and precise. With a soft click, the lock surrendered, and she pushed the door open. "Welcome home." Her grin was triumphant as she got up and gestured for him to enter.

“I'll consider this as compensation for disturbing my peace,” he sighed, stepping past her as he finally made his way back to his place. But then, as he glanced back at her, he nodded slowly. "Thank you, Charlie. You'd make a very good burglar."

“Yeah… No problem,” she rolled her eyes, “Suppose us insomniacs have to stick together. No matter how annoying you are.”

Jake’s shoulders shook with silent mirth, “Yes, well. It was… interesting to finally meet you, Charlie Brown. And you actually do look good in red… when it’s not all over you,” he casually pointed to her t-shirt.

“Screw you, Jake,” her eyes crinkled at the corners as she snorted at him, “See you around.”

He watched her vanish down the hallway, a smile lingering on his lips. Then, with a soft click, he closed the door behind him, careful not to make a sound.

. . ………………… . .

She came to an abrupt stop, her fingers tightening around her phone as she squinted at the grimy wall of the aging city building. Until quite recently, it had served as a canvas for her creativity. The playful red figure mid-jump over the rope – the cable swaying from the electrical box nearby.

Now, however, it was something entirely different.

Thick, bold lines appeared on her little masterpiece. A bike now dominated the scene, but not just any bike. It was a truly whimsical rendition, making the red figure no longer leaping but riding that damn bike with carefree abandon. A large basket adorned the front, and right in it—a brush, and a screwdriver.

And there were those eyes. Those unmistakable, big, doodle-like eyes.

A laugh had to leave her lips, disbelief and amusement fighting with each other, as she read the small writing underneath.

Coffee tonight?

“That damn asshole…”

. . ………………….. . .

*You all probably know this well, but Charlie Brown is a character from the comic Peanuts :)

Thanks for reading! Leave a comment, share, let me know what you think ;) <3

#duskwood #duskwood fanfiction #duskwood jake

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itsnotzka · 12 days

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Lilienne Carter

#disco elysium #lilienne carter #<3

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itsnotzka · 13 days