#one of the most horrific aspects of the smile fruit to me is how they remove a person’s ability to be horrified | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mkstrigidae · 3 years

Note

Okay so I'm making my way through your masterlist and I'm in love?? Like let's start off with Winter's Child- a masterpiece. You make Sansa a loving and relatable character and interweave the powers into cannon in a way that actually makes cannon make more sense (preconceived biases and such). Jon and Sansa's relationship is SO SWEET and they way they bonded was absolutely adorable (and the backstory with the houses and the powers they have make so much sense) 1/3

(2/3) Neon Rain literally the best Cyberpunk AU! I've ever read. Like what you did with the world building?? The stark class differences (haha see what I did there?), the choices in SOUND, and I could FEEL myself there! I love the family dynamics between the Starks and I'm loving the little details you're dropping with the Greyjoy's , Jon's parentage, and all of the medical procedures. Jon is dramatic af and I love it and Sansa is a bamf AS SHE SHOULD. Nothing but love for this

(3/3) A Past Worth Having has a special place in my heart. You build up this setting like a tapestry, just seeing more richness and depth the longer you look. I'm proud of Sansa for holding her composure, just FEELING in the angst that the older Starks feel at her return, and loving the relationships with Robin and the rest of the Starks + Jon Arryn. The detail that you're putting into the investigation/Oberyn is awe inspiring and I can't wait to see what you do next with the trial + Jonsa

Haha thank you so much!!! This is such a sweet ask to get! My response is under a cut, because this might get kind of long! (lots of my own meta below, bc i accidentally had a lot to say, haha)

With ‘Winter’s Child’ I’ve really enjoyed weaving in fantasy elements to the world because I like to look at stories and pick at loose threads until they unravel and asking ‘what if?’. I thought it would be a super interesting concept to take a character like Sansa, who in ASOIAF is exactly what she is supposed to be as a noblewoman of her class and conforms very well in that role, and put her in a position where she was essentially a societal outcast in a lot of ways! In WC, Sansa has a lot of similar coping mechanisms to ASOIAF Sansa, in that she sort of romanticizes society to avoid thinking about how absolutely awful it is. In ASOIAF, Sansa holds tight to the notion of knights and chivalry and courtly love to cope with the fact that she essentially has no control over her future and, as a woman, is basically property. In WC, I have her really struggling to make herself into that perfect lady and using that as a sort of shield to the fact that, without a gift, there isn’t anything she can do to improve her lot in life. Sansa has these ideas about becoming a perfect lady and hoping that being perfect in other areas will ‘make up’ for what society perceives as deficient about her, but is more jaded than ASOIAF Sansa due to her age and her earlier exposure to the ills of society. So you get a Sansa who gets along better with Arya and Jon as a result, in part because she’s had that exposure to what it’s like to be an outcast in society. I think that the best fantasy has a really strong emotional backdrop (a really great example is ‘Fruits Basket’ which starts by hooking you with this wacky, fun premise about people in a family turning into animals when hugged by a member of the opposite sex, and slowly builds into a point where you can see that the family ‘curse’ is a representation of generational and familial abuse- of bonds that should be broken, and of bonds that may kill us even as we cling to them- it’s extremely complex and rich and if you haven’t read or watched it, I can’t recommend it highly enough), and so while I really love writing about the fantasy aspects, and writing scenes where Sansa does really cool things with her ice powers, the core of the story is really about Sansa coming into her own, and learning that she was a person who was worth something even without any sort of gift. Sort of overcoming societal stigma and realizing your worth and forcing others to see it. It’s so much fun to write, but i’m stuck at the moment, because i need to reread the books, and my roommate is borrowing them right now haha!

God, APWH is like, indulging my inner world-building suspense-narrative loving writer persona. It’s literally my all time favorite trope- which is of someone growing up to find out that they’re a long-lost somebody or have family they never knew about- combined with a lot of research on trauma (which i’ve been doing for academic and other reasons for a while) and a lot of slowly growing psychological horror courtesy of Petyr Baelish (trust me, it��s going to get WAY more intense). There are so many pieces of media that I love, but I think that GRRM has so many characters and such a well fleshed out world that it’s very fun to dive into his worlds and create something there. Inherently, I love a slowly unraveling mystery and morally gray characters, and this is allowing me to indulge in both!!! World-building is my favorite, because i tend to be fairly detail oriented, and i’ve been laying bread crumbs in so many places throughout the story to hopefully build up to a decent conclusion! I know sort of how it ends, and I think people are going to absolutely lose their minds if I execute it correctly. We have a few chapters to go until we get to anything in the semblance of a trial- there’s some more emotional aspects that I think need to get addressed first, and so I’m so grateful that people are so supportive of being willing to wait for the Jonsa, because they really start spending a lot of time with each other during the trial and prior to the trial (i’m a big believer in bonding via long car rides and so there’s a lot of that!). I’m just so humbled and awed by the response to it- I never dreamed that people would enjoy the story this much- when I started it, I was writing a light-hearted family piece that wouldn’t be too long, and, uh, it kind of evolved from there. Clearly, I am not good at keeping things concise haha.

I left Neon Rain for last, because your comments on this one really made me smile! Of all of my stories, oddly enough, Neon Rain is actually the most deeply personal for me, and I’m just so flattered at your kind words! I spend a lot of my time thinking about the flaws inherent in our society, and without getting too detailed, Sansa’s experience with a family member struggling in the medical system is not unfamiliar to me. There’s a weight that comes with the realization that a system that is supposed to care for people is based on capitalistic ideals of profit maximization, and as someone who has experience working in the healthcare system- no matter how bad you think it is in the US, I can promise you it’s actually worse.

Neon Rain actually just started out as a series of mental images from listening to music that I had to get down on paper, and evolved from there. I actually really love the ‘soulmates’ and ‘class differences’ and ‘mastermind art thief’ tropes, but am incapable of writing fun stories without thinking about the reality of those tropes (see APWH for another extreme example of this haha), and so as I was writing and trying to capture this mental image, the rest of the world began unfolding around me. Jon is different because of a different upbringing here, and so is Sansa, and to see the formerly idealistic Sansa become so jaded by the time she meets her soulmate is just catnip for me. You have this interesting dynamic between them, because Jon wants nothing more than to have Sansa in his life, and give her everything she wants and needs, but where the old Sansa (who was arguably middle-class and somewhat naive, as financially secure teenagers understandably tend to be) would have swooned over that, the Sansa who meets Jon when the story begins is seeing the world and all the unfair and unequal systems in it. She can’t just live happily ever after with him right away- there’s a sense of guilt there, of sansa not feeling like she deserves nice things, and there’s also Sansa’s deep sense of compassion and kindness that won’t allow her to just live life as the well taken-care-of girlfriend of a wealthy man, because she isn’t able to just put on blinders and pretend that all the injustice in the world around her doesn’t exist, simply because it wouldn’t affect her that way anymore.

I think that the core to writing Sansa, for me, in any universe, is that she is a kind and compassionate person who is capable of feeling sympathy towards even the people who have done horrific things to her and her family- that emotional awareness and empathy is a harsh thing to have in a world like Neon Rain, and in our own world, honestly. I’m so glad that you appreciate Sansa’s BAMF-ness in the story- I think that her chapters demonstrate that she is capable of doing extraordinary things when she’s doing them for people she cares for, to be kind (The scene where Alayne helps Robin down from the eyrie is most indicative of this I think), and so in this world, I just love having Sansa be a complete badass out of necessity. Also, it’s fanfiction, and I really wanted to give Sansa a cool motorcyle, because no one else was gonna do it!!!

Also, my characters like to run away with me, and before I knew it, Rodrik Greyjoy had a huge adorable crush on Sansa in the story that I immensely enjoy writing. The Greyjoys are fun because they’re all absolutely insane, and i’m a total sucker for ‘gruff dangerous character is completely a sucker for the kind sunshine-y character’ trope.

God, this accidentally got really long??? I’m sorry- thank you so much for such a kind ask!!! I love hearing what people think of my stories, and this was so sweet :)

#my writing #joanofarkansass #ask answers

12 notes · View notes

runesfactory · 3 years

Text

run cried the crawling | 03

summary: Tasokare Hotel is a place that exists between the real world and the afterlife. A residing place for spirits whose fate has yet been decided. To die or to live on. Aesop has yet to discover the truth behind his own near demise. It was until a stranger walked through the doors of the hotel with an owl head that the horrific truth began to unravel.

pairing: aesop carl x eli clark

genre: mystery, supernatural & gothic romance

word count: 5399

warnings: mature themes. descriptive writing of violence and blood. body horror. strong angst. equally strong romance. heavy pining. mild profanity. death. tasokare hotel spoilers.

chapters: 01 | 02 | 03 | ...

The more time Eli spends at the hotel, he discovers new things every day just by observing his surroundings. He meets odd guests and peculiar staff that he hasn’t met before. Not to mention, he’d get lost through some of the halls that seem to elongate themselves and each curve of every corner lead him to many different places, he wasn’t aware of before. Surely, all with the guidance of Emma herself. He finds her never-ending enthusiasm over the smallest of things to be refreshing.

That’s not to say he’s gotten used to being there. Certainly not. He counts time passing by days by striking a line written on paper each time he wakes up from sleep. Even with seeing the same thing, nothing about the place feels like home. It brings you comfort. It doesn’t help too that the windows of his room show the night sky. It’s quite the sight, but nothing like the barren world he entered when he first arrived.

There’s the faint sound of the train tracks vibrating against the ground. The smell of grass after a day full of rain along with the breezy wind. Not to mention the small freckles of stars decorating the night sky. Looking out his window feels like he’s in a whole different world: reality. It’s nothing like the hotel because it feels real. It’s all real, aside from the fixed night sky. That aspect is very much unreal, though as a night person himself, he doesn’t mind. He takes in the cold breeze with ease in his heart.

Eli looks up at the stars and unconsciously begin to connect lines between each spec.

Like they’re meant to be connected to create a whole picture.

Constellations are fascinating. It may seem like widespread random bits of stars interconnected as a whole, but it’s far from that. There’s meaning to them, even as random or sporadic it may seem pattern-wise. Perhaps it’s the same for our memories. Plenty of it scattered all over our tiny heads like sprinkles on top of ice cream, and each of them holds meaning.

So, when one piece is lost, then it’s impossible to create something whole again.

Eli believes that, at least. But perhaps, it’s all too hopeful since memories can be so fragile. Recollecting certain memories can have so much effect on you and it is so painful that it leads us to our worst points. Having to regain his memories back feels like he’s being tasked to gather the stars, rebuild the constellation again. But without knowing how it looked like, to begin with. An impossible task.

He’s written down things that he remembers, but couldn’t come up with anything significant. It brought everything to a halt. Although Eli maintains a calm demeanor most of the time. However, the moment the door of his bedroom closes, he’s devastated. What happens then if he doesn’t remember? He can’t imagine living the rest of his not-so-alive life in this state of limbo. Not for him, at least.

From the amount of thinking he’s done, he feels he’d be bound for yet a sleep-deprived week. So he’s come up with an idea. An idea that, well, to keep him occupied while doing his own investigation and that idea would be—

“You want to help around at the hotel?” Emma tilts her head to the side, albeit her smile still displayed across her face as friendly as ever. It’s a new day at the hotel and Eli finds himself assisting in Emma’s room with her surprisingly large indoor garden. She’s been staying up all morning making sure every single plant is well-taken care of. It’s quite surprising to see how vastly different other people’s rooms are compared to his, convinced that each of those rooms does reflect the individual. A room is like a heart after all.

“Sure! I don’t see why not! I mean, the manager’s probably not opposed to the idea of having extra hands on board. But can’t say the same for Ms. Nair.”

“Ms. Nair? The bartender?”

Emma nods. “She’s mostly responsible for, well, everything. Ms. Nair is a little bit strict on choosing who gets to help around here. So, it might be harder to convince her.”

Vera Nair. Eli’s only seen her once before while he’s exploring around the hotel. She was quite the busy woman, always rushing from one end of the hotel to the other when there are a handful of guests around. Her appearance is quite distinct. Always wearing a campy outfit dripped in the colour purple, with her sharp heels clicking against the floors being one of the things that will make anyone aware of her presence.

“Then I would need to speak to her to help around here, right?” Eli questions putting one hand under his chin in a fist.

“Yep, but I’d say it’s best to talk to Norton first before approaching her! She trusts Norton a whole lot so who knows he can put a good word to ‘ya!” Emma nudges the side of his arm.

Norton Campbell. He remembers the man from the other day. He’s quiet, almost unhinged by Eli’s presence though Eli can’t quite point out exactly the atmosphere the man exudes. He has a peculiar getup himself. A mask that hides a portion of his face with such refined details accompanied by a dark maroon blazer, accentuated by gold threads sewn in patterns. The red scar over his left eye, the metal piercings over the bridge of his nose, and well, his glare. Uneasy to him, but maybe it’s just him.

“Good luck on finding Norton though. He’s a bit of a fickle to find.” She adds.

“How so?”

“Hmm,” Emma pauses, “It’s like… he’s everywhere, but nowhere all at the same time? I mean, one time I would see him with Naib then the next, poof! Gone! Nowhere to be found!”

Everywhere, but nowhere. He’d agree more on the latter.

He continues to find the figure from every corner of the hotel, but luck doesn’t seem to side with him. Eli finds himself on the unexpected side of the hotel. The indoor gardens, a much bigger one than the one in Emma’s room. Now that he thinks about it, just how big her room is? Oh well, it doesn’t matter really.

The greenhouse has a tall ceiling watching over him and quite the jungle in there. He could only hear the water hitting the surface of a fountain placed at the center of the glasshouse. His steps echo through the empty room as he fondly gazes over the plants around him. An excitement bubbles within him when his eyes land on small critters wandering around certain plants, recognizing them by heart. Unfortunately, he doesn’t bring along his journal.

“Aren’t you a lovely one?” He gleefully says to the squirrel that’s giving him a puzzled look with those large, glimmering eyes. The place makes him feel at ease. Animals do at least. His fingers gently graze over the soft fur, causing the little animal to lean closer to his hand. He remembers about his own lovely bird, Brooke. He misses her. Seeing the empty birdcage in his room becomes a reminder of the empty confinement in his heart. At least he knows being in nature brings him comfort, another thing for him to hold onto in a world full of unfamiliarity.

It doesn’t seem searching through the place bears any fruit after all. He takes the last few glances around as a way to make sure. Then, his eyes catch the presence of a certain silver-haired man. Eli carefully watches him from a safe distance before approaching. Aesop looks down at the golden flowers. Yellow roses. His covered hands touch them gently as if a mere touch would break them. There’s a soft look in Aesop’s eyes that Eli couldn’t describe. Fondness, perhaps. That’s the word he’s looking for.

But while he’s preoccupied feeling mesmerized at the individual, he fails to notice his shifting body. Bump! He trips falls face-first onto the ground. Causing a ruckus, unsurprisingly. “Shit,” He curses to himself. Quite the elegant fall, he hisses at himself internally. A hand appears before him, his face shifts from a painful wince to a surprised one. When he looks up, he sees the same gentle eyes he was admiring just a few seconds ago.

Eli takes the hand, heart beating fast now before standing up. Patting off the leaves clinging onto his pants while chuckling to himself. “My! That was, uh, very clumsy of me! Not surprised. My sense of balance is shaky at best.” He jokes. As if it would lighten up any awkwardness that could come up from him being a creep by watching from a distance.

Aesop’s eyes flutter away, pulling his hand away slowly. He stares at the scratch that appears on Eli’s hand. Probably from brushing itself against the harsh branch. He did fall with quite the impact through the bushes. Not to mention the thorns. Why did he think hiding behind a bush full of roses was ever a good idea? But then, good ideas are not exactly Eli’s strongest suit.

“You’re hurt.” A simple fact stated by Aesop himself, but coming from him, it’s laced with worry. He says it quietly, but it doesn’t hide away the exasperation.

“Oh, it’s fine. This is nothing, really. You don’t have to worry about it. It was my clumsy mistake.” Eli brushes it off with a fling of his hand and a soft chuckle. But it doesn’t wash away the concern now forming on Aesop’s face. Like clockwork, Aesop pulls out a handkerchief and a tiny bottle from his inner pocket. He gently dabs the content of the bottle onto the cloth, letting some sip through before pressing it gently on the wound.

“Antiseptic. So, it doesn’t get worst.” He continues to carefully brush over the wound with the cloth. He does it all with so much care and attentiveness. Eli notices that almost immediately. From their first encounter when he first arrived. Aesop’s mannerism, way of speaking captivated Eli. Some might find it standoffish, but he just finds it riveting. It’s probably because he’s pretty. He thought of that once.

Although to be fair, Aesop is very attractive. He’d be lying to himself if he ever says otherwise. The first encounter they had when he first arrives, he tried his best to not show his nerve-wracking self.

All that aside, Aesop cares about his craft. He’s very meticulous with his tasks. He seems unwavering especially in front of others. “You’re very prepared, Mr. Carl.” He compliments him instead, trying to brush off the very fact that this very attractive man is tending to his wounds. By the gay gods, what will he do? If he says something stupid and makes a fool out of himself, he’s going to—

“It’s simply part of the job,” Aesop replies shortly. Giving the wound a final rub before covering it with a bandage that Eli doesn’t see him pulling out. It’s no ordinary bandage though. It’s a blue bandage covered in some patterns he couldn’t describe. It’s cute. So very cute.

He continues to ask Eli, “What are you doing here, if I may ask?”

“Oh,” Eli stammers, “Oh, uh, I was looking for Mr. Campbell! I’ve been looking everywhere, but it seems that he’s nowhere to be seen.”

Aesop tilts his head to the side slightly. “Norton?"

He nods, a tad bit too enthusiastically maybe. “I want to ask for him to put in a word for me to Ms. Nair. I’m looking to help around the hotel, as I’ve told already to Emma.”

Aesop’s eyes widen slightly but don’t say much. Eli wonders if it had rubbed him in the wrong way from the way the slightly taller man’s expression switches almost in a blink of an eye. The silence coming from the man lasts longer than his own comfort, but he doesn’t say it.

“It’s just that,” He ponders over his words for a moment. “I’d hate to put the burden on you for helping me recover my memories. I thought about it after what had happened, and I completely understand you need some time away from it. Take as much time as you need.”

Eli just smiles at Aesop then continues. “I thought it’d be best to figure things out by mine how things work around here. I must be honest, I’m a little lost most of the time but think I’ll be less confused if I just get the hang of things.” He gestures a thumbs up playfully. Probably embarrassing himself slightly, but it’s the truth. “And again, I apologize for what happened. I don’t think any number of apologies could convey how sorry I am.”

“No, not at all. It’s okay.” Aesop responses come out like soft whisper almost.

Of course, the tension is a little awkward. Eli doesn’t want to scare away Aesop like last time, but he keeps in mind to make sure not to overwhelm him. His mind scatters what should he say then it comes out. “So, how are you feeling now?”

“Much better,” This time Aesop smiles a little. It sends warmth through Eli’s chest. “Thank you for asking, Mr. Clark.”

“Eli.”

“Hm?”

“Just Eli is fine. But feel free to call me anything you’d like, whatever fits your cup of tea. I just thought Mr. Clark would be much too formal unless you prefer Mr. Clark. Then that’s fine!” He stammers. Aesop nods at that.

“Thank you, Eli.” His name slips out of Aesop’s lips like a gentle whisper. It feels just right, Eli thinks. He just can’t figure out exactly why it feels that way, so he brushes it off. For now.

“Well,” Eli takes a deep breath. “I best be on my way to continue my search. Or I’ll just ask Ms. Nair right away, doesn’t seem like Mr. Campbell’s available anyway.” He takes a few steps back, bowing slightly at Aesop. “It was nice chatting with you, Mr. Carl.”

He turns around with his back facing Aesop. The sound of the water hitting the fountain’s surface echoes through the chamber along with his footsteps. All is quiet, until-

A little murmur.

“Hm?” Eli turns his head towards Aesop, who’s now looking down at his feet. Avoiding eye contact it seems. His fingers fidgeting, not knowing what to grasp nor do. “Did you say anything, Mr. Carl?”

“Aesop…” It’s very faint, but Eli catches it in his ear. “Call me Aesop.” Although Aesop is generally soft-spoken, there’s a certain lightness in his tone. A positive one. To that, Eli smiles widely at him.

“Okay, Aesop.” He speaks through his smile, unable to put it down it seems. “It’s nice talking to you.” It feels right and he can’t leave it be.

“Same to you,” Aesop pauses, forming a small smile on his face. “Eli.”

Just as Eli walks away, he finds it hard to control the explosive sparkles blasting within his chest and the churning tickles in his stomach. It feels right, he echoes in his mind. And he can’t let the feeling go.

After their meeting, Aesop feels oddly lighter though unsurprisingly, quite wary. A little less than before though. He feels he’s been walking on thin ice all this time ever since the last memory trigger. Unconsciously always, his hands would reach to the back of his head. His eyes fluttering, confused, and lost. But time passes, so he too must move forward somehow. He’s gotten a little better now, less tense and less frequent visits to the doctor’s office, but there’s always that dread that it’ll happen again. At some point, it will. It has to.

“Focus.” He tells himself through deep breaths.

In the middle of brewing some tea, he’s lost himself in his own thoughts it seems. Only brought back to the present from the ting of the spoon against the ceramic cup. The slight pinch he gives himself doesn’t help besides leaving a red spot. Maybe he needs some caffeine in his system to wake him up, but what good does that do to a barely living soul? He stares down at his hands. The way his slender finger curls up to his palm, but rather than his own skin it’s the white gloves that he’s been wearing.

He gets the sense that he’s always worn gloves. Part of his wardrobe as he worked his days at the morgue. By the looks of it, the habit comes along with him even now. He wonders if he’ll ever be out of there, rather if it’s worth the effort to fight for the life he once knew. There are too many questions, too many uncertainties. It makes him anxious, causing his heart to beat fast at the thought of the unknown. So, Aesop brushes it off. For now, at least. Let him live a moment of peace without dreading the unknown. If the afterlife can grant him that, he’ll live his way here to his end.

Aesop carries the tray full of snacks and tea down the hallway of the third floor. Emma was responsible to assist this guest, however, she has come to him for aid and he agrees. With him, he’s brought freshly baked cookies aside from the full course meal that Naib has prepared. Something about the guest barging into his kitchen unannounced, but mostly Norton is to blame. So here he is. With his feet stomping against the carpeted floor, balancing himself to avoid the tray from wavering even the slightest.

“If it’s not too much, please make sure there’s not another bottle of liquor in there! Ms. Nair has made sure it wouldn’t happen, but I’m just worried.” Emma’s note stuck in the back of his mind.

When approaching the door, Aesop prepares himself. He knocks on the door. And before he could say anything, it opens.

“Ms. Bourbon?” He calls out to her, greeted by the darkness of the room. Now both hands tightly grip on the food tray. He pushes the door further, now the light of the hall shines inside of the room, giving a glimpse of its state. Messy would be one. Plenty of items are scattered all over the wooden floor. Several bottles on the side of the bed, covering almost all its surface. There, on the bed, is a lump. It rises and down slowly and Aesop concludes where the guest is resting.

“Ms. Bourbon, I’ve come with your food and drinks,” Aesop speaks softly, placing the tray on the coffee table that’s placed not far from the bed. Half of its taken over by even more empty bottles and glasses. It’s a wonder that the room doesn’t smell like alcohol.

He takes one last look around the room, observing every corner. Perhaps, he could assist in cleaning it a little, but he wouldn’t want to disrupt her rest.

“Please make sure to eat, Ms. Bourbon.” He says to her one last time before heading towards the door. Just as he’s about to step out, he hears a loud thump. He turns his head towards the source of the sound, and he sees her slipped out of the sheets. The upper half of her body fallen over to the floor, with her legs hanging onto the bed with all their might. “Ow, ow,” she mutters under her breath. He quickly moves to her side, lifting her slightly by the waist with one of her arms over his shoulders.

“Slowly,” He mumbles under his breath. She rests herself back on the bed, now her eyes fluttering open. “Who-”

He takes a few steps back, “I’m Aesop Carl. Ms. Woods has asked me to deliver your food to your room, as you requested.”

“Give me,” Her hoarse voice speaks, sleepiness still lingers. He tilts his head to the side while she flimsily points at the tray. “Food.”

Quick on his toes, Aesop removes most of the bottles on the side of her table and replace them with the food tray. She swiftly grabs the bottle, chugging it down, but quickly frowned. “Water in an empty wine bottle? This Emma’s idea?” She never looks nor glances at him, assured of the answer. He stands there, still. “Well, I am hungry so don’t mind if I do.”

Demi munches down on the cookies first, all in big bites almost she is swallowing them whole. Between bites, she finally looks at Aesop. After swallowing them, “So, you here to help me, right?”

“Assisting you,” Aesop corrects her. “In recovering your memories, yes.”

She shifts her gaze slightly to behind him. “Emma’s not with you?”

“She’s asked me to be here in her stead. She’s told me all that I need.”

Demi snickers, “Oh, all that you need, hm?” She says mockingly, then continues to bite on the cookies. She takes another chug of the water.

“Then shall we begin-”

“I’m tired. Leave me be.”

Aesop simply stares at her, unable to form the right words at her nonchalant respond. But he persists still, as it is his duty there after all. “Ms. Bourbon, we need to recover your memories or else-“

“Or else what?” She cuts him off again. This time taking big bites of the food Naib’s prepared. “That I’ll be trapped here for the rest of my life? That I’ll die?”

He’s silent for a while, but still, maintain an unwavering posture and gaze on her. She slouches over the plate, taking less messy bites of the food. Looking down at it with fluttering eyes, her hair’s tangled up. When Demi looks at Aesop, there is a disdain in them. Full of distrust and frustration, something that he’s familiar with.

“Need to recover memories,” Demi repeats his words bitterly. “What if I don’t want to, hm? What are you gonna say to that?”

Nothing, he wanted to say. Nothing, if he's being honest.. Is there truly a need to recover them? What if you don’t want to remember things? Then what? But he couldn’t say it. Not to anyone, especially to guests who rely on them to move on. He wouldn’t do that.

So he doesn’t say anything.

“Leave me be.” Another pop of a bottle, “I’ll call you if I need anything.”

Demi dismisses him without looking.

It takes a while for him to finally make his move. He wants to say something, but the words never arrive in his mouth. There's no use to confront her in this state, he tells himself. So he leaves the room, leaving Demi alone in her disheveled state and a bottle in one hand.

“What is it with people and asking for jobs here? You’re not even getting paid!” Vera’s exclaims loudly, voice echoing through the bar causing a couple of eyes to turn towards them. “Enjoy your barely living state! Relax! You humans can’t avoid capitalism even in death, it’s tragic.”

The remark’s meant to be out of concern, but rather it’s laced with pity. Eli doesn’t blame her, really. The exchange didn’t go quite so well, as he expected, but now he doesn’t have much to do but dig through on his own. At the very least, now he can stop his attempt to find Norton. Oddly enough, still nowhere to be found. Just how big can this place hide a man. Wrong question to ask, really. Considering, he'd gotten lost several times his first day here. Relax, she says. Funny enough, that’s the last thing he’s able to do here. Such a grand place of this size intimidates him. The chandelier that towers over him, the empty rooms, and hallways. It’s even much more terrifying with this state.

He makes his way back to his room. Slow steps this time, fatigued after spending an entire day of searching up and down through the hotel. What a mystery. Eli hasn’t been successful in his search, not even once he’s able to find him. Not even a glimpse of Norton anywhere. How can someone just vanish like that? He’s quite certain he’d be somewhere in this house. Perhaps he should’ve asked Vera where Norton might be. However, all for naught.

The walk through the hallway is quite daunting. Sometimes, he feels as if the length of the halls had been stretched. Like a never-ending maze that he must overcome. The lengthy red-carpeted floor taunts at him, like a stretching bloody river. He walks and walks, faster with each step.

He can feel his own footsteps. The bottom of his shoe pressed against the carpeted floor. But he can’t shake the feeling of a presence. Someone else’s steps that are slightly offbeat from his. Is there someone following him? He quickens his pace a little. Now the sound is more audible. Footsteps following right behind him. Eli’s heart beats faster and faster. He turns around.

Nothing. Was it just in his head? He could’ve sworn someone, or something was following him. The feeling of someone staring at the back of your neck. Maybe he’s more tired than he thought.

“Should sleep,” He mumbles to himself approaching his door. At the swing of the door, a ring echoes through his room. A telephone rings. There was a telephone in his room? Since when? How come he never noticed it before?

Eli enters his room, closing his door shut, and follows where the sound comes from. And there it is. A telephone vibrating against the side table beside his own bed. There’s never been a phone there. Never. Now there is. He still can’t shake the feeling of another presence nearby. His nerves are scattered, but he tries to maintain a calm demeanor. The phone continues to ring and ring itself into his head.

He tightens his fist, easing the trembles before picking up the phone. It picks up with a click, then he says, “Hello? Who’s this?“

Heavy breathing greets his ear. ‘You,’ A hoarse voice speaks from the phone.

This voice. The air grows too thick for him to breathe, the rapid heartbeat in his chest pounds against his chest. Eli can feel himself starts to lose himself.

‘I’m sure you understand why I’m making this call,’ The person continues, ‘You should know better than to continue the route you’re going. He won’t be going with you. Do you think I haven’t noticed what the two of you have been up to? I know him more than anyone. I know what’s best for him, that is not you. Aesop will stay. Forget about him if you know what’s best for the two of you.’

What have we been up to? What’s best for him? He wants to ask, but no words come out of his mouth.

‘Don’t think for a second I’ve forgotten about you, Eli Clark.’

A sudden pound strikes Eli’s head. He winces, one hand holding against his head while he falls onto his knees. A memory trigger. He crouches, curling his bed as if to protect himself from the pain he was feeling. His fingers tighten around his hair, clenching it as the voice continues to speak through the phone. It hurts, it really hurts, it--

--is soft. Both of Aesop’s hands take hold of his face, with his glimmering eyes sinking into his blue ones. They’re surrounded by glowing, yellow roses. Eli’s hands rest on top of Aesop’s and the man in front of him smiles. A smile so wide, so beautiful. Eli presses his lips against Aesop’s in a deep kiss. He presses further, deepens it while Aesop’s fingers tangle themselves in his hair. Pulling on it. Now, his own hands wander down Aesop’s back, gently caressing his exposed back while his lips travel down to his neck.

He hears a soft gasp. A sound that he yearns for more. So, he bites, earning another reaction from Aesop. He can feel his hot breath against Eli’s ear. He can feel the warmth. Aesop whispers, “I love you. I love you so much, Eli.”

“I’ll go with you,” Aesop tells him. Despite his shaking hands, there is a determination clearly written across his face.

“We’ll go as far as we can. You don’t have to be afraid.” Eli tells him. His mouth moving, speaking words as if it’s beyond his control. “He won’t get to us. We’re in this together, okay? If you’re in trouble, call me and I’ll be by your side in a heartbeat.”

Eli gasps, bringing his consciousness back out. The phone shuts. Click.

He needs to find Aesop.

Aesop makes his return to his room after he was at was the guest’s room. A little later than usual. The hotel’s quieter if it’s possible to get quieter than this. He shuts the door of his room, locking it with a click.

Just as he begins to undress, he felt something. In the inner pockets of his blazer. Aesop’s fingers pressed against the surface of his inner pocket, and he can hear a rustling. The sound of paper. Carefully, he reaches into the pocket and pulls out a… letter.

The letter’s blank. It leaves no trace of anything to identify the sender. Who could’ve possibly slipped this into his pocket without him noticing? All of a sudden, his shoulders become tense as his eyes wander around the room.

Has it always been there? Did someone slip a letter into his jacket?

Frantically, he tugs on the window’s lock. His doors. Opening closets, even drawers, rubbing his hands over shelves. Finding any possible entrance that would have led someone into his room without him noticing.

And, he finds nothing.

There’s a dreadful sense of curiosity rising within him. There’s no harm in reading a letter, right? His fingers trace over the opening cracks of the letter. He lets out a deep breath and rips it open.

He pulls out the piece of paper tucked inside the envelope. It reads…

My love,

His heart stops.

I’ll be there soon. I promise I’ll come for you. I’m sorry that I have to send letters like this. It seems that he’s caught onto us, but don’t worry, we’ll be out of here before he gets to us. I wish you could’ve stayed with me. I’m so afraid that one day I’ll never be able to see you again, especially knowing what he’s done to you. I know you hate it when I bring this up, I’m sorry for making you angry the other night.

Meet me where the yellow roses grow. Same time.

Please be careful.

I love you.

E.C

My love. The same initials. He’s caught onto us. The very thing he tries very hard to avoid comes back to taunt at him. This letter unlocks new memories. Aesop remembers now that he was trying to run away, but from who? And why? Another pain strikes his head like a bang. As if a wooden bat struck on his head with a hard swing. He winces, groaning loudly before falling on his knees and--

--his heart’s beating fast seeing the words on the letter. He’s caught onto them, as it says on the paper. He’s been careful so far, how could he possibly figure it out? Aesop’s grip on the letter tightens, gripping hard causing it to crumble slightly. He pleads silently that nothing would come to harm his lover.

He reaches to his neck, looking down at the ring hanging on the chains. Their names carved onto the surface. AEC. They’d be together, no matter what.

He looks down at the lifeless body of a client before him. A pale body spread across the metal bed, covered in a thin white sheet. He fears for the worst, and he can’t brush it off of his mind.

The metal doors to his office swings open. A loud slam. A shadow of the figure appears on the ground, in the shape of a silhouette. His sense of fear begins to overwhelm his senses when the figure approaches. Each step echo through the room, like the sound of impending doom making itself known. And he knows. He’s more than aware.

Aesop wakes up coughing out the sudden tightness that has put him on hold. The split in his head is unbearable. A distinct feeling of his head being patched together as if things are beginning to make sense. In the most painful way possible. Another memory.

He needs to find Eli.

#identity v #elisop #aesopeli #aesop x eli #aesop carl #eli clark #mystery #supernatural #gothic romance #tasokare hotel au #thriller #romance #hurt & comfort #pining #slow burn #tragic but with a happy ending #runesfactory

10 notes · View notes

kaibuntsu · 5 years

Text

The Dragon of No Words - #2

Word count: 5112

Warning: Gorey violence.

You can also read it here: My website | Wattpad

Divider: Freepik

Emrys woke up to some soreness in his legs. He silently complained about it, until the images of some humongous creature trying to eat him flashed in his mind. Oh yeah...that happened. He thought that was just a really vivid absurd nightmare about him escaping his family's legacy or something.

He got up, fighting the soreness, unwilling to bend to its pleas, and headed towards the kitchen. A deep rumbling sound stopped him in the hallway, coming from the guest room across his own bedroom. Eyebrow raised, he peeked inside the guest room.

Ah, yes. Another thing he forgot that happened yesterday.

A giant eight feet tall dragon was sleeping on his stomach, with the mattress dragged from the iron bed frame down to the floor, probably to prevent his long legs from dangling off the frame. The way he slept and his all-black coloration made him look like a gigantic mutant sea urchin that swayed gently every time he breathed and snored. It certainly was a funny sight.

Emrys' lips twisted to a small smile and decided to leave him asleep. He continued to the kitchen and checked his fridge to see what he could make. There was a lack of meat in his fridge, not even some seafood. Avi seemed to prefer meat, and honestly, from his looks alone, he couldn't be anything else but a carnivore. Also he ate a lot. Normally, whenever Emrys cooked meatloaf, he would have most of it to spare as leftovers that could feed him for days. Last night, Avi finished them all clean. The whole tin. Gone. A big carnivorous ice-and-fire-breathing monster needs a large meal. Go figure.

"Well then, I guess I have to hit the farmer's market," Emrys sighed. He should have been able to surmise that the food expenses would spike when he offered Avi the job.

By the time Emrys came back home from the market, Avi was already awake. In his hands were two avocados. Emrys blinked in confusion as he set down his bags of groceries. "Huh..." he croaked. "I thought you only eat meat?" he asked the dragon.

Avi shook his head before plopping one avocado into his long toothy snout. There was a series of loud munching, much louder than normal chewing an avocado should sound. Emrys kept watching while he rummaged his groceries; he just couldn't help but study this odd creature. But the longer he watched, the more he noticed that Avi was having a lot more trouble with the avocado than he thought. Not too long after, the dragon's tongue unrolled from inside his snout, its end curling around a circular object. The avocado seed.

Emrys' eyes widened, not sure if he was more surprised by Avi's ability to remove the seed from his mouth or by how long and prehensile his tongue was. His amazement turned into disgust, however, when Avi dropped the seed straight to the trash bin and raised the other avocado to his mouth. He rushed to the dragon and took the avocado from his hands, to his protest. "Let me teach you how to serve yourself an avocado, okay? Watch."

He took a small kitchen knife from the drawer and began cutting the avocado in half, circling around the seed inside. His cut was very clean and smooth, and he made it very easy to dispose the seed that Avi chirruped at the spectacle. Emrys wasn't done with just cutting the fruit in half; he set aside one half and scooped out the meat of the fruit from its skin with surgeon-like precision, further impressing the dragon. He made a purring sound that was in the same note as when someone says, "Ooh!" His vocal reaction stroked Emrys' ego a small bit.

"Here you go. Catch!" He tossed the skinned and deseeded fruit to the air. There was a split second of regret, he probably should not have done that. He would hate to see a good avocado go to waste. To his relief, however, Avi's snout caught them without fail. "Nice catch," he complimented, walking back to his groceries. Avi decided to help out, surprising Emrys yet again with good manners. Would it be too soon to say he didn't regret his decision yesterday? He shall see later on.

He took out a pre-made roast chicken that he bought from the market. If Avi could finish a whole tin of meatloaf, he was positive he could eat an entire chicken by himself. "I have no time to make a full breakfast for us, so here's yours," Emrys handed the chicken to his new employee. "I have a deal to make later today, so you better be at your best. We'll be seeing my father again."

Avi simply grunted at the mention of Eamon; the man still left some bitter taste in his mouth, but he obliged. He sat at the dining table, his tail slipping through the gap at the back of his chair, and was about to take out the chicken from its packing when he noticed the price tag on the meal. He hummed in acknowledgment and began wolfing down the poultry while his boss ate next to him. Emrys couldn't help but studying the way he carefully ripped the poultry's parts even though he could easily chomp the whole thing. It wasn't pristine, but Avi was surprisingly tidy with his table manners, even if he never used cutleries. He was so...civilized. Very unlike the monsters that attacked yesterday, or the other monsters that attacked his clients in the past.

Even Avi's body structure was very different. The monsters that he had seen attacking and eating people were very horrific, yesterday's monsters alone were very animalistic. Avi still had the beast aspect to him, but he looked closer to a human but with his four-fingered hands and clawed feet. Emrys' brain began tickling the ideas of his new employee's background, how he ended up in that small container inside another bigger container. He was constructing a hypothetical scenario, despite his very limited knowledge of space travels, when he looked at the clock and remembered that he had an appointment to go to in a few hours.

The hypothesizing will have to continue later on...

The arms dealer was quick to wash himself and was clean and ready to go within less than thirty minutes. He headed towards the door and suddenly froze. He totally forgot the hassle of sneaking Avi into his apartment. He hesitantly turned to the dragon, mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find the words to relay to his employee. "Um...can I trust you to not cause a racket going downstairs?" he asked.

The spikes on Avi's back shifted and straightened up, a low hum rumbled from his chest. He turned towards the window and opened it, his head turning to look around the environment. He looked back to Emrys and pointed downward. The human raised an eyebrow and walked over next to the dragon so he could see what he was pointing at.

Nothing in particular. Just the empty, dark back alley of his apartment building.

"You'll jump out to the back alley? I know this isn't a very tall building, but wouldn't you break your knees landing that hard?"

Avi shook his head, and initially, Emrys thought he meant his knees will be fine, but then Avi spread his hands on the nearest wall and started crawling on it like a gecko. Once his entire body was hugging the wall, he released his hands, and his feet effortlessly kept him adhered to the surface. Then it all clicked to him; Avi did not have to jump down, he could just crawl or walk or even run on the wall. Jumping would have aroused suspicion from residents that faced the same back alley, but if he crawled on the wall, no one would notice. It was genius—and awfully convenient.

"Oh, I guess I can park my van closer to the back alley exit." Then he gasped, "I can smuggle bigger weapons easier now!" He was washed with a momentary rush of excitement, but he had to fan them down and focus on the task at hand. "Okay, you wait here. I'll take the van out. Wait for my signal."

Emrys left quickly to the parking lot while Avi waited on the balcony still. It only took a short few minutes until his red-haired head popped out of the back alley exit and waved at the dragon. Avi took an extra precaution to not walk or run on the wall, sticking with the gecko style of wall climbing. Then the two were off to the harbor. Avi's first day at work was about to begin.

Avi enjoyed the sea air hitting against his face, he let out his tongue flailing about in the winds.

Emrys...his face was buried inside a large plastic barrel, his pale skin was ghostlike. Every so often, the sound of his soul leaving his body would come out from his mouth, along with his breakfast from yesterday.

"Remind me again how you're my son?" Eamon groaned, eyes not leaving the yacht's windshield.

"You fucked—hrrk—my mother!"

"Oh, right. Good point. Still, your sisters handled the waves just fine and they're all girly girls! What are you even, lad?" Eamon shook his head, chuckling to himself. Unbeknownst to him, behind him, Emrys shot him a bitter look. Suddenly, Avi burst into his view, towering over his short stature and baring his teeth towards him. Eamon screeched but his hands refused to leave the steering wheel, his seafarer life had taught him to keep steering the ship even when danger is right in front of his face. "What the fuck do you want?!"

Emrys retched some more before raising a hand to signal the growling black dragon in front of his father. "It's alright, Avi..." he commanded through a heavy wheeze. "Stand down. Go enjoy the sea air again like you've been doing before."

Avi left the captain's view, snorting at his face one last time before retreating to sit as comfortably as his tailed rump could do next to his boss. His head tilted slightly towards the hunched over Emrys, then faint red lights ignited from the crevices of his body. He placed a large black hand on Emrys' back and slowly and gently rubbed him, to his boss' surprise.

"What are you..." Emrys almost protested, but he was quick to realize the high temperature Avi was emanating. It wasn't very high that it was searing hot, but he certainly was warmer than when they shook hands the day before. The temperature that came out of him reminded him of his electric heating blanket he uses every winter. It was soothing. It made him forgot that he was miserable and seasick seconds before. "Thanks..." he muttered.

Avi purred and nodded in response.

It was another thirty minutes until Emrys could feel a rush of relief from his ordeal. A bigger ship was afloat in the middle of the open ocean. A man waved a flag to signal Eamon and his crew from the starboard of the ship. Eamon turned the wheel, prompting the vessel to make a turn before stopping side by side with the other bigger ship. The crew threw the anchor while the crew of the ship across prepared a waterproof-painted plank for their guests to walk on.

Avi's larger than life presence made the other ship's crew almost slipped and fell into the sea from the sheer shock of seeing him. Every time a person squawked or gasped, Avi made a heavy chuffing noise, and Emrys had no idea why but it was interesting to see it happen every time someone got spooked.

"Welcome, my friends—aaaaaahhh bozhe—!" the host of the other ship yelled as he watched the black dragon hunched over the doorway into his luxurious office in the middle of his deceptively drab-looking ship.

"It's okay, Mikhail, the giant lizard's with us. Well, with my son, more specifically..." Eamon explained, peeking over his shoulder in case Avi was to growl at him for calling him a lizard. Avi did nothing, but the old pirate could sense the death stare from that eyeless face.

The Russian crime lord panted, eyes wide staring at the dragon who stood at the other end of the room, behind his young boss. His eyes darted from the hulking monstrosity to the two Irish men he invited, back and forth. Eamon had a more exasperated look to him, like he was thinking he knew this sort of thing would happen, while his red-haired son simply smiled. "You sure...?" he squeaked.

"Oh, yes. He'll only attack if you attack first. I hired him as my bodyguard, after all," Emrys said. He crossed his legs in his seat and leaned back. "So, shall we discuss business? How will my wares serve your needs?"

While his boss and the crime lord were discussing, Avi listened. The crime lord would go on tangents about his feats. One time he and his men did this, one time they did that, one time he got caught doing this and that to escape, and on and on. Avi would pretend to yawn, exposing his rows of teeth, and caused Mikhail to imagine what would happen if a mad scientist cross-breed a goblin shark with a fangtooth moray eel. The sight alone made him forget what he was rambling about, until Emrys brought the conversation back on track again. At which point, Avi's tail swished side to side slowly.

As amusing as it was to intimidate the crime lord with his presence, something else in this deceptive Russian vessel disturbed him. It was faint at first, but the longer he stayed inside this vessel, he started to catch a hint. He heard mutterings of the crew from outside the door. They were all speaking in Russian, but he didn't need to be fluent in that language to notice the concern in their voices. He kept catching one word being repeated a few times: the name Sergei. Whatever was concerning these people had something to do with this Sergei person. Avi made a low whining sound to turn Emrys' attention to him.

The red-haired arms dealer turned in his seat, mild annoyance in his green eyes. "What is it? I told you not to disturb me."

Avi simply pointed at the door while making short grunting noises.

"You want to go outside?"

Avi nodded.

"The ship's getting too cramped for your style, isn't it? Alright, fine. Mister Mikhail, would you be so kind to alert your people not to shoot at my personnel. Not that I'm afraid of losing him, but for your people's sake."

The crime lord grimaced and alerted his men not to attack a bipedal black dragon when they see him and to just politely tell him off in case he gets near a restricted area. He also mentioned that the dragon understands English. Once he finished alerting his men, he received an approving nod from both Emrys and the dragon. Avi, however, added a warning glance to Mikhail. "I-I promise I won't harm your master!" he blurted, sensing the sternness from Avi's eyeless face.

"It's okay, Avi. This isn't my first time doing business with him. Besides, I got good ol' Dad by my side."

Avi huffed, but soon left the room, spooking the guards outside the door for the second time. He whimpered slightly, feeling a little bad for leaving Emrys unguarded. It was his job to guard him, but he had to violate that agreement for a bit to ease the rattling suspicion he felt.

The ship's interior was agonizingly restrictive. Avi was thankful he did not have very broad shoulders or else, coupled with how long his shoulder spikes were, he would have a very bad time moving around. At his situation currently, he was slim enough to fit through the tunnel that was the ship's interior. He could not say the same with his height, though. He had to hunch his body almost halfway to compensate the lack of vertical space and to avoid his horns scraping the lights off the ceiling.

He moved further into the ship, enduring the claustrophobic torture. His heightened olfactory sense caught strange scents. He thought it may be just fish, until he remembered this ship was not a fishing ship. It definitely didn't smell human. He tried to follow the scent, which only lead him further down the ship, where the corridors got narrower. No one was watching over the passage downstairs, so he assumed it would be fine if he just wandered there. Mikhail had given him permission, after all, sort of.

The odd smell was stronger once he set his feet on the lower decks. The only way was forward, so he continued following his nose's lead, which ended on a heavy bulkheaded door with a single round window. Avi hunched further so his face was on the same level as the window, a low purr rumbling from the center of his chest as he peeked curiously into the door. A tanned fist smacked onto the window glass; someone was inside and their face was pale with dread and pain.

"Help me, please! It hurts! It hurts so much! Please!!" the person begged in Russian. Avi did not understand a single word the man said, but from his tone alone, he could sense the man was in great pain.

Avi looked down to the man's other hand, clutching his chest tightly. The smell came from that area on his chest. His low purr turned into a subtle snarl and he backed away slowly.

"No! No! Please don't leave—aaarkh!" The man's voice cut out before blood-curdling scream broke through his throat, and even the screams only lasted shortly before being replaced by other horrendous noises. Noises that made Avi's blood riling and his armor plates rattling. The dragon hissed, backing further away from the door.

"Drakon! This area is off limits!" a crew member barked from the top of the stairs. He was a little afraid of Avi, seeing how he was hissing and growling, but then he heard the banging on the door where the agonized man was locked in. "Sergei? What is happening?" he asked, his fear of Avi's behavior dissipated momentarily. He climbed down the stairs to approach his crewmate, but Avi stopped him by hissing right at his face.

At the sound of Avi's hissing, a screech came from Sergei's quarter, shocking the crew member. He stuttered, "S-Sergei?" but instead of an answer from his crewmate, a grotesque clawed hands smashed the small window on the bulkhead. It ripped the bulkhead apart like thin wood, revealing a creature like a mutated angler fish with long arms and legs. The crew member nearly tripped from fright, but Avi put him back on his feet, letting the man run while he braced his body to clash with the finned nightmare.

The fish-like monster was smaller than Avi, but it was faster and more feral. It chose to ignore Avi and chase the human with mouth full of water, but the dragon stopped it, wrangling it by its neck and pinning it to the floor. Avi's body lights turned to red, hot air oozed out of his armored scales and his mouth. If he could overheat this creature without damaging the ship, it would be ideal. At least, until Emrys and his father evacuated to their yacht.

The finned monster thrashed and scratched, its claws tore through Avi's less armored chest, drawing purple blood from his veins, but the dragon did not relent. He kept spiking his heat temperature, opening his mouth to show off the flames rising from inside his throat. The finned monster screeched and pushed Avi's jaws up, but its hands were then restrained by Avi's other hand and tail. The creature screeched and soon opened its own mouth. Torrents of water ran from its mouth and straight into Avi's fiery throat, throwing the dragon off guard as he choked. His hold loosened, allowing the vaguely humanoid fish monster to escape and began preying on people.

Avi snarled, upset that he got played like a fool. The larger monster chased his smaller opponent, tackling it and crashing against walls. Frightened crew members pulled out their guns and started shooting, but all the bullets ricocheted off upon impact on either his or the fish monster's skin. Some of the bullets were returned to their shooters, causing more casualty than there were supposed to be. Emrys, Eamon, and their Russian crime lord associate soon came out of the main office only to witness the quarrel between the two monsters, one of which, upon noticing them, scrambled its way with wide-opened mouth. Avi hopped onto the smaller monster's back, sinking his blade-like teeth into the fish's shoulder.

Emrys watched the two monsters thrashed and wrestled against each other—the smaller one kept clawing Avi's snout and head until it left bloody marks. Avi dragged his opponent outside, far away from his employer. As he forced his opponent to fight outside, Mikhail's bodyguards followed them with a large bazooka in their hands. Seeing one of the men just pulled a weapon that big out of somewhere in the ship caused an anxious stir inside Emrys' belly.

"Get ready to fire!" the bodyguards exclaimed, aiming the weapon at the two quarreling monsters.

"Avi, incoming!" Emrys bellowed, forcing his throat to make the loudest voice he had ever produced. That will render him voiceless for the rest of the week.

Hearing his boss' warning, Avi heaved the smaller monster, still clamped in his snout, and forced it to shield him from the oncoming bazooka. The projectile rocketed towards them; it hit them with such a great force they were sent flying to the ocean. Avi could feel the heat of the explosion and the shrapnels from the warhead hitting his face, but it was exactly the kind of force he needed. With the opponent stunned from the impact, Avi sank his teeth one more time and gnashed the beast's neck off as his spiky back crashed into the cold sea water.

Emrys ignored the fact that part of the ship was burning from the explosion earlier and ran over to the side of the ship. His jade eyes scanned the waters, looking for signs of his black draconic companion. "Oh God, what if he can't swim..." he muttered to himself. The longer he searched, the more his worry turned into panic, and he started pacing to look for a ring buoy when the sea's surface crashed from the underside.

Avi sprang out of the cold salt water, red ethereal-looking energy blasting from the spikes on his back. He landed on the ship safely, though his knees gave out the moment his feet touched the firm surface of the ship. He dropped the two separated pieces of the fish monster by his side before falling on all fours, wheezing and coughing out the sea water from his systems. The energy that was blasting from his back dissipated, along with the lights from the crevices of his armor.

Emrys hurried to the dragon's side, reluctant to touch him from how much heat wave he could felt just inches away from him. "Jesus, you're all hurt," he said. He eyed the gashes across Avi's face and chest, noticing for the first time the color of his blood. "Your blood...is purple.... Huh."

Avi grabbed the head of his now dead opponent and tossed it to the direction of where Eamon and Mikhail were. The two older men squealed at the decapitated head thrown at them that they jumped to each other's arms for protection. Avi pointed a finger at one of them, at the Russian crime lord, specifically. It was up to Emrys to interpret what Avi wanted to say.The red-head scratched his head. "You think the monster has anything to do with Mikhail?" he asked. The dragon nodded weakly, shifting position to sitting down. Emrys turned to his associate, a questioning look on his face.

"I don't know anything about this...thing!" Mikhail retorted, trying not to look at the gaping monster head splayed in front of his toes.

"Well, Avi definitely thinks so. Where did this creature come from anyway?" Emrys asked.

"S-Sergei's room," a shaken crewmate chimed in. A look of fear still lingered on his face from the time Avi pulled him away from the initial attack. "It—it came from Sergei's room. Sergei's gone," the man continued to stammer.

Emrys' look of confusion continued to intensify as he pressed on. "Okay, alright, why don't we start from the beginning? No, you start from the beginning. Our lives were nearly lost and according to my bodyguard, I think, you've been keeping it all along."

"No! I swear I don't know anything about this creature!" Mikhail defended. "S-Sergei is one of my men. H-hired him a few years ago, he's a sickly guy, said he escaped some shady facility somewhere in the middle of Siberia! I swear! That's what he told me!" Mikhail's shaking worsened that he needed support. His bodyguards lead him to the nearest chair before leaving to assess the damage caused by the monster duel. "I don't know... I really don't know..."

Avi growled but only briefly. Now that the threat was gone, he could focus on his injuries. Only now did he realize how much the claw marks sting. His body ignited red again, his body temperature rose dramatically that Emrys had to move away from him because of how uncomfortable the heat he generated was. However, from the heat, something amazing happened. The bleeding slowed down and the cuts sewed themselves close gradually. The healing stopped once the first layer of skin closed the wounds and Avi's body temperature dropped to an acceptable level.

"Wow..." Emrys gasped. "You're so full of surprises."

Avi purred appreciatively, waving his tail left and right, but Emrys could see the dragon seemed less energetic than when he woke up this morning. He placed a hand on Avi's spiky shoulder as he stood up.

"We'll go home soon, don't worry. There's just a teeny bit more business I need to attend to."

"What do you mean? I thought you had a deal already?" Eamon said.

"I did, and I was gonna leave it at that, but then something from his property damaged my one and only attendant."

"But I told you I don't know anything about that monster!" Mikhail protested.

"That doesn't hide the fact that the thing came out from one of your quarters, does it? Don't you feel the least bit responsible? If Avi hadn't fought as hard as he did, lord knows what would happen to your business when you're eaten by that bastard." Emrys approached the Russian crime lord, arms crossed and a smug grin on his face. "Five percent is enough, Mikhail."

The Russian crime lord gritted his teeth, insulted by the young arms dealer's gall to manipulate him like this, yet at the same time powerless to fight back. The terrifyingly large black dragon of his just survived a bazooka shot unscathed. The injuries he got were caused by a fellow monster, not one of his weapons. He glanced to Avi, considering his options. "Fine. I do owe you one," the crime lord grumbled. He called one of his bodyguards, spoke something to him in Russian, and sent him away. He then turned to Eamon, "Your child is a real talker. Worthy successor, Eamon."

"Not much of a sea leg, though," the elderly pirate groaned. Emrys' lower eyelid twitched at the discussion.

"Well, if you don't want him, I'll take him. My business will flourish with him at the helm."

Emrys suppressed a distasteful gritting of his teeth and stormed his way back to Avi's side. He simply sat sulking next to the dragon, his back facing the older men talking and teasing each other. It wasn't until his payment and the 'damage fee' was brought did he return with a smug look on his face. Yet, he did not intend to dawdle among these people. He did promise Avi they would go home.

"Hey, correct me if I'm wrong, but I think I saw you flying," Emrys said, helping Avi up to his feet again. The dragon made a questioning grunt with his head tilted to the side, but he nodded. Emrys' grin grew. "Awesome! If you still have some energy left, can you fly me back to the van?"

Avi nodded and let his ethereal wings flare to their fullest, showing Emrys its form more clearly. They had the general outline of bat wings, but were made of some energy current that weaved into lines and markings, giving them an almost runic look. They were the same as his 'eyes' that popped occasionally. Seeing how his powers work, Emrys could safely assume that the property of the wings reflected the elemental powers the dragon was using. Since both red and white colors were present, it would appear Avi was keeping them balanced this time around.

"H-hold on!" Eamon's protest broke through the moment of wonder. "You can't stand a cruise on the yacht but you can handle flying?"

Emrys shrugged. "Flying has better view. That's all." He turned to Avi again, eyeing him up and down. "So...should I climb on your back or—whoa!" Without cue, Avi went on ahead and picked his boss up with just one arm, carrying him like a toddler. Emrys' fingers tightened around the suitcase full of money while he coiled his arms around Avi's neck. His cheeks burned feeling the firm muscles acting as a seating cushion. He always knew Avi was strong—he had seen him tear two hostile monsters into two twice already—but being a receiver of his display of strength was an entirely unique experience.

The dragon began flapping his wings, hitting the top of the ship with powerful air currents strong enough to even make it wobble. His feet gradually left the ground. He nodded at Eamon and everyone else, bidding his own version of farewell, before taking off with a booming flap of his wings. The sound of Emrys cheering from the speed he was taken was the last thing to be heard by everyone on the ships.

#exophilia #terato #dragon #monster #monster boy #dragon monster #my writing #my ocs #the dragon of no words #avinashi shirmi #emrys

9 notes · View notes

otomeonfleek · 6 years

Text

Imagine: If Voltage guys were Life-Hack College Students

No one asks for these wonderful shit pieces, but they tickle my fancy and I deliver unlike Digiorno. It’s also in honor of how I start uni again tmrw. Sup junior yr.

The following is based off of likely real events in being horrifically innovative as a poor college student.

-------------------------

Shusei Hayakawa from Our Two Bedroom Story

1. Unplug everything when leaving the house

After an exhausting week of midterms, you and Shusei were due for a well-deserved date. You eagerly wait in front of his apartment door and faintly hear him clambering on the other side. Within seconds, the door slams open and he sends a sheepish smile. “(Y/N)!! You’re here!”

You suppress a laugh at how frazzled he seems with his light tresses sticking up in random directions and the stain on his favorite gray hoodie. Sometimes he could be a complete ditz and forget to get ready on time. “Hey! Are you ready to go?”

He nods with a bright smile and says, “Just give me a minute! You can step inside for now.” Stepping to the side, he lets you enter and starts to flit around the room.

Curious, you slip off your shoes and lean against the arm of his beat-up leather sofa.

The blonde starts to chatter mindlessly as he wrestles his arm into every nook and cranny of the room, casually pulling out electrical cords. From the TV to the toaster and AC, he unplugs every single power outlet without batting a lash. Even dangling his long legs above the back of the couch and his voice is muffled, likely from the blood rushing to his head, he’s still speaking to you normally as he seeks out the final plug.

He slides back and jumps to his feet, “Ah. We should get going now or we’ll be late for the lunch special.” Without missing a beat, he strides to the front door and slips on his worn converse.

“...Shusei...Why’d you unplug everything??” You can’t help, but ask.

Since arriving at his apartment, his then chipper mood dips a bit. “O-Oh that. It’s just a habit, I guess! My electric bill is never over $50 ahah.” Chuckling awkwardly, he opens the door with an embarrassed flush on his face.

Noting his drop in mood, you try, “Whoaa!! That’s amazing. You’ll have to teach me more, Master Shusei!” You joke and loop your arm in his.

A fond look takes over and he grins, “Oh, I don’t know if a pupil like you could keep up in the way of the frugal!!”

-----------------------

Shintaro Ando from When Destiny Comes Knocking:

2. Steal from the rich and give to the poor

One of the best ways to get out and not spend money was taking evening walks. Both you and Shintaro made it a habit to explore nice neighborhoods and judge the houses. It sounded silly, but when you’re scrounging for every penny and dreaming off the high life, it wasn’t too horrid of a date idea. The areas were safe, pleasant to look at, and you weren’t spending a dime.

You often would end the evening in giggles as you pretended to envision the affairs that Margaret would take part in with her husband, Richard, away on business in Madrid.

“Poor Richard. He never saw it coming-with the gardener, nonetheless.” You mumble with faux sympathy as you and your bespectacled beau pass the gated, three-storied mansion with a gaudy outdoor fountain and cobble walkway.

Playing along, he chokes back a laugh and comments, “Well, Richard’s a moron! He should’ve known better. The peonies have been dying for weeks, so he should have known that gardener wasn’t doing no gardening!” His thick Kansai accent comes out to play as he exchanges jokes.

Doubling over in guffaws at the storyline, you are soon joined by your partner in crime as you hold onto another for support. “You’re not wrong-the peonies are shit.” You concur and then stop to admire the next house.

Momentarily mystified at his sudden silence and gaping mouth, you follow his line of vision and pause at the sight of an orange tree. This particular house does not have a gate and you can already hear him thinking.

“No. We can’t.” You state, stiffly.

Ignoring your reasoning, he spares you a blank look and asks, “Do you know how expensive produce is?” Without waiting for your answer, he steps forward with his suddenly beady eyes flitting around for any obvious security cameras.

From your still place, you hiss at him, “I said no!! What if we get caught?” Now paranoid, you similarly start to glance around with worry. Despite being incredibly competent in school as a Dean’s List student, he’s a complete idiot in other life aspects and will likely go to jail for orange theft, you note.

“This guy drives a Lexus!! I think he could stand to lose a few oranges. Besides I haven’t had real fruit in months!” He half-whispers to you as he starts to shamelessly pick off desired oranges from the tree and rest them in the pockets of his sweater.

Before you can argue, the light from that same house flickers on and you both scramble away in the direction of your parked Toyota.

You don’t bother to glance back to see if he’s close behind as you shout, “If we go to jail because you can’t spend $5 on fruit, I’ll kill you!!”

There’s a thump behind you and you can only hear him cry in anguish, “C-Crap, my oranges!!”

---------------------------

Shohei Aiba from In Your Arms Tonight

3. Use your bathtub for laundry when you run out of spare change

After a fun day at Aiba’s neighborhood pool, you both trod into his apartment with intentions of changing. As students, it’s difficult to go out of your way or pay for a gym membership for exercise, and so his pool is heaven sent.

Despite your earlier enjoyment, you now are both miserably dripping with chlorine in your swimwear and holding uselessly saturated towels.

Being a gentleman of sorts, he insists you use the shower first. Taking his offer, you head into the single bathroom and are about to slip off your curve-hugging one piece when you halt in your tracks.

Sliding the glass shower doors open, you nearly lose your shit. “Shohei...” You call out weakly.

Footsteps approach and he knocks from the other side, baritone slightly concerned, “Is something wrong??”

You turn the knob and see him blush, likely expecting you to be nude or clad in a towel. His face loosens and he cocks his head at your still garment-clad appearance, “What’s up?”

Stepping aside, you gesture at the tub filled with laundry soaked in detergent and color-catcher sheets. “Is that what I think it is?”

His instantly blanches and trips over his on words, “A-AH, that is...! I-I... I kind of ran out of change for the laundry mat hahah.”

The earnest brunette groans as he covers his face in shame, collapsing to sit on the closed lid of his toilet seat, “Ugh, you probably think I’m some loser now...”

Yes, the fact that he’s using his bathtub as a makeshift laundry machine due to his shortage of change is slightly off-putting and clearly indicates a life struggle. On top of how comically defeated he looks while pouting on his toilet, you can see how he might think that.

However, you could never think so poorly of your own boyfriend. You fell for him because of how selfless, genuine, and awkwardly goofy he was.

You shake your head and deny him, “No way!”

He perks up at how sure you sound only to hunch over when you follow up with, “I already knew you were a loser!”

Smirking lightly at his groan, you sink to your knees beside the tub and suggest, “Well, we should probably start scrubbing and wringing them dry or your clothes will get ruined.”

His warm caramel irises comically water and he launches himself at you in a tight embrace. “I love you so much!!”

----------------------------

Kishi Mamoru from Kissed By the Baddest Bidder

4. Make sure people Venmo you back

You were far from the type to automatically expect for your partner to pay for everything. In fact, you typically did half and half for the check. However, there were some times that truly grated on your nerves when it came to your slacker boyfriend and money.

At a rather pivotal turning point in the film, Mamoru leans over to complain, “I’m hungry.”

You suppress an eye roll at how only he would have the audacity to ignore such an engaging storyline in favor of his stomach. This is a horror film where one of the most beloved protagonists just got strangled by a ghost and he couldn’t care less. Sighing, you suggest, “Go get some popcorn or something then.”

He hums thoughtfully, “Do you want some too?”

“Huh? Yeah, sure...Go away now.” Throwing a hand up to simultaneously shut him up and shoo him, you jolt in your seat at the sudden jumpscare.

“AHH!” The entire movie theater sans Mamoru screams with a follow-up in delighted laughter at how admittedly obvious the scene was.

Your boyfriend sighs and slinks out of the seat to the refreshments stand.

When the movie is long over and you are both lazing around on his apartment couch, you do a double-take at what he says next.

With his battered iPhone 4 in his hand, he mumbles, “So when are you going to venmo me for the popcorn?”

Your (e/c) flit to him in shock and he shamelessly meets your stare. “W-Wait, what? That was your popcorn! I hardly ate any of it,” you protest.

Lazily, he cocks his head with a smirk and says, “So you admit you ate some of it. That will be $2.50 please.” He turns his phone and the cracked screen is pulled up to his venmo account.

For a tiny moment, you are impressed with how he managed to get a confession from you. Damn, maybe Mamoru really could be a detective. He could be sharp when he wanted. You glance at the old Apple model in his hands and mentally snicker at how the Criminal Justice major ironically doesn’t look as sharp.

Switching to reality, you sit up on the couch to fix him with a glare. “Mamo, you really want me to pay you back for $2.50 and for food that I barely ate?”

He shrugs his shoulders and there is just a hint of a grin tugging at his lips, “Every penny counts.”

Huffing, you pull out your phone and start to work on transferring the money. You ignore the victorious expression on his visage and practically feel his excitement at being paid.

Suddenly recalling a recent outing, you pull up the billing information on your bank account and turn to him with a chilling grin. “If it’s going to be like that, then, you owe me for that time I paid for KBBQ! With tip, that’s $27.13 please!” Sarcastically, you open your palm towards him and flex your fingertips in a lecherous way.

At once, the older junior pales and practically starts to sweat with his stormy-hued eyes darting side to side. Rubbing the back of his head, he coughs awkwardly. “I’ll tell you what, babe. You don’t have to pay me back anymore. I’ll take it out of what you owe me.” A sheepish expression takes over his face and you laugh, bumping shoulders with him at how silly worrying over every penny the other owes is.

----------------------------

Nozomu Fuse from True Love, Sweet Lies

5. Use flashlights when the lights are broken

Deciding to stay the night at his house to study for an upcoming exam, you excuse yourself to use the bathroom. Your cheery partner only nods, promising to finish the next problem by the time you return. Sometimes statistics was hard, but having a secret genius like Nozomu helps.

You pad over to the toilet and flip on the switch. Pulling your leggings and panties down, you shriek when the lights suddenly flicker off. Left in the dark and in distress, you call out for your boyfriend whose footsteps you can already hear clambering up the steps.

“(Y/N)!! Are you okay?? I’m coming in!” The door knob turns and you shut your legs for decency’s sake.

There is a short second before the sudden glare of his Samsung smartphone’s light momentarily blinds you.

You cover your eyes and demand, “What the hell?? Is there a blackout or something? Why are the lights out?”

Nozomu places his phone down on the flat of the sink counter with the light better helping than blinding you. He starts to chuckle with a slight nervous edge in his voice as he explains, “A-Ah, well...There’s no blackout. The bathroom light’s just kind of broken.”

“...Well, why don’t you fix it?” The solution to his issues is so obvious, you note while trying to ignore how ridiculous you feel sitting on his toilet with your garments wrapped against your ankles.

He doubles over in awkward giggles that sound worriedly stressed before admitting, “Ahah, I don’t have any money for that...yet!”

With his face nearly twitching at how desperately he’s trying to convince you and himself that finances aren’t ruining him, he reaches into a drawer and fishes an emergency light. “In the meantime, you can use this flashlight! It’s more powerful than any phone light and waaay more peaceful than having all these blaring ceiling lights everywhere! Yup, this is fine!” He turns it on and positions it vertically so the beam is shining across the ceiling.

Shooting you a final smile with a pained edge, he exits the room with his smartphone in hand and carefully shuts the door.

After a few moments, you feel your face fall again in noticing the lack of toilet paper. Your memory wanders to his kitchen and the stack of Starbucks napkins you saw earlier.

You need to help this man.

-------------

Toma Kiriya from Irresistable Mistakes

6. Use cafe wifi when your internet’s down

You were walking to your dorm after a late-night gym session when you noticed Toma standing in front of your campus Starbucks with an employee. The brunette with a notorious attitude problem was clutching his laptop case in one hand and in the other holding a water cup.

As you got closer, you could hear what was being exchanged and felt your soul leaving its body.

“Sir, I told you that we’re going to have to ask you to leave.” The barista in the infamous green apron states calmly, an exhausted expression apparent on their face from working hectic shifts with lunatics like your boyfriend as clientele.

Accordingly, the accounting major huffs and strikes a defiant pose. His chin juts up and his eyes steel, “I already told you that I bought something! Why can’t I stay??” He raises his drink as if it will automatically save him from this argument.

The other college student’s visage turns blank as they state, “...Sir, you only bought a water cup. Second, I told you that it’s already closing time.” With frustrating wavering through, the employee glances down at their smartwatch for emphasis.

“Listen buddy, my internet’s been down this whole week. I need just fifteen more minutes of wifi to finish my essay on microeconomic theory and I know that the modem is too far to connect when I’m sitting out here! So for the love of all that is caffeinated, please let me stay!!” Toma’s cold attitude is suddenly overshadowed by his clear desperation as he pleads.

Sighing, the worker asks with a slightly bored look, “How long have you been awake?”

“Thirty-two hours, but who’s counting?” Your boyfriend rubs at his eyes blearily, the typical flannel of his whipping around him as the air outside grows colder.

Budging with sudden empathy for his fellow university student, the barista stands aside and props the door open. “Fine, you can stay...Some of us wanted to finish some assignments anyway and the internet in the library is shit.”

Before the hopeful swimmer/accounting major can enter, you decide to finally jog up to them. “Wait!! I’ll take him. This is my boyfriend and I can worry about him from here! Thank you!” You wrap your hands around his arm and gently tug him away from the somewhat relieved coffee-worker.

In a confused and exhausted stupor, the male groans, “(Y-N), how the hell did you get here? I almost got in and you ruined it!”

Rolling your eyes, you explain, “Sweetie, don’t bother the nice Starbucks employees. They want to go home too.”

With his arm in yours, you steer him towards your dorm building. He teeters a bit from the lack of sleep and screeches to a halt, “But my essay!” From yourself to the earlier horrified baristas, it is clear to all that Toma takes his studies seriously to the point of forgoing his shame and health.

Observing the dark blotches underneath his eyes and his heavily wrinkled garments, you say, “I think you should eat properly first. I made some soup...And there’s internet at my dorm.”

When his fatigued orbs lighten and he leans more towards you with his laptop case in tow, you know that he’ll be fine.

---------------------------

Kenzo Yasukawa from After School Affairs

7. Use all forms of payment

With midterms finally over, you and your boyfriend decide to visit the mall to celebrate. Walking hand-in-hand, you air out your grievances over how one of your professors grade when Kenzo abruptly starts walking faster.

In his towering height, he manages to tug you with ease towards a nearby gamestore. His breathing is suddenly irregular as he presses his free hand against the business’s glass, amber optics locked on a particular ninja and robot-themed poster.

“I can’t believe it released today. I have to get it.” He’s practically talking to himself as he marches into the store, you trailing behind in slight bewilderment.

Making a bee-line to the wall of feudal Japan and mecha-accented items, his hand darts out to snatch a game off the shelve. As if suddenly remembering your presence and ongoing date, the blonde grins sheepishly. “Aww sorry, I’ve been waiting for Robot Ninjas 3 forever!”

The game title makes you cringe, but you only nod in understanding. As his partner, you accept his peculiar tastes.

After a brief wait in line, he steps up to pay with you at his side. Exchanging cordial pleasantries with the cashier, the aspiring pre-medical student fishes out his wallet and starts to produce various forms of payment. He places a random stack of dollar bills on the counter, then slides out his cards.

Without missing a beat, he shoots a cheery smile with closed eyes and asks, “Is it okay if I pay $16 in cash, do $30 on debit, and pay the rest from my credit card?”

You feel your heart hammer in your chest for your boyfriend and want to help him pay, but know that he wouldn’t want that. Suppressing your urge to pay, you force yourself to watch what happens next.

When the employee hesitates, Kenzo’s eyes flutter open and seem strained as he explains in a low voice, “I’m sorry, but I’m dirt poor right now because I just bought a $150 MCAT prep book and have been waiting for this game for years.” The normal liveliness and peace in his amber stare dies out and his mouth twitches.

You nearly lose it when the cashier suddenly nods and says, “Dude, same. I got you.” Then, he proceeds to enter in the different payments into the POS system before seeing you off warmly as you both leave.

Turning to your boyfriend, you peck him on the cheek and say, “Why don’t we go back to the apartment so you can play and I’ll order us some pizza?” You casually include your offer of getting dinner.

His eyes crinkle with joy and he wraps his arm around your shoulder to press a kiss against your forehead, “I’ll go easy on you for one round then.”

#voltage inc #love 365 #toma kiriya #mamoru kishi #Our Two Bedroom Story #when destiny comes knocking #In Your Arms Tonight #Nozomu Fuse #Irresistible mistakes #After School Affairs #kissed by the baddest bidder #imagine #shohei aiba #voltage games #voltage otome

42 notes · View notes

globalitportfolio-olivia-blog · 5 years

Text

Writer’s Notebook entries

1. Silence Film Reflection. As an extra credit option for my AP World class I watched the movie Silence. Silence is about Jesuit missionaries that go to Japan in each of a fellow Jesuit. During this time in Japan there were executions of Christians and the religion was pretty much banned. It was so inspirational to see so many Japanese people who were willing to risk their lives for their faith and even protect the missionaries. I also found it very hard to watch the native people being executed while the missionaries couldn’t do anything to stop it, only make it worse. One very difficult thing was when the Japanese were told to step on a symbol of Christianity. I was wondering throughout the film if it would be better to not step on it and die for your faith or to step on it but not mean it and keep spending the word of God. Is it denying your faith if you just step on a symbol but don’t mean it?

2. Downton Abbey Season 2 reflection. This season is set during the tragic WW1. While rewatching this season I was learning about this war in AP World, the battle of Somme, the trenches, no mans land, Axis powers and Allied powers, etc. It’s interesting to see the effects the war had on an Aristocratic family, and also the people that worked for them, dealing with loved ones being lost and aspects of their life changing even it it’s just the number of footmen available or maids being allowed into the dining room. So many men wanted to fight for their country but their parents were too scared to lose them or there were some brave enough to go to the front but died due to “cowardliness” even though they had made it all the way to the fronts of war. This thought of cowards brought to light shell shock or what is also known as ptsd. Many people were though of as mental or crazy after the war because they didn’t understand the terror people went through. This also prevented many people from obtaining work before people knew what the condition was. Another thing that was drastically brought aware to me in the show was not just the terrible deaths but also the horrific injuries from the war. One very sad case shown in the show was of a footman that had been so internally damaged there was nothing really that could be done and he only had a few days to live but yet he looked perfectly normal on the outside. Another thing I realized was how fast people got married and how the long dating stage that is very common now didn’t really exist back then I think this was often because marriage was usually not about love per say but saving the family line or the want for heirs in the family, at least for the upperclass people. I have really enjoyed this whole show and have learned many things about London and life in general during the early 1900s. (This was done seperately from the review I did on this show.)

3. Free-write on What You See (Kenya) Celebrating Kenya/Africa. For me CFS is when I see the most beauty in Kenya. In Kakamega, which is where I went in 9th grade, we got to the beautiful forest and the view from the very top looking out on all the trees below. In Tsavo, where I went in 10th grade, we got to see so many mountain outlines, gorgeous sunsets, and a sky full of stars. One of the things I see on a daily basis on my ride to and from school that I love are the fruit stands with so much variety and all the smiling “vendors.” Almost any stands on the side of the road like the maize or sugar cane carts just make me feel like I’m at home.

4. We Have on This Land-An Ode to Nigeria Free-Write.

We have on this land that which gives us joy.

The sound of the beating drum.

The smell of thousands of mangos.

We have on this land the painful deaths caused by our differences. Muslim vs. Christian.

We have on this land a road full of potholes, full of stories.

The greeting of children to their parents and the respect.

We have on this land two very long seasons of heat then rain.

The smell of soya, masa, and chin chin at the end of the school day.

The draw soup made of okra that entices all.

0 notes

bluewatsons · 4 years

Text

Pierre-Louis Patoine, William S. Burroughs and The Wild Boys Against the Language Virus: A Biosemiotic Guerilla, 39 Revue sémiotique canadienne RS/SI 19 (2019)

Summary

This article proposes a biosemiotic reading of William S. Burroughs’ The Wild Boys – A Book of the Dead (1971), showing how literature, by cutting up narrative structures and syntactical units, can fight the language virus' configuring of human vitality, just like bacteria uses CRISPR-Cas9 to cut-up the DNA code-chains of threatening viruses. We will see that, supported by the shared biosemiotic nature of literary texts and biological forms, this parallel extends beyond the metaphorical to reinsert literature within the realm of living processes.

Certainly one of the most brilliant writers of the postwar period, William S. Burroughs’ influence on the cultural avant-gardes of the late 20th and early 21st century is pervasive. He has been called the godfather of the Beat poets (Kerouac and Ginsberg were friends), an inspiration for the punk rock movement of the 1970s onward (David Bowie, Lou Reed, Patti Smith, Debbie Harry and Kurt Cobain all had their picture taken with him), and the first of the cyberpunk writers (such as William Gibson, Pat Cadigan, and Bruce Sterling). His influence is often attributed to the power of his subversive imagery and to his use of the cut-up technique, a formal innovation that gives its characteristic style both to Naked Lunch, first published in 1959 and the object of two censorship trials, and to the “Nova Trilogy” formed by the Soft Machine (1961), The Ticket that Exploded (1962), and Nova Express (1964). Following on their heels is The Wild Boys – A Book of the Dead (1971), which uses "cut-up- like" techniques in a slightly toned down manner.

Subversion and experimentation are crucial to Burroughs’ oeuvre. But they cannot be separated from its intense connection with the biological, with the experiences of aliveness it gives its readers. Of course, all literature is connected with the biological, as writing and reading are practiced by living entities (individual writers and readers, and their communities and cultures, co-evolving with entities and materials such as paper/trees and ink). Moreover, all literature expresses or creates fragments of vital experience; meaning-making and interpretation are embodied through the reader’s neural simulation of sensory and emotional images, with its accompanying postural, muscular and visceral correlates (see work on embodied cognition such as Gallese and Lakoff 2005; or Boulenger et al 2009). These biological and physiological aspects of poetical and narrative practices are widely shared, but the entanglement of Burroughs’ writing with the biological, the physiological, the botanical and the animal remains extraordinary, immersing the reader in strange ecologies where his sensory-motor, metabolic and reproductive modes of being are reconfigured.

This is especially true of his classical works from the “long 1960s,” a period that ends with the publication of The Wild Boys – A Book of the Dead in 1971, and of Port of Saints in 1973. Reaping the fruits of the four experimental novels that precede it, The Wild Boys succeeds in balancing the disruptions of the cut-up with a relatively stable narrative frame combining multiple figurative threads, chronotopes, voices and points of view. The experimental force and subversive seduction of this assemblage are of a biosemiotic nature: it is through its interbreeding of bios and semiosis that its images (iconic legisigns, to use Peirce’s typology; see Fisette 1996 about their importance in art and literature) allow us to experience unusual desires and modes of reproduction. In The Wild Boys, the entanglement of Burroughs’ writing with the biological is born out of a phenomenology of animal-vegetal-media becomings in which hybrid life-forms oppose the biopower of the language virus and its deadening forces of mind- and body-control, a confrontation that plays out at various scales of the text (syntactical, narrative, imaginary, conceptual). In this, The Wild Boys lengthens the aesthetic and ethical axes that pass through Naked Lunch and The Nova Trilogy, and that are explicit in the 1970 essay The Electronic Revolution.

Approaching The Wild Boys: text and context

The Wild Boys opens with a “Mexican scene,” viewed through the floating eye of a camera- vulture, and centered on the fortune-teller/newspaper seller Tia Dolores and her husband Tio Pepe (who casts spells on sleeping or drunk individuals by whispering deadly suggestions in their ear, such as cuerpo carbonizado... cuerpo carbonizado; a demonstration of the physiological performativity of language aimed at by Burroughs' writing). Dolores and Pepe are somehow protecting their delicate son Joselito against aggressive pistoleros and neighbors. Joselito is a “little kitten” of Lola, the three-hundred pounds drug seller that feeds her queer protégés with her “great purple dug[s] bitter with heroin” (1971: 11). We won’t see these characters again, but the stage is set: queers, drugs, violence, non-normative bodies, folk- shamanism, a fantasized Latin-America, and media (especially photography and film) are all crucial dimensions of the surreal universe of The Wild Boys. The seventeen following chapters travel through different spaces and times (with special focus on chronotopes such as Marrakech/Tangier/the Blue Desert 1976/1988, and St Louis Missouri 1920), between which characters, words and images circulate. We explore these interconnected chronotopes through the erotic/exotic/media experiences of characters such as the young men Audrey, Kiki and Johnny, or CIA agents and US Army personnel. The main thread emerges through recurring images and phrases: it is that of the “wild boys,” an international (mostly Latin American and African) network of gloriously hybrid shamanic young men (“snake boys in fish-skin jockstraps,” Warrior Ants division boys, “glider boys with bows and laser guns, roller-skate boys–blue jockstrap and steel helmets”: 147). These boys are preparing to free North America and Western Europe from the “police machine and all its records” and “all dogmatic verbal systems” (139-140). This loose narrative is constituted by a variety of images intermeshed with first- and third-person testimonies: sepia photographs in gilded books (memorabilia from the American 1890s and 1920s), the recurring “penny arcade show” but also military films from the 1970s and 80s. These media presences often lead to ekphrasis (the vivid description, by a text, of an artwork). Indeed, ekphrasis is an organizing principle of The Wild Boys: images become so vivid that they turn into worlds that characters penetrate, just like the reader can enter and inhabit Burroughs’ textual worlds. The ekphrastic text – by becoming an inhabitable space, a habitat – possess a form of biological agency not unlike the power of Tio Pepe’s words to change the embodied destiny of his victims.

It is useful to give right away a feel of the novel's use of these ekphrastic gates and openings. As an example, let us take chapter eight, “The Miracle of the Rose,” a title that functions as an homage to Jean Genet’s 1946 novel of the same name. The chapter begins as a conventional narrative:

June 23, 1988. Today we got safely through the barrier and entered the Blue Desert of Silence. [...] I have two guides with me Ali a Berber lad with bright blue eyes and yellow hair a wolfish Pan face unreadable as the sky. The other Farja of a dusky rose complexion with long lashes straight black hair gums a bright red color. We are wearing standard costumes for the area: blue silk knee-length shorts, blue silk shirts, Mercury sandals and helmets. (71)

The flashy, vivid colors (blue and bright blue, yellow, dusky rose, bright red) and pop, exotic and surreal imagery (blue silk shorts, a Berber lad, a Pan face and Mercury sandals) make the scene vividly imaginable, an immersive set up in which the reader can project himself, identify with the first-person narrator in his interest for these attractive, fantasized guides. The text describes the character's march through the desert and their arrival to ruins with a “room with rose wallpaper.” Ali and Farja will then engage in sex, which will rapidly become oneiric as “nitrous fumes twisted from the pink rectal flesh in whorls of orange and sepia” (73). Human and vegetal will then conflate in an erotic/horrific configuration, making the text jump to another diegetic level:

A scream of roses burst from tumescent lips roses growing in flesh tearing thorns of delight intertwined their quivering bodies crushed them together writhing gasping choking in an agony of roses sharp reek of sperm.

Sepia picture in an old book with gilt edges. THE MIRACLE OF THE ROSE written in gold letters. I turn the page. A red color that hurts transparent roses growing through flesh the other leans forward drinking roses from his mouth their hearts translucent roses squirming in naked agony [... sentence continues without stop] musty house slow smile you there dim jerky bedroom 18 on the top floor : : : my flesh : : : I could : : : the film breaks : : : jerky silent film [...] : : : sadness in his eyes 1920 movie (p. 73-74)

From the first-hand account ("Today we got safely through the barrier") to the "sepia picture in an old book" that becomes in turn a hallucinatory experience and then an old film (sepia, broken), The Wild Boys bounces from one level of reality to another. These jumps, made possible by the intensity of images, colors, textures and scents, are offered to us as mode of reading, tempting us to enter physically Burroughs’ text by letting ourselves be conquered by its images, and by embracing our potential for hybridizing and for biological communion with media-animal-vegetal bodies (“I turn the page feeling the rose twist alive in my flesh”: 77).

This biosemiotic use of ekphrasis serves Burroughs’ project of intensifying vital experience against the constraints of good taste and good sense prevalent in his time. Although we cannot consider this artistic project as a pure product of its historical period, it is still fomented during the American 1950s and 1960s. It resonates with the zeitgeist of these decades obsessed with social and ideological control, marked by McCarthyism and the development of cybernetics, by the Cold War and its fear of brainwashing and mind-control (see Dunne 2013 on this last point). Control is thus central to these decades' imaginary, and it is precisely against this paradigm of control that the counterculture and hippie movement of the 1960s and 1970s will try to free mind and body. Burroughs' writing is related to this movement, and shares its concerns with issues of control and liberation (it is unsurprising that the main element Deleuze (1992) took from him is the very term “control”). But his oeuvre takes a unique stand on these issues by linking them with the virus as a non-human force of control operating through language.

At the time Burroughs is writing against the “language virus,” the "viral paradigm" that will develop in the 1980s with the parallel emergence of the AIDS epidemic and of computer viruses (Bardini 2006) has yet to emerge. Moreover, in the 1960s, microbiology has not become the game-changing field it will become in the 2010s with the development of environmental microbiology and of studies of the human microbiome. Rather, in the decades when Burroughs composes Naked Lunch, The Nova Trilogy, and The Wild Boys, it is molecular biology that is on the rise. Indeed, in April 1953, Nature publishes the seminal article of Francis Crick and James Watson, and that of Maurice Wilkins and Rosalind Franklin, both of which proposing a basic structure for DNA. Ten years later, in 1962, Crick, Watson and Wilkins (Franklin died in 1958) get the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine “for their discoveries concerning the molecular structure of nucleic acids and its significance for information transfer in living material” (Nobel Foundation). This award fuels the popularization of genetics, during the same period in which Burroughs’ theorizes the “language virus.” These events resonate with each other, as in both cases, code and control are associated; the genetic and the linguistic codes both appear to drive human destiny, and to supersede human rationality and autonomy (see Hayles 1999 for details on the "rise of code" in the last decades of the 20th century and its impact on conceptions of the human). Of course, genetic and linguistic codes do not obey the same principles. Even though the informal nature of genetics has lead many scientists to compare it with language, for example with algorithmic languages (or cybernetic programs) in the work of geneticists François Jacob, Jacques Monod and André Lwoff (Bardini 2011 : 72), or in that of linguists following the pioneer work of Roman Jakobson (1973), like Bel Enguix and Jiménez-Lopez (2012), this comparison cannot be done lightly. Charbel, Queiroz and Emmeche (2009) or Bardini (2011) remind us of the fallacies involved a strict analogy between genetic and linguistic signs. Still, the genome-as-language metaphor is still in use, and might hold some heuristic value. In a short clip for Franco-German TV channel ARTE, microbiologist Emmanuelle Charpentier (2016), head of the Max Planck institute for Infection Biology and official co-developer (with Jennifer Doudna) of the technique using CRISPR-Cas9 to edit human genomes, explains how the later "works kind of like a word processor, with which you can erase words, put new words, and even correct a precise letter." The textual description of CRISPR-Cas9 reveal the existence of parallels between genetic and linguistic processes, parallels we will follow to understand Burroughs' biosemiotic guerilla against the controlling power of code.

Uncovering the language virus

In his essay The Electronic Revolution, first published in 1970, Burroughs explicitly articulates his theory of the language virus. Although it reads like a scientific or philosophical argument, The Electronic Revolution should be understood as an integral part of Burroughs’ artistic oeuvre: its free and energetic style, and its integration of fictional characters (such as Doktor Kurt Unruh von Steinplatz from The Wild Boys, who also appears in Burroughs' interviews in The Job 1979) marks it both as a direct appendage of the novels of this period, and as their interpretive key, a manifesto expressing some of their political and aesthetical underpinnings.

Many ideas from The Electronic Revolution can be traced back to Kozybski's "General Semantics" that explain how our knowledge and experience are limited both by the structure of our nervous system and by that of our language. A somewhat neglected part of the 20th century's intellectual history, Korzybski's ideas has influenced directly or indirectly thinkers such Baudrillard, Deleuze and Foucault (Bardini 2014) and writers like Robert Heinlein, A. E. Van Vogt (Konstantinou 2014), and of course Burroughs who, in The Electronic Revolution, discusses Korzybski's (1921) theory of time binding (i.e. through writing, humans can maintain information across time) before postulating that language, and especially the written word, is a virus:

We may forget that a written word IS AN IMAGE and that written words are images in sequence that is to say MOVING PICTURES. So any hieroglyphic sequence gives us an immediate working definition for spoken words. Spoken words are verbal units that refer to this pictorial sequence. And what then is the written word? My basic theory is that the written word was literally a virus that made spoken word possible. The word has not been recognized as a virus because it has achieved a state of stable symbiosis with the host. (2005: 4-5)

Two words are important in this provocative reversal of the traditional ontogeny of language (as here, writing precedes speech). The first one is sequence: the viral agency of the written word is linked with its syntactical arrangement. It is because words form sequences of images, hieroglyphic chains of moving pictures that they are viral agents. The linearity and consecution of written words appear to condition the concepts (images) to which the spoken words refer. The second important word is literally: for Burroughs, the language virus is not a metaphor, but an evolutionary fact, even if it is a hypothetical or even a mythical fact. This evolutionary myth is later elaborated through sensuous, physiological images of the infection that forced apes into humanity:

One reason that apes can’t talk is because the structure of their inner throats is simply not designed to formulate words. He [Doktor Kurt Unruh von Steinplatz] postulates that alteration in inner throat structure were occasioned by virus illness... And not occasion...

This illness may well have had a high rate of mortality but some female apes must have survived to give birth to the wunder kindern. The illness perhaps assumed a more malignant form in the male because of his more developed and rigid muscular structure causing death through strangulation and vertebral fracture. Since the virus in both male and female precipitates sexual frenzy through irritation of sex centers in the brain the males impregnated the females in their death spasms and the altered throat structure was genetically conveyed. (2005: 6)

Through the fictional figure of von Steinplatz, Burroughs calls forth a “deep history” of language rooted in animality, body modification, death and sex. This mythography insists on the biosemiotic linkage of the physiological and the linguistic; a violent and erotic linkage created by a virus able to supersede voluntary behavior and “precipitate sexual frenzy,” leading to its own transmission and flourishing.

This primordial infection leads to speciation, as the host forms a symbiotic relationship with the virus, eventually seeing it as “a useful part of itself” (although the pioneer work of Lynn Margulis on the genetic and evolutionary consequences of symbiosis has been around since the 1970s – see for example Margulis 1976 – speciation by symbiosis has only recently become widely accepted by biologists in the 2000s (for the speciation of eukaryote cells) and the 2010s (for the holobiont as a level on which natural selection operates; for details see Brucker and Bordenstein 2012, Rosenberg 2014, and Bapteste 2017). Burroughs then explores various configurations of the word virus, mainly theological (the Fall from Eden) and media/political (the Watergate scandal), before explaining that once it has accessed the cell, viral infection enters its third and final step, the production of objective reality:

Number 3 is the effect produced in the host by the virus: coughing, fever, inflammation. NUMBER 3 IS OBJECTIVE REALITY PRODUCED BY THE VIRUS IN THE HOST.

Viruses make themselves real. It’s a way viruses have. (2005: 7)

Objective reality is thus produced alongside coughing, fever and inflammation. In Burroughs' symptomatology, these belong to the same biosemiotic order: that of embodied living. In keeping with Korzybski's "General Semantics," this production of reality is specifically made by phrases and media sequences, by syntactical chains associating affects and images, words and behavioral responses. Indeed, for Burroughs: “The control of the mass media depends on laying down lines of association. When the lines are cut the associational connections are broken.” (2005: 13) This strategic cutting of lines of association will be instantiated in his use of the cut-up technique, of which we will discuss in a moment. The obvious relation between the cut-up and Burroughs' anti-viral guerilla has been discussed before (for example in Batt 1976 or 1992, or Lydenberg 1987), but we will see here that this formal strategy, with its mythical-biological roots and implications, is close to actual biological dynamics.

In the last section of The Electronic Revolution, Burroughs identifies a number of words that would be responsible for mind control and the viral production of “objective reality”:

This IS OF IDENTITY. You are an animal. You are a body. Now whatever you may be you are not an “animal,” you are not a “body,” because these are verbal labels. The IS of identity always carries the assignment of permanent condition. [...]

THE DEFINITE ARTICLE THE. THE contains the implication of one and only: THE God, THE universe, THE way, THE right, THE wrong [...]. The definite article THE will be deleted and the indefinite article A will take its place. [...]

THE WHOLE CONCEPT OF EITHER/OR. Right or wrong, physical or mental, true or false, the whole concept of OR will be deleted from the language and replaced by juxtaposition, by AND. (2005: 33-34)

It is not a coincidence that THE and OR are targeted here: an article and a conjunction, they are syntactical words, they create sequences and association lines. Of course, deciding to replace them by A and AND does not suppress the sequentiality or associativity of discourse. But it identifies syntax as a site of power (the power to control thought and the forms taken by human lives). And even though Burroughs does not implement this grammatical utopia in his own text, its sole existence destabilizes both the essentializing tendencies of conventional syntax, and the “coherence imperative” nested in the logical law of non-contradiction. Indeed, the "is of identity" and the definite article "the" assign an essence to an entity, an essence that we tend to treat as permanent and stable. "Either/or" are logical operators that reinforce this identity, as an entity cannot be both A and non-A: you are either male or female. The contestation of this “law of identity” inherited from classical logic appears under various guises during the 20th century, notably through developments in quantum physics and thought experiments such as “Schrödinger’s cat” in which material states are undecidable. It is also central to A. E. van Vogt’s novel’s The World of Null-A (1948), which was inspired by Korzybski's elaborations on "non-Aristotelician logic." Interestingly, Korzybski also evokes the viral nature of the “language of identity”:

Identification appears also as something ‘infectious,’ for it is transmitted directly or indirectly from parents and teachers to the child by the mechanism and structure of language, by established and inherited ‘habits of thought,’ by rules for life-orientation, etc. (1994: xci)

Burroughs follows Korzybski's denunciation of the infectious grammar of identity when he designs novelistic spaces where ontology is fluid and metamorphosis reigns. Naked Lunch, The Nova Trilogy, and The Wild Boys provide the reader with a psychedelic drug against the viral constraints of enforced individual identities. By allowing the reader to become an eel- boy or a mutant erotic tree in a non-linear narrative, The Wild Boys destabilizes simultaneously the linear logic of language and story, and the biopolitical and anatomopolitical (Foucault 2012) constraints on our bodies (such as the imperatives of reproductive, monogamous heterosexuality, that imply a normative “life syntax”).

The cut-up: a tactical move against viral agents of mind control

In Burroughs' novels, the association lines through which mass media and language exert their control are attacked by various strategies. One of these strategies is the cut-up technique used in the Nova Trilogy, where Burroughs would cut a page in four, and rearrange it to create new associations. This rearrangement generates or accompanies numerous repetitions and variations of images and passages. Through these variations, things are rarely assigned permanent condition: characters are never quite definite, they inhabit spaces that are both past AND present, both mythical AND realist; episodes are not cause OR consequence, they are cause AND consequence, and so on. Thus, Burroughs’ writing embraces contradiction and simultaneity, refusing the coherence imperative and laws of non-contradiction that are the backbone, as Barthes (1975: 3) argues, of so many of our legal and social institutions: court, school, polite conversation... but also gender, professional identity, and so on.

Across the Nova Trilogy, Naked Lunch and the Wild Boys, phrases and scenes are repeated, reappearing in rearranged form, disrupting the mere possibility of narrative progression, of a linear narrative efficiently oriented toward resolution. For example, let us have a look at the following passage of The Soft Machine – a call sent by Uranian Willy the Heavy Metal Kid to resist and attack the ready-made sentences and fixed images disseminated by the evil Nova Mob, an alien force of mind and social control:

Photo falling – Word falling – Use partisans of all nations – Target Orgasm Ray Installations – Gothenburg Sweden – Coordinates 8 2 7 6 – Take studio – Take board Books – Take Death Dwarfs – Towers open fire.

Calling partisans of all nations – Shift linguals – Cut word lines – vibrate tourists – Free doorways – Photo falling – Word falling – Break through in grey room. (1967: 156)

The key action here is “cut”: the action that disconnects, that stops the efficacy of control formulas, stops the machine, stops the film (“Photo falling – Word falling”). We can see here that such cutting is operated not only on narrative sequences, but also on syntactical units, disjointed by dashes creating a syncopated rhythm. But larger elements, such as images, scenes or narrative conceits, are also cut-up, displaced and re-contextualized. This is what happens with the passage above, re-used three years later in Nova Express, in a slightly different context, since the call for revolt is now “heard” from the point of view of a technician working for the Nova Mob:

The Technician mixed a bicarbonate of soda surveying the havoc on his view screen – [...] – Personnel decimated – Board Books destroyed – Electric waves of resistance sweeping through mind screens of the earth – The message of Total Resistance on short wave of the world – This is war to extermination – Shift linguals – Cut word lines – Vibrate tourists – Free doorways – Photo falling – Word falling – Break through in Grey Room – Calling Partisans of all nations – Towers, open fire – (1965: 63)

As Noëlle Batt (1976) demonstrates, syntagmatic rupture and contextual displacement reorder the temporality of the reader’s experience: as she encounters a sentence met previously, she is projected in the past, while she knows she might read it again in the future. The reader’s temporal consciousness is thus disorientated, and freed from linearity and straightforward succession and causality.

The repetition of a limited number of similar images, often surreal and erotic, disrupts narrative progression, while intensifying these images. Thus freed from the chains of narrative syntax, they become alive, materially dense, physically present through embodied interpretation, resonating in the reader’s brain, muscles, viscera and loins, replacing the viral structures of logical thought and stereotypical narrative sequences by psychedelic images, acting like drugs able to “clean the doors of perception” (to use Wordsworth’s phrase after Aldous Huxley and Jim Morrison). The last pages of the chapter entitled “The Wild Boys” represent explicitly the breaking down of a fluid narrative scene into discrete images, the passage from the “film of reality” to an evocative and syncopated “story book.” The scene, in which the wild boys fallen in combat are given the possibility to be reborn through homoerotic shamanic reproduction (aligned with Donna Haraway’s (1991) vision of cyborg reproduction), is also useful to think about the Burroughs’ refusal of the normative "life syntax" (grow up, marry, have children...):

The boys create offspring known as Zimbus. [...] Zimbus are created after a battle when the forces of evil are in retreat... (1971: 155)

A boy with Mongoloid features steps onto the rug playing a flute to the four directions. As he plays a phantom figures swirl around him taking shape out of the moonlight, campfires and shadows. He kneels in the center of the rug playing his flute faster and faster. The shape of a boy on hands and knees is forming in front of him. He puts down his flute. His hands molds and knead the body in front of him pulling it against him with stroking movements that penetrate the pearly grey shape caressing it inside. The body shudders and quivers against him as he forms the buttocks around his penis stroking silver genitals out of the moonlight grey then pink and finally red the mouth parted in a gasp shuddering genitals out of the moon’s haze a pale blond boy spurting thighs and buttocks and young skin. [...] The Zimbus sleep in the blue tent. Picture in an old book with gilt edges. The picture is framed with roses intertwined . . . two bodies stuck together pale wraith of a blond boy lips parted full moon a circle of boys in silver helmets naked knees up. Under the picture in gold letters. Birth of a Zimbu. Boy with a flute charming a body out of the air. I turn the page. Boy with Mongoloid features is standing on a circular rug. [...] I turn the page. A boy is dancing will-o’-the-wisp dodges in front of him. I turn the page. (1971: 160-161)

Here, narrative progression is disrupted by the repetition of the scene in reversed-ekphrasis (as the diegetic scene becomes a series of images in a book with “gilt edges” and “gold letters,” signs of nostalgia and materiality in The Wild Boys). Abstracted from their context, these images gain autonomy and intensity. Eventually, they will themselves fall victim to disconnection, but on the level of the sentence, as the last image of the chapter is itself an a- grammatical sentence made of recurring elements in the novel (“Dawn short framed in roses dawn wind between his legs distant lips”).

In The Wild Boys, just like images are freed from the logical chains of narrative, desire and eroticism are freed from the biopolitical logic of monogamous heterosexual reproduction, a logic that might be traced back to the language virus. This link between reproductive and linguistic politics is articulated in The Electronic Revolution:

I have frequently spoken of word and image as viruses or as acting as viruses, and this is not an allegorical comparison. It will be seen that the falsifications of syllabic Western languages are in point of fact actual virus mechanisms. The IS of identity; the purpose of a virus is to SURVIVE. To survive at any expense to the host invaded. To be an animal, to be a body. To be an animal body that the virus can invade. To be animals, to be bodies. To be more animal bodies, so that the virus can move from one body to another. (2005: 35)

The essentialist assignation of identity through logical syntactical units based on the "IS of identity" is here presented as being part of the biopolitical rule of the virus, where reproductive norms are imposed through repetitive discourse and narrative. But contrarily to Foucault, that ascribes the biopolitical imperative of heterosexual reproduction to national- capitalist projects of turning the social body into a competitive productive machine (2012: 14), for Burroughs, it is the non-human, viral agency of the language-virus that presses for the proliferation of humans. Against this systemic, non-human agency, and as we have just seen, he creates homo-social communities and modes of reproduction founded on cyclical reincarnation, thus disobeying the demands for production and growth typical of competing industrial societies. The wild boys are not workers, but fighters, roasting their enemies for sustenance and living in nomadic networks that oppose the forces of modern- heteronormative-liberal-industrial/agricultural capitalism. Burroughs’ claim that “word and image acting as viruses [facilitating the proliferation of bodies] is not an allegorical comparison” might appear far-fetched. But we will now see that similar ideas on virality and code circulate within various scientific circles.

The language virus beyond Burroughs

One of the most famous iteration of the "agency of code" idea is articulated by anthropologist Terrence Deacon in The Symbolic Species, his work on the co-evolution of language and brain:

Of course, languages are entirely dependent on humans, and are not separate physical organisms, replete with their own metabolic processes and reproductive systems. And yet their very different form obscures deep similarities to living processes. They might better be compared to viruses. Viruses are not quite alive, and yet are intimately part of the web of living processes. [...] They are minimally packaged strings of DNA or RNA that regularly happen to get themselves insinuated into cells that mistake them for their own nucleotides and haphazardly replicate them and transcribe their base sequence into proteins. [...]. Languages are inanimate artifacts, patterns of sounds and scribblings on clay or paper, that happen to get insinuated into the activities of human brains which replicate their parts, assemble them into systems, and pass them on. (1998: 112)

Just like in Burroughs’ mythos, here the "language virus," passed from generation to generation, is located within a human evolutionary history, as it forms a symbiotic relation with its host. Deacon then goes on to compare our relation with language with the one we have with our intestinal microbiome, as in both case, the partners (humans-language / humans-gut microbes) could not survive without each other, both needing cohabitation to flourish, to co-evolve and co-adapt. But the language/virus parallel is not only made on the grounds of their shared ability to form symbiosis. As Deacon mentions here, language and viruses are both semiotic entities. Indeed, viruses are “strings of DNA or RNA.” And as the Puppet Master, a consciousness born from the sea of global information networks, says in Ghost in the Shell (Oshii 1995): “It can also be argued that DNA is nothing more than a program designed to preserve itself.”

I mention Oshii’s anime to show that Burroughs’ campaign against the language virus is part of a broader history surrounding the idea that code possesses autonomy, a destiny, and maybe even an agency (especially linguistic, genetic, and digital codes). Notably popularized by Richard Dawkins’ controversial book The Selfish Gene (1976), the idea that the genetic code uses individual humans to perpetuate itself echoes with Burroughs myth of the language virus, extending it within the scientific domain. The validity of the science notwithstanding, Oshii's masterpiece shows that the posthumanist (in the sense of Hayles 1999) perspective can lead to fertile artistic propositions: Burroughs writing against the viral biopower of language opens toward a reconsideration of the role we assign to literature in relation to ecology and to life processes. Such reconsideration is also demanded by the striking (albeit relative) similarity in the cut-up strategy used by Burroughs and in that of certain bacteria in their fight against viruses.

CRISPR/Cas9: cutting the virus, reprogramming the code

Indeed, bacteria such as Streptococcus pyogenes are able to cleave the genomic sequence of invading viruses (bacteriophages, or just “phages”) with their “scissors,” the Cas9 nuclease enzyme (Heler et al 2015). This strategy is considered an adaptive immunity, as the bacteria, when infected by a phage virus, can copy parts of the viral genomic sequence and integrate them inside its own DNA, interspacing these foreign sequences (called “spacers”) between redundant parts of its own DNA (called “CRISPR repeats” or “Clustered Regularly Interspaced Short Palindromic Repeats,” discovered by the team of Yoshizumi Ishino in 1987). This integration of copied spacers leads to a co-evolution of the host and viral genomes, allowing the next generations of bacteria, when they encounter the virus, to efficiently identify it, generating RNA molecules that will guide Cas9 to target the viral DNA sequences originally copied, to splice them and in so doing incapacitate the attacking bacteriophage (Yin 2012). Burroughs uses a similar strategy: his texts use the written word (the virus) against itself, cutting its stereotypical sequences (syntax, narrative) to disable it.

According to the classical model of molecular biology, established by Crick and Watson’s double-helix model in the 1950s, the physical gene is “a linearly organized set of instructions that gave rise to phenotypic expression” (Charbel et al 2009: 34). Although Charbel, Queiroz and Emmeche criticize this quasi-mechanist vision of gene functioning, we see that linearity appears as a central quality of the genome. In CRISPR-Cas9, it is the structural quality of linearity or “sequentiality” that allows the bacteria to disable the invading virus, as its "lines of genetic code" can be copied, pasted, and materially cut up. These operations on linear structures are strikingly similar to Burroughs’ cut-ups that cleave the sequences of the language virus, the lines of association created by discursive norms. Just like in a literary text, the "meaning" of a genetic sequence changes with the order of its genes. This was known as early as 1925, when Sturtevant discovered the “position effect” according to which the position of a gene in the chromosome can change its effect on the phenotype (Charbel et al 2009: 30). Thus, the determining factor in the genetic shaping of living matter is not only the material specificities of a particular gene sequence, such as their quantity for example, but the relations and combinations happening within a complex biological system: “Both many-to- one and one-to-many relationships between DNA sequences and RNA/polypeptide sequences give support to a picture of molecular complexity in which the amount of genes is not the crucial feature, but rather complex information networks, such as those meditated by transcription factors , and intricate patterns of gene expression which allow of a huge diversity of proteins and RNAs based in a limited number of genes. (Charbel 2009: 49). The same logic applies to language, where a "huge diversity of meanings is based on a limited number of signifiers." As a consequence, the cutting up and recombination of code sequences is a powerful way of producing new meanings, and of proposing alternatives to stereotypical narratives "programmed" to help the proliferation of humans and their language virus.

But the parallels between CRISPR-Cas9 and Burroughs textual guerilla do not stop at the cut- up. Notice that the bacteria first “copies” parts of the invading DNA, that it then integrates between “Palindromic Repeats” present in its own genome. In a sense, Burroughs’ writing operates in a similar manner, insofar as it works by decontextualizing syntactical units (copying them out) from their original locus (normal language), and re-contextualizing them within his text, which is frequently redundant (if not palindromic, although it would be interesting to seek palindromic structures at various levels of his works). Even though the redundancy and non-linearity of Burroughs’ novels from Naked Lunch to The Wild Boys might not be properly palindromic, it allows them to use a form of resistance to the stereotypical syntactical associations of the language virus, a form of adaptive immunity akin to CRISPR-Cas9 in the sense that both are integrative cut-up strategies. The similarity in the techniques used by bacteria and by Burroughs to fight against viral forces might appear coincidental (and probably is), but still it reveals the centrality of code both in the development of our civilization and in that of living forms. In this sense, Burroughs was right in identifying writing (a coding practice) as a biological, viral force.

Concluding with The Wild Boys – A Book of the Dead

By cutting up the language virus, Burroughs' images and narrative are freed from the imperatives of efficiency, resolution and reproduction. Instead, they offer queer forms of vitality and desire:

In jade aquariums human rectums and genitals grafted onto other flesh... a prostate gland quivers rainbow colors through a pink mollusks... two translucent white salamanders squirm in slow sodomy golden eyes glinting enigmatic lust... (1971: 20-22)

Burroughs' mutant life forms are not fit for reproductive growth. On the contrary, they offer pleasures that are often deadly, like a pharmakon able to cure the over-efficacy imposed by the viral forces of code that has led humans to proliferate, in overflowing, ecologically threatening reproductive vitality. By inhabiting his novels, the reader is caught in singular assemblages where the vegetal, the animal and the technological collide, where fluid genders abound, where media and pharmacology open up hybrid possibilities of living and feeling, and where things are never assigned a definite, exclusive identity. This experience of metamorphosis and narrative circularity counteract the language virus, opening toward less systemic forms of communication, toward semiotic techniques that are more idiosyncratic and local, such as the one used by the wild boys:

Exchange of spells and potions. A common language based on variable transliteration of a simple hieroglyphic script is spoken and written by the wild boys. In remote dream rest areas the boys fashion these glyphs from wood, metal, stone and pottery. [...] These words objects travel on the trade routes from hand to hand. The wild boys see, touch, taste, smell the words. (1971: 151)

Just like Burroughs writing gives us a sensual experience of language, words used by the wild boys are fashioned in a slow, "arts and craft" manner that disrupts the acceleration of global communication and capitalism. Against efficiency and growth, stability and linearity, Burroughs cuts global language and networks with arts and craft and sensual signs, signs forming ekphrastic images that can be entered, touched and smelled. The abstract code, systemic and syntactical, is replaced by concrete word-objects, felt experiences that are not conventional and interchangeable, but sensual and always singular. By doing just that in its own writing, Burroughs situates literature in the biosemiotic realm, where signs are connected with the physiological. This reconnection of literature and biology is charged with political, economical and ecological potential. By overthrowing the language virus and its demands for efficacy, production and reproduction, The Wild Boys dreams of overthrowing the colonial world order, allowing Western Europe and North America to be saved through the destruction of its "coded" civilization by hordes of erotic wild boys from Africa and South and Central America (1971: 138). Even though the world has changed much since the control-obsessed 1950s and 1960s, Burroughs’ visions, in their celebration of nomadism, erotic hybridity and queer materiality, can still act as a powerful antibody for the virus of ready-made thought and narrow-mindedness, a biosemiotic cure much needed at a time when humanity has to question its own habits and proliferation.

References

BARDINI, T. (2006) “Hypervirus: A Clinical Report,” ctheory.net, (https://journals.uvic.ca/index.php/ctheory/article/view/14470/5312), online [April 17th, 2017].

BARDINI, T. (2011) Junkware. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, Posthumanities series.

BARDINI, T. (2014) "The Strange Filiations of the Stranger Count: Korzybski and Cyberculture" Paper presented at the NCA 94th Annual Convention, San Diego, CA.

BAPTESTE, E. (2017) "Contribution of symbiogenetic genes to evolutionary transitions" Paper presented at the conference "Symbiosis in Evolution, Biology and Human Health, Paris.

BARTHES, R. (1975) The Pleasure of the Text. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux.

BATT, N. (1976) “Rupture et déplacement dans l’œuvre de William Burroughs” In Revue Française d’Études Américaines 1: 11-21.

BATT, N. (1977) “Bitextualité dans l’oeuvre de William Burroughs” In Trema 2 (Fictions Américaines Contemporaines): 59-70.

BATT, N. (1992) “William Burroughs, entre Censure et Césure” In Cycnos 9 (La censure aux Etats-Unis): 35-39.

BEL ENGUIX, G. and M. D. JIMENEZ-LOPEZ (2012) "Natural Language and the Genetic Code: From the Semiotic Analogy to Biolinguistics" In Proceedings of the 10th World Congress of the IASS.

BOULENGER V., O. HAUK and F. PULVERMÜLLER (2009) "Grasping Ideas with the Motor System: Semantic Somatotopy in Idiom Comprehension" In Cerebral Cortex 19: 1905- 1014.

BRUCKER R. M. and S. R. BORDENSTEIN (2012) "Speciation by symbiosis" In Trends in Ecology & Evolution 27 (8): 443-451.

BURROUGHS, W. S. (1967 [1961]) The Soft Machine. Evergreen Black Cat Edition. New York: Grove Press.

BURROUGHS, W. S. (1965 [1964]) Nova Express, Evergreen Black Cat Edition, New York,

Grove Press, p. 155-156.

BURROUGHS, W. S. (2005 [1970]) The Electronic Revolution. Ubu Classics online, http://www.ubu.com/historical/burroughs/electronic_revolution.pdf, accessed April 19, 2017.

BURROUGHS, W. S. (1971) The Wild Boys: A Book of the Dead. New York: Grove Press.

BURROUGHS, W. S. and D. ODIER (1979 [1969]) Le Job. Entretiens avec Daniel Odier. Paris: Belfond.

CHARBEL, N. E., J. QUIEROZ & C. EMMECHE. (2009) Genes, Information, and Semiosis. Tartu: Tartu Semiotics Library.

CHARPENTIER, E. (2016) « 2 minutes pour comprendre le CRISPR-Cas9 », ARTE.tv, [http://sites.arte.tv/28minutes/fr/le-crispr-cas9-28minutes], consulté le 21 juin 2017.

DAWKINS, R. (1976) The Selfish Gene. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

DEACON, T. W. (1998) The Symbolic Species: The Co-evolution of Language and the Brain. New York: W. W. Norton & Company.

DELEUZE, G. (1992) “Postscript on the Societies of Control” In October (59): 3-7.

DUNNE, M. W. (2013) A Cold War State of Mind – Brainwashing and Postwar American Society. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press.

CHARBEL, E. N., J. QUEIROZ and C. EMMECHE (2009) Genes, Information, and Semiosis. Tartu: Tartu University Press, Tartu Semiotics Library series.

FISETTE, J. (1996) Pour une pragmatique de la signification. Montréal: XYZ.

FOUCAULT, M. (2012 [1976]) "The Mesh of Power" In Viewpoint Magazine. Online, accessed February 24, 2016.

GALLESE V. and G. LAKOFF (2005) "The Brain's Concepts: the Role of the Sensory-Motor System in Conceptual Knowledge" In Cognitive Neuropsychology 22 (34): 455-479.

HARAWAY, D. (1991) "A Cyborg Manifesto: Science, Technology and Socialist-Feminism in the Late Twentieth Century" In Simians, Cyborgs and Women: The Reinvention of Nature. New York: Routledge, 149-181.

HAYLES, N. K. (1999) How We Became Posthuman: Virtual Bodies in Cybernetics, Literature, and Informatics. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

HELER S., P. SAMAI, J. W. MODELL, C. WEINER, G. W. GOLDBERG, D. BIKARD & L. A. MARRAFINI (2015) “Cas9 Specifies Functional Viral Targets During CRISPR-Cas Adaptation” In Nature 519: 199-202.

ISHINO Y., H. SHINAGAWA, K. MAKINO, M. AMEMURA and A. NAKATA (1987) “Nucleotide Sequence of the iap Gene, Responsible for Alkaline Phosphatase Isozyme

Conversion in Escharichia coli, and Identification of the Gene Product” In Journal of Bacteriology 169 (12): 5429-5433.

JAKOBSON, R. 1973. Essais de linguistique générale. 2. Rapports internes et externes du langage. Paris, Minuit.

KONSTANTINOU, L. (2014) “The Eccentric Polish count Who Influenced Classic SF’s Greatest Writers” In i09. Online (http://io9.gizmodo.com/the-eccentric-polish-count-who- influenced-classic-sfs-g-1631001935), accessed April 17, 2017.

KORZYBSKI, A. (1921) Manhood of Humanity; The Art and Science of Human Engineering. New York: E. P. Dutton & Company.

KORZYBSKI, A. 1994 [1933], Science and Sanity. An Introduction to Non-Aristotelician Systems and General Semantics. New York: Institute of General Semantics.

KORZYBSKI, A. (1939) Five Lectures on General Semantics, Alfred Korzybski Literary Estate, archive.org. Online, accessed May 12, 2017.

LOTMAN, J. [1971/1977]. The Structure of the Artistic Text. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press.

LYDENBERG, R. (1987) Word Cultures: Radical Theory and Practice in William S. Burroughs' Fiction. Champaign: University of Illinois Press.

MARGULIS, L. (1976) “Genetic and Evolutionary Consequences of Symbiosis” In Experimental Parasitology 39 (2): 277-349.

OSHII, M. (1995) Ghost in the Shell. Los Angeles: Manga Entertainment.

ROSENBERG, E. and I. ZILBER-ROSENBERG (2014) The Hologenome Concept: Human, Animal and Plant Microbiota. Berlin: Springer Science.

YIN, S. (2012) “What Is CRISPR/Cas9 and Why Is It Suddenly Everywhere?” In Motherboard/Vice Magazine. Online, accessed June 6, 2017.

#literature #analysis #beat generation #william s. burroughs #beat literature #semiotics #biosemiotics #literary analysis #analogy #language virus #CRISPR-Cas9 #cut-up technique #biopower #posthumanism #allegory

0 notes

ecotone99 · 4 years

Text

[RF] A world beneath your own

Do you ever feel like you're missing out? Like everyone else knows something you don't?

Maybe you're walking down the street and you see two people laughing and time slows down as you pass them, and they look at you like you're a freak. Or maybe you're driving down to Aldi to get the weekly shop, and you glance out of your driver's window and see a young couple holding hands - a girl you might have fallen in love with. Or you spy a family through a living room window watching television, or at the dinner table joking and discussing.

And sometimes you find yourself in this strange, isolated world full of tall pine trees with their middles illuminated by cutting street lamps. And nothing feels real. And everything speaks the language of concealed danger, and the shadows claw through the sunlit days like demons waiting to be set free. Of anger. Of hatred. Of revenge.

That is the world I live in.

I never go on Reddit, or online to speak. I think it's all just a way of escaping. It's not real. It's all just a sick fantasy world; lost people running away from the dark and the cold outside, pretending the four walls they're currently confined to isn't a prison. Denying the fact that they're a wild animal caught in a trap.

If you get past the gloss and the glass and posters of people smiling and all the sparkly high heels, what you're left with is the mud and the soil. The concrete and the grey and the dog shit.

I make myself laugh.

The thing is, God is dead. Nietzsche said it, and now it's all true. There is no meaning. Nothing matters. It's all sex and money, and the rest is just a distraction. Even though, there are some of us who feel something else. That power matters. Dominance. Control. I am one of those select few.

You may have seen me walking around somewhere in the middle of the night once. You may see me buy a sandwich from Tesco on a Friday night, or on Tuesday getting something else to eat. Maybe I'll eat a pizza, or cook myself a lasagne. I'm a bad cook though.

Sometimes I make myself laugh.

It's difficult to snap yourself out of a delusion. We all have them. Sometimes it's hope: I will be happy one day. Someone will come. Someone will see me in pain. Someone will love me. Daddy will come home. Mummy won't drink anymore. And sometimes it's a cynical view to distract you from your will to power. Whatever it is, it is all a delusion, a distraction from raw reality; raw truth.

Raw truth isn't nice. It's actually pretty ugly. See what I did there?

People prefer to be comfortable, and I understand that, but as I say, some of us want something more. Some of us don't want to watch Netflix and go on Reddit and be distracted. Some of us want to seek the truth no matter what the cost. Even if it means death, and I admit, that is scary for anyone. Death is the unknown. The world beyond.

I knew a girl once in my secondary school who committed suicide. I was in love with her. We used to look at each other in the hallways and in class. I was obsessed, and I cried for weeks because I was too shy to talk to her. It was painful. Then I moved away and two years later I found out over Facebook that she had taken her own life - her hair mysteriously dyed an out-of-place orange. She hung herself using a belt and a door knob. I'm still uncertain how people do that. What was she thinking? Where did her mind go?

Sometimes I crack myself up.

Freud was clever. He wanted to seek the truth. That's why he invented his theories. The unconscious. That sneaky clandestine aspect of the brain. All the things we do in dreams. The jealousy and the huge monsters and the infinite corridors. The tornados and the massive tsunamis and the destruction and the chaos. The terrifying potential lies dormant behind the eyes of consciousness, festering away like rotten fruit, attracting flies, creating bad smells. Polluting the world.

It's a fucking strange world we live in today. Such a lonely world.

I told myself when I was 19 that I had to murder someone. A vision of me appeared beside my bed - a vision of the man I knew I could be; my self-actualised manifestation. He told me that I was weak. That I was succumbing to depression and nihilism. He told me what I needed to hear, but didn't want to acknowledge. I needed to kill someone in order to feel in control of my life again. And not just anyone.

The thing is, about murder, it's a lot less glamorous in real life. Murderers aren't particularly evil people or smart people or even sneaky people. Anyone can go out in the dead of night and stab a homeless person, or a prostitute, or shoot a jihad dead in the dusty plains with a rifle. They're easy targets. That's not how you achieve control and self-actualise.

Some of the most notorious serial killers like Jeffrey Dahmer and Ted Bundy, they murdered out of a sexual fascination. It was also about power, but polluted with delinquency and sexual degeneracy. Not pure. Not righteous.

I don't necessarily have an interest in being righteous, but the idea of killing for sex or of killing an easy target doesn't excite me. I feel like killing for justice, for raw truth, for ultimate power over someone else too weak to seek the truth, that is the pinnacle of masculine achievement. That is how you reach the divine state of being. Some call it enlightenment. It's different for everyone.

The mind is like an onion, and reality is just an image of what you project based on the level you happen to be on. Once you've peeled away all the layers, all you're left with is black. You become blind. You lose all your senses except smell. You smell everything; the sweat, the shit, the snot, the rain, the lights, the darkness, the kitchen, the eyeballs, the skeletons.

People lose their personalities and become primates. They lose their faces. Their skin melts away along with their identities. They then become objects - physical manifestations of matter that interact with other bits of matter. Almost as if they could have been splurged out by some white matter gloop machine and painted by a Warhammer nerd. Porcelain dolls. Rag dolls.

Sometimes I look in the mirror and laugh at my handsome face as it contorts into something that manages to scare me.

Before I decided to kill someone, I used to steal, and vandalise buildings. I'd wake up at 2AM and instantly jump out of bed with my pre-assembled rucksack equipped with a spare set of clothes and big rocks. Then I'd take the pitch black footpath to the town and, with my hood down, hurl the rocks at WHSmiths, McDonald's, Wilko's. And then I'd leave a message to the police: "I am the Zodiac... You will decode this message if you wish to find me... If you do not post the details to your Facebook page, I will strike again... And do something different."

You may have seen me before. Me and you might have shuffled past each other on a crowded train once, or maybe I asked you where a specific item was in a supermarket three years ago, or maybe you taught me at school, or maybe I am the friend of a friend of a cousin that you've never heard of. And maybe you have some connection to me or my victim. Part of you wants to reach me and talk to me. Part of you is as lonely as I am.

When you drop a plate and it smashes on the floor, you feel defeated. But what if the plate drops you on the floor and feels defeated, and you smash into 50 ceramic chunks? What if my mind is broken? It's not. Sanity doesn't exist. That's just another lie people tell themselves as they flick through Twitter or post an ironic meme on Reddit.

I can pinpoint exactly at what age when I fell down the rabbit hole.

I was 17. My only parent, an alcoholic mother who abused me, neglected me and treated me like shit, decided to abandon me, so I left home, aged 16. And then at some point I stopped denying. Living on my own in supported accommodation with rats, literally and metaphorically. I stopped picking my nose and I started picking my brains. I started imagining my mother burning alive, her flesh reappearing only to disintegrate again as she screamed in agony.

I gazed upon the abyss; the singularity. Pure, unadulterated truth: pain in its most horrific form. Boundless anxiety and primal fear - loss - terror - horrific depression - burning rage - hypochondria. Then total despair. I wrapped myself up like a newborn baby in my duvet and weeped into the carpet floor for hours. I couldn't take it.

I had been mistreated. My childhood had been tainted with lies and lost opportunities. I would never recover.

I looked through Facebook and saw pictures of people laughing; knowing what I didn't the whole time. Knowing a sense of security and not doubting themselves and who they are. "Ha, fuck their stupid comfortable little identities." I was jealous, deep down, but there was no way back. Not anymore.

It was at this point a sense of odd peace descended on me; a moment I termed the Dawn of My Awakening. The eye of the storm. I thought back to everyone who had ever wronged me, made fun of me. It's not like I was bullied heavily in school, but after school, the people in the social housing, they were so horrible. They ripped me up. I was nothing from that point onward.

I thought I'd cried all the tears I could. I honestly thought I was a psychopath.

Sometimes I make myself laugh.

That is when I entered the next layer of the onion. Those people I walk past in the street - they are murderers. All the smiling people, and even the ones who don't - the inwardly serene people. It's subtle, you have to catch it. You see it in the ease of their actions, the minor flourishes of a hand or the lack of twitching lips. Stability. The foundations of which cannot be anything but the fulfilment of unconscious desires: the sex, money, power part of the brain that ticks and chimes like Big Ben. The private resounding in the brain. The reptilian.

The reptilian sentinels with their menacing diamond-shaped pupils and cold personalities that allow them to walk all over humans like me. The lizards with their slippery elongated tongues with lisps that lash out like cracking whips. The screaming children and the reversing cars that shield them in the sunshine halls of suburbia. I hate them all.

I hate the parks and the children and the houses and the cars and the volleyball players. I hate the computers and the iPhones and the sunglasses and the law degrees and the depressed parents who yell at their children outside community centres. I hate the warm days when it's so easy to pretend everything is going okay, and I hate the posters of the smiling people. I see behind their eyes the neglected skeletal figures of Hell. I hate the adverts about shampoo and sitcoms like Big Bang Theory. I hate the fashionistas and the pretentious Starbucks employees, and the fat girl who works as a cashier who is always laughing way too loud.

I hate it all.

Don't infect me with your la dee dah land of grown ups. Don't lecture me with maturity you've constructed out of your own neglected ambitions. Don't fist bump me the hand you used to masturbate to girls on Facebook, or neglect your responsibilities as a man with a video game controller. I don't care about you, or /this/.

In truth, I am a lonely animal who lives off of small pleasures, so if you see me, offer me a friendly smile. Maybe open a door for me. Don't be angry at me. It's not entirely my fault. The dice of fate were loaded. If you are kind, I won't harm your children. I won't hunt productive members of your society. I won't hurt the economy. You'll do this for me. Otherwise we're going to have a disagreement. Otherwise, I'll think about taking action. But for now, I'm dormant. And I will stay that way. For now.

I take my job as a clinical psychologist very seriously. The days of feeling self-conscious when I don my dark-brown trench coat are long since gone. The imposter syndrome fades into the background along with the rest of the distractions.

I care about my clients I deal with, which are mostly young men dealing with aggression and depression. I feel for them. I relate to their stories and their pain and their anger. I wish I had a magic wand to make it all better, but I don't, and so I have to deal with reality. I tell them as much truth as I can afford. I tell them they need to get off their backside and fend for themselves because nobody else is gonna do it for them in this cruel life.

These are the children of alcoholics, abandoned by their fathers, by their families, by society.

I zoom out and listen to the silence and gaze up at the full moon in February. I imagine the waves crash against the cliffs as they once did in my childhood. The feeling of salty freshness bashing against my ears. That is just enough to soothe my anguished soul until the next big thing knocks me down like a sack of potatoes. Like a smashed dinner plate.

submitted by /u/BoredOnlyChild [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/33wss1l

#Blogger #Story

1 note · View note