dannys' writing thread

[tooru]

Welcome!

Please no posting! PM me any comments or thoughts!! ^^

Some way or another, you must have
stumbled upon my thread. Well, this is
where I, dannys77, store all of my
writing. It may be a short story, it may
be a novel, it may be a poem - it
could be anything!

Please please please note that a lot
of my pieces may include possible
triggers. It could be any number
of things, although it will never,
in any way, be sexual. My stuff
tends to pertain more to mental
illness and violence. Any piece
with triggering material will have all
triggers at the top of the piece, and
it will be transparent, meaning that
you can only read it if you either
highlight the text or quote the post.
If it's still found to be a problem,
I can take any of those pieces down,
all you have to do is ask me.

Enjoy your stay! <3

Reviews from wonderful humans;;

Ooo! Great story.
I could feel the pain delved
through out the whole plot and
the confusion of /why?/ from
Chiyo. It was truly remarkable how
you fit in as much as you could in the
one-shot, I usually notice right after a
line and think about how much better
it could have been focused on and
built on rather cutting it a little to
short to tie. Your story, however,
did hit all those key points. I enjoyed it a lot. ^^

It was very well
worded and was a very interesting
piece to read. I'm extremely
curious as to what happened in Chiyo's
past and what caused him to become
homeless, as well as what caused
Mika to act so differently towards
Chiyo. Overall, I highly enjoyed
reading your story, and I'm slightly
disappointed that it wasn't longer than it was! (:

i think i stumbled upon this in a forum,
but didn't read through.
i really should have. wow.

i think it says some about taking those
you love for granted, to begin
with. the ending is
where that really shows. and not to
mention, the imagery! the way you
were able to
describe feeling with metaphors---
that's actually something a lot of
authors can't do well.
it's really hard to describe feelings if you
aren't good at relating them to things
that your reader can visualize, and i give
you major props.
i would also like to say that this
actually made me feel. anyone can
write a story, but
writing becomes a whole different art
when you can make your audience feel something.
and it leaves me wanting more---i want
to know why mika acted like he did. i want to
know how he really felt, i want to know
if he maybe was seeing someone else on the side.
that's another way you know you're writing
is good: if people aren't left wondering,
or wanting
more, it probably wasn't that good of
work. but this seems very well thought out,
and very
deep. writings like this don't come from
random ideas. they come from the heart, and that's
something special. that's a piece of you.
thank you so much for sharing this with me!
do you have any other writings, or do you plan
on writing any books or anything like that? i
haven't been in the writing scene in a while,
but i've been working on a story. uvu writing is
therapeutic.

[tooru]

Falling Down
Short Story

Triggers // mental illness :: suicide :: homosexuality

This story is transparent. Quote this post or highlight text to read.



As he fell, he waited for the crunch, the sickening sound that would announce his death. His bones would crack in protest, and a final scream was sure to escape his lips. His skull would break, and scarlet blood would soak into his white hair and seep onto the unrelenting asphalt. It was sure to hurt. He wasn't sure where his soul would end up after his demise, or if it would even depart at all. The ground spiraled, impossibly closer with each passing heartbeat - his last heartbeats. A smile creased his features, a sad smile, full of pain and the same exhaustion that always plagued him lately. His eyes slid shut, one green, one blue. And still, as the reaper waited for his final fall, Chiyo couldn't bring himself to regret anything. Not this decision, not any decisions. He didn't hate what he had destroyed him - in fact, he loved him too much.
In the darkness behind his lids, he was thrown back into his past. He remembered the day he met Mika, the man who had made him and destroyed him. It had been a miraculous encounter, one filled with words and care. Chiyo had been homeless, had just recently escaped from a mental institution. He had been admitted for many things, including his many insanities and profound suicidal tendencies. Mika offered to take him in, and Chiyo gladly accepted the offer. Not only was Mika kind and seemingly understanding, he was very attractive. His dark hair had forest green shades, and was securely tied back from his face. He had nicely sized and shaped muscles, and eyes that captivated him, and Chiyo found no words that did them justice. So Chiyo began to live with Mika.
The two fell headfirst into love, or at least it seemed that way on Chiyo's end. Everything about their relationship was great, every single little tiny, unimportant detail. Nobody had ever cared about Chiyo the way that Mika had, and Chiyo bloomed under his care and affection. Chiyo thought it would be a happily ever after story that he could tell everyone about. Unfortunately, it wasn't.
It all started with something rather insignificant. Chiyo mumbled an 'I love you' to the other, but received no response. Not a word passed those lips, nor a smile grace his face. From there, it was a rapid deescalation. Mika began to act as though he never cared at all, and perhaps he never did. Everything that made them into lovers ceased, and Chiyo became frustrated. His own conditions retrogressed, and suicidal tendencies became prominent once again. He managed to restrain himself, keeping himself safe until a few words escaped from Mika. He told Chiyo that he didn't care if the idiot killed himself, and that he would never care. Tears broke through the dam after that statement, and Chiyo ran off, locking himself in the bathroom, even going so far as to barricade the door. Not that he needed to, as he suspected Mika would just let him die. The first thing to break was the mirror. He punched it, shards of class flying and the large surface cracking, webs spreading across it. Chiyo couldn't stand to see his face, the ugliness, the thing that had caused so many to hate him. Not only his face, but Chiyo hated himself in general. If he was different, if he had just been different, Mika wouldn't hate him. His parents wouldn't hate him. It was all his own goddamned fault. He began to slam his head onto the counter, as hard as he could, as quickly as he could. The marble counter top began to swim in his vision, and he could see crimson spots beginning to drop onto it. Not shortly after, he was unconscious.
Mika hadn't taken him to the hospital. He had broken down the door, leaving nothing but jagged pieces of wood remaining on the hinges. He had bandaged his head, and left him lying on the bed. When Chiyo awoke, Mika was nowhere to be found. All of the doors that led out of the bedroom were locked, and Chiyo couldn't get out. So he waited, but Mika didn't come back. After waiting the entire day, he began to cry, holding his head in his hands and sobbing, knowing he had failed as repressing his problems, and had probably driven yet another person away from him. He didn't sleep, not for five days. He didn't eat, not that he could get out of the room. On the sixth day, Mika returned. He acted as though he loved Chiyo again, and took care of him, loving him. Chiyo was happy. He was excited. It went well for a long time, until Mika began to ignore him again. Chiyo still loved him, and found himself unable to cope with what had happened once again. So, Chiyo left.
He left when Mika wasn't home, doing whatever job it was he had. Chiyo didn't even know what his job was. He found one of the taller skyscrapers that existed where they lived, and climbed the stairs slowly. Reaching the top floor, he found it vacant. He stepped out onto the ledge of a window, having opened it and climbing out. The view was beautiful. No tears welled in his eyes now. The sun sat lazily in the sky, blueness stretching on for what seemed like forever. Chiyo bit his lip. Maybe he could go back, beg Mika to forgive him. Hesitating, he thought. After a few moments, he shook his head. It was better this way. Nobody needs to remember Chiyo Ando. Nobody needs him. And with those thoughts, he stepped off of the ledge.
A satisfying crunch sounded as his body hit the pavement. With that, he was gone.
Mika was the first one to come across his body. He was the first one to cry.

[tooru]

Revolution in the Rain
Poem

Triggers // blood mention :: war :: weapon mention

This poem is not transparent.
co-written with cappishe





Rain dripping from clouds overhead
Stars of white and stripes of red
A revolution will come and it will go
But Tales of Sorrow still unfold


Whisked away by falling rain
Memories remain unscathed
A suffering heart, a mournful song
A brotherhood, a broken bond


A moment of hesitation, uncertainty
And with it came sharp silver
The past left tucked away
Before blowing away in the harsh breeze



The musket of tin falls to the ground
Accompanied by tears of a lost hope
Time wanders by, one second, two
Love once known, washed away by the rain

[tooru]

Sliding
Short Story
USUK Fanfic (Hetalia)

Triggers // suicide :: homosexuality

This story is transparent. Quote this post or highlight text to read.



 Alfred was sliding down, tumbling down, a fall in which he was never to arise from. It wasn't supposed to end this way, with anger and hate escaping from their chains. They had said that it would only take one day, a minute to change a millennia. Alas, he had agreed. After all, what choice had he truly been allowed to make? He hadn't meant to hurt the one whom had raised him, loved him, like no other ever had before. But it happened. The scars were etched, and the words were said. What was once mighty was left to cry and regain what was left of the broken heart, and the tattered soul. And so the silence ensued, the sounds of dying men fading into the background, blood turning to water, piled corpses turning to green shrubbery. That was the curse of the Revolutionary War, of his beloved freedom.

"You know I love you more than anything in the world, right America?"


Emerald eyes would not meet the American's own sparkling blue ones. It had been years, and they had hoped for it to be many years more. There was noise in that room full of people, but ages of deafening guilt spread a blanket over the joy. It was sickeningly sweet, and straw-blonde hair shifted slightly as a shoulder was grabbed by a man, whom had once been the beloved child and gift. Demands were screamed and forgiveness was begged, but it was unthinkable to forget. The old wounds had been reopened, and depression wound its way around consciousness. Mentality was no longer right, and bitter words of spite were spat back at Alfred, worsening the wrong. With that, England was gone, leaving nothing but a trail of shock in his wake. Tears cascaded down pale features, with a vow to never have an encounter again.


"I know, Engwand! You tell me every day!"


There was hope. But they were unable to see through the doubt, their fish-eyes trained solely on the past. Never again to speak, and never again to see. The darkness closed in, delivering demons of demise and despair. With two different homes, and two different faces, but with the same regrets. Passion had bloomed, and just as quickly, it had been massacred, leaving nothing but a daunting image of what could've been, what should've been. It was like a siren, one who tempted you with beauty and the promise for the better, but wailed a chilling, killing song every time you reached out a hand. Arthur was tired, weary, but rested. He had sobbed and mourned enough tears and words to last a man an infinite supply of lifetimes. There was a flashback of what used to be, when the sun still shone bright and smiles adorned two faces. Even the moon was drowned away when the black came, and smiles turned to frowns, and cuts and bruises to mortal wounds. Laughs and giggles turned to screams and insults, and then he was trapped in that nightmare. He had seen and heard enough, and it was time to leave the pain and the hurt.
It was all about what it could've been, what it should've been, what it would've been.


"America! Here, try on this new suit that I bought you!"


Blood on white, and tears on black. Alfred was once again shattered, but this time beyond repair. He was gone, had ended it just as soon as it had started again. Vases broke in a fit of rage, as mirrors were cracked by the sorrow. Arthur had met him again, a new and different him. But it was too much, and he had left America behind to regret. He could have fixed it, made it better, tended to the wounds. But the blood had left before he got the chance to try, as though he had been speaking to nothing more than a dead man walking. But that frustration and irritation had been real, and it still burned a hole in the heart of a man, the organ of a disowned hero. He was not what he had aimed to be, and would never have what he wished for the most. The grins, the chuckles, all was gone, and had left him suspended in the dark, killing him. And in the end, he would not allow it to beat him. He would do the job for it, as the last act of a fallen soldier.


"Huh? England, you know I hate wearing suits."


Both gone, dissipating into the depths. Light had not awaited, only more darkness, happiness a taunting joke made by God. Never to amend, and never to right, the burden lasts forever. If only he could go back, he could beg for things to change, for things to stay the same. But he wouldn't go back. He didn't want to linger on the good times and forget the hardships, the ones that made him. But in the broken abyss, he only wished for the differing fates. Then maybe they would still be oblivious and innocent, with the reek of death never quite tainting the love. But for now the tears will fall, as even in death, there was no escape.
And now they will keep sliding down.


"Why don't you say we just forget about this and go home?"

"No."
"What? America - "

"What happened, England? You used to be so great."

[tooru]

Depression: an Essay
Informative/Persuasive Essay

Triggers // suicide mention :: depression

This story isn't transparent. Can be made transparent through PM request. c:



 We all live in glass houses. One stone is all it takes for them to come crashing down. In the chaos and wreckage, we are left with next to nothing. Tiny bits of glass laying here and there, fragments of memories and thoughts scattered, and our sliced and bleeding flesh a result of the destruction. The wounds may heal quickly, they may heal in time – or they may never heal at all. Depression will often play a major part in this crisis. The sickness may have caused the damage, or be an aftereffect of the disaster. Either way, the only things left are a broken body, mind, and heart. Although some claim that depressed people are simply attention-seekers, this mental sickness is a real problem because those suffering hate the way they feel, distance themselves from those they love, and see the entire world through darkly-tinted lenses.

The problem with depression is that more often than not, it is invisible, making a select few believe that it does not exist; end of story. Some of us will self-harm, or our bodies will feel the effects of the chemicals released with our emotion; The main root of all of these visible complications being the tearing sensation that some of us get under our skin, the dark pit settled in our guts, a feeling impossible to shake off. Some of us will blame ourselves – with the thought that we may not doing something that normal, everyday people do, the thought that we have any disabilities or outer appearance differences, and the thought that we destroy everything we touch. These people will often feel guilty about everything that they say and do, and if they had the chance, they would take back every single word. This inward hatred some experience could be triggered in several ways. For example, saying something thoughtless and possibly unintelligent could cause them to hate ourselves for a blinding moment. This sudden, impulsive hatred could stick and quickly form into depression. On the other hand, when this would happen some might eventually dismiss it, but everything similar to that falter will scribble a tally on their mental scoreboards, and after so many strikes they could grow to the hatred. Another way this hatred of self could come about is if those who suffer are constantly ridiculed for not being normal, popular, or not looking the same on the outer exterior. This seed of hatred will eventually bloom into a dark flower, spreading pollen throughout every last one the bodily cells. Imagine being in such a situation. Think of the sensation, guilt, and overall anxiety running through our veins. Our will to function daily begins to cease, and with every single passing day, we lose all interest in life and what it has to offer. It becomes increasingly harder to see the light through the blackness, harder to hold on. It feels almost as though we had some part of us ripped forcefully ripped out, perhaps the organ being our heart. Things may begin to turn for the better, or they may only to rapidly fall downhill. However, for the rest of our lives, we always feel as though something is missing, and no matter how hard we try; we can never recover the missing piece. Of course, the cause of this depression could be placed on others as well; causing the blame to be placed on them. This brand of depression can contain a mental trail of thoughts such as thinking things like, “Oh, well that guy who hit me and made me look this way,” or “She made what I say seem stupid.” This blame for others can make all those suffering appear to be cold-hearted and nothing less than irritating. The reality, however, is that they point fingers at another individual simply because they never wish to face the thought that they ultimately cause their own depression. By extension, they begin to distance themselves from humans.

Friends, family, and interests and hobbies. In some way, shape, or form these are what we clutch most desperately onto. Without at least one of the above, we would simply be doing absolutely nothing in a dark nothingness – something which human minds cannot even begin to fathom. Nothingness is not an eternal blackness where we float – it is nothing more than nothing. The first step to depression is to separate from interests and hobbies that were previously enjoyed. Was drawing fun? Reading? Playing sports? Watching television? Playing games? Not anymore. Anything previously valued of that sort in the past is gone. The luster that the human eye could previously see in the activity now is gone, replaced by a dull and fading mediocre entertainment. This disinterest escalates quickly, and people may call depressed people boring or lazy as a result. Additionally, certain friends will no longer have any common interests to indulge in with the disease present. One thing that can be surely known – if any supposed friends are not true friends, they will not bother to stick around. Perhaps that choice is all the better for them and the depressed, as those who are sick no longer wish to burden their friends with their presence. The ones who do bother to remain strong by faltering sides, the depressed begin to feel the great and overwhelming sickness about. They may think; are we ruining their lives? Why would they even want to remain friends with us? What could they possibly see in us? So they come to distance themselves from even those who stuck around, as to not wound them with their intense problem. How many times in school have we seen someone sitting all by their lonely self, and we insulted and backstabbed them behind closed doors? We did not realize what they could possibly be coming down with, perhaps because that person never opened up and let anyone see their issue, or perhaps because we simply did not necessarily believe in or have enough knowledge about depression. Without their friends, that person may have only worsened; because when depressed they do not realize just how much of a help a friend can be. They do not want someone to complain about how terrible they have become, or for someone trying to desperately seek for help to end the depression. In truth, they desire someone who will stand beside them, encourage them with every small improvement they accomplish, and not question them if they have suddenly retrogressed a few steps. Chances are that they will not open up to their families, as they either refuse to get along with them, or do not want them to become worried. One of the truly worst things, however, is this – for family to send that person to a counselor or therapist. Some who are depressed may enjoy the help the professionals give, but they have to go there on our own accord, or else it means nothing, and usually only deepens the overwhelming sadness. Depressed people are not merely attention-seekers. Depression is very, very real, and anyone who jokes around about it, or uses it as an insult hurts the feelings of those who have suffered or are suffering. The disease spins the whole world to a darker place, into an undesirable direction.

The entire world, or planet Earth, is either sunken or thrust into darkness with depression. The dark and ominous forest is a very dangerous place for a soul to linger in and for minds to dwell in. There, lives begin to decrease in value as thoughts continue to worsen and become twisted. Webbed cracks appear in the delicate barrier between the will to continue fighting and the will to let go and surrender. If the wall vanishes, the only visible way out may be to end our lives on Earth. Selfish? Perhaps. If a person make the decision to end their lives, it is not selfish on anybody person and their part in their life. Nobody assisted them in escaping their problems, helped them to pick up the broken pieces and falling wing feathers. People were involved in their lives, but not quite enough involved, and it may seem they only grieve over them and say their actions were selfish because that person no longer remain to provide those people with what they had given them for so long. On the other hand, the family and friends grieve greatly – and maybe they did not just ignore the problem, but perhaps that person hid it so well for so long that it was not revealed before it was too late. Whenever looking at a suicide, we usually associate it, or at least some aspect of it, with the so called term of depression. However, we search in all other corners for some other explanation – even though we know the former to be true. Why is this? It might be because we did not seize the chance to help when we could have. It only takes one person to change the entire world; but often, no one wants to step up to the plate. Then again, there could be the reason of hidden truths, or the reason of simple non-existent knowledge about depression. However, we still place blinders over our eyes, desperately holding them there. We do not want to face the harsh realities in this world, do not want to rest our gazes on the dark corners possessed in humanity. Depression is swept away, hidden under the rug, and the present youth remains uneducated about it. That could be why we tend to abuse the word. On the other hand, it could just be that we think that depression merely ceases to exist at all. However, think about it – medication can be prescribed for depression, just as any other legitimate sickness; always with the promise to be cured, and with a truckload of sometimes troubling side effects. Depression, and the stress and fear that come bundled along with it are the reason that so many become addicted to things such as alcohol, drugs, or smoking. They grow more willing to become addicted to something that can kill thoughts than to be addicted to their own gut-wrenching sadnesses. They wish to see through different lenses – even if those ones are clouded with thick fog. In some, if not many cases, it comes to be better than the darkness, sadness, and hatred.



Depression. One ten letter word can define a person and their entire life – from the beginning of the pain to the either joyous or tragic end. Some will say that depression ceases to exist; that it is merely humans seeking for attention. However, the devouring hatred, the need for separation from people and things, and the darkly tinted world on which we live is not fake. The raw emotion may not be visible, perhaps making it unbelievable, but depression is real. They may not believe, but if they ever fall victim to the curse, they will be the ones left in the rubble, remaining with scars and bruises, and with only the illusion of greatness and of joy. Perhaps past people will haunt them, and maybe they will grow to regret what they said or did. Or maybe not. Our fragile way of life is the glass house, and someone just hurled the stone.

[tooru]

O' Say
Short Story
USUK Fanfic (Hetalia)

Triggers // swear word :: death

This story isn't transparent. Can be made transparent through PM request. c:



O say, can you see?

By the dawn’s early light

What so proudly we hailed

At the twilight’s last gleaming



Whose broad stripes and bright stars

Through the perilous fight

O’er the ramparts we watched

Were so gallantly streaming



And the rocket’s red glare

The bombs bursting in air

Gave proof through the night

That our flag was still there



O say does that Star - Spangled Banner yet wave

O’er the land of the free

And the home

Of the brave.



The American Civil War. The bloodiest war in all of American history. Slavery was tearing the country apart, and the south had enough of Lincoln.

And so became the Confederate States of America.



“Ah, damn!”

A certain American’s groans were aloud, even though there was no one in his presence. It hadn’t been too long beforehand that the war had started, and the mass death and ruined land of his country were taking quite the toll. You see, Alfred F. Jones could feel just about every cannon blast, and it hurt. It hurt really badly. Of course, he wanted for the Union to win, because if the Confederacy won, then the United States of America would have been split in half. Would Alfred be split in half as well? So, naturally, he had wanted to join in on the fight. He was around eighteen, so he at least looked to be of age. However, a certain Brit had begged him not to, as something like that could even kill Alfred, if hit with enough bullets and grapeshot. The American had ground his teeth at the suggestion of just sitting around and doing nothing, but he couldn’t hurt Arthur either, and so he had decided to stay back. Pulling some more Aspirin pills out, he shoved as many as he could into his mouth before swallowing with a swig of water. Taking that many at once wasn’t good for him, but this war was seriously hurting him – not just his country, but his body. Everything hurt, from his skull to his feet. Now, he was starting to rethink his promise to his British lover, and contemplated whether or not to join on a daily basis. Today was just enough to set him over the edge, and all thought was lost of his beloved’s requests. So, off he went, stumbling out of the doorway and down the dirt road to one of the government-owned buildings, which were always nearly stacked full with generals trying to find soldiers. It’s not as though it was hard to get in either, because nowadays the army just took what it could get. In went Alfred, and he filled out a few forms hastily, confirmed his age, and was sent over to a now-growing new regiment. It would probably only be a few hours before they were assigned to a place, as many men were still willing, and able, to join in on the fighting to keep the country unified.

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



“It’s been, uh, around six months since I joined the regiment now. I think, at least. There ain’t really any sorta way to tell time ‘round here.”

Alfred spoke to the new soldiers who were joining his regiment. A more upscale battle had just occurred, and the Union sent in new troops to replace the ones who had been killed. They looked scared, terrified as hell. The blonde American simply just grinned at them, hoping to relieve some of the stress, and get them to relax. However, it was hard, knowing that all of them would probably be killed the very next day, shot down like they had big targets pinned to their uniforms. After some more talk about the battles so far and what Alfred had gone through, he was finally able to settle down, and even yawned up at the nighttime sky, but he wouldn’t sleep. He hadn’t slept for over a week now, worrying that one of these days, he wasn’t going to rise up from a shot to the chest again, because a day couldn’t go without a battle, and a battle could go without a death.

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



A rather bang sounded from the left, killing several of the men. Alfred grimaced, angry and afraid. The more he thought about it, the more he hated the war, the Confederacy – but it was like hating himself. He hated himself, wanted to shoot himself, stab himself with the bayonet. His people were dying, falling by the tens, hundred, thousands – and yet here he stood. No. And so the American went for them, his enemies, his people, and everything that he stood for fell apart as he went. Screaming, he ran for them, to slaughter them, to avenge everyone who had fallen by their hands.



But he didn’t get far.

And then he was shot at, not by just a gun, but by ten. The new rifles were so much more accurate, and then came the artillery, when he didn't fall the first time. It hit right at Alfred’s feet, and an explosion rocked the ground, pitching the world back and forth. Shrapnel came unannounced and unwelcome, from the depths of the cannon ball. The shards pierced fabric and skin, tearing mercilessly, and causing blood to emerge and fly.



And so down went that proud and raging American.

Invincible.

Ha.

[tooru]

Blackened King
Poem

Triggers // none

This poem is not transparent.





What a short lived victory it was
As the last bell rung
The other player died
Crushed like the common fruitfly
White had fallen.

The was no celebration
After all
When purity was felled
The black king let go
And down he went.

Spiraling,

Spiraling,

Spiraling.

The knight retrieved the king
But the game was coming to an end
The final ride
Before he was to come back again
For now the king has come to an end.

Checkmate.

[tooru]

Beginning of the End
Poem

Triggers // none

This poem is not transparent.





It was the beginning of the end
But they didn't know
So life continued onwards
Surging onwards to the inevitable fate
But there the future hasn't occurred
The might haven't fallen
The final shot has not yet rung.

Checkmate is only a few steps away...
But the game's not over yet.

[tooru]

The Mentalist
Short Story

Triggers // mental illness :: murder

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 The pain swept through me like a hurricane. My soul was no more than a tangled mess of lies and deceit, awaiting someone to fall prey. I could see her as she stood hesitantly a few feet away. She knew not of the pain that was to come. Every fiber of me wanted to stop, to break free of the grip I was in. No one knew of the raging inferno inside of me, wishing to devour every creature that came near. I could usually manage to push the malevolent screams out of my mind. She sat across from me at the table, wavy brown hair shimmering in the hazy heat. I grew hot, and my palms began to sweat as the merciless sun beat down on my raven black hair. Today the voices were not planning to depart, and I could not make them. She looked at me questionably, but I averted my eyes, afraid she would see the insanity, the blackened blood that flowed through my veins. The oak table we sat at creaked under the weight of my hands pressing down on it, as I struggled to control the chaos inside. I didn’t know how much longer I could stay sane. The rage bubbled inside my brain, but I knew I didn’t want to hurt her. I didn’t want her to leave me forever. She couldn’t leave like the others had, like they all had. She was the only one who remained, the only one who still believed I was pure. The only family I had was gone; they refused to acknowledge my existence. They all had said I was mental, crazed, violent, murderous, insane. My own family believed that I belonged in an asylum. I was the fool’s gold on the edge of a crowd of sparkling diamonds. My criminal record was drenched red with the blood of my victims, the ones I had killed. I could see ashes raining from the clear, blue sky outside the window. The ashes were the wastes of a nearby farmer’s bonfire. The ashes represented me in every way possible... blackened, burned, deformed. They were outcasts, and numbers were their enemies. They simply had to be. The ashes even shared the same name as me, the name Ashton. Nobody called me by my given name. People called me stupid, and that was the last thing they had ever uttered. The numbers, the numbers with the voices, made me kill them. The black blood raced through my veins, as the heinous whispers continued on, like a horrible destructive twister. The fact that I was fighting the voices so hard was making me drowsy, and I was rapidly becoming weaker. I felt the sensation others get when they throw up, but for me it meant I was slowly losing ground in my battle. I stood up from the table, my eyes locked coldly on her. Every fiber of my being screamed for me to stop, but the numbers urged me onwards. I turned my back on the girl, and walked silently and quickly towards my room. I entered the small space, and glanced at my shelf. It contained every weapon a crazed boy shouldn’t have. I lazily scanned the shelf, the numbers debating which one to kill the girl with. A firearm? No, too quick, too painless. A dagger? No, too easy to miss her with. My gaze stopped at a shining blade, a sword. A hand, my hand, grasped the handle as my soul watched horrified, being held captive by the numbers. I walked back out of the room, hiding the sword behind my back. The numbers surveyed me, whispering to me untold secrets of death. My mind seemed not to know whether killing was right or wrong. My own thoughts filled my mind, becoming twisted by the numbers. Killing can’t be too evil. After all, the numbers say it’s okay. It leaves room for others on this earth. It’s only one person out of gazillions. I’m not bad. I’m not evil. The thoughts stopped just as soon as they started. I shook my head as she stood from the table. Her calm demeanor couldn’t hide the fact that she thought I was crazy. My voice spoke with malice. “You’re scared? You should be.”
That may have been the sound of my voice, but those were not my words. She backed away from me slowly, as I brandished my sword in front of me. She stared at it, and stood petrified with fear and disbelief. I advanced towards her frozen form, and her eyes followed my every move. I don’t want to hurt her! My mental cry was drowned by the millions of jeers the numbers were screaming. I looked at number twelve. That was the number that made me kill, made me miserable. Twelve was the one who finally made me swing the sword. She yelped as the sword just scratched her wrist. Even though it was a small wound, blood started running out of it. Red stained her wrist, slowly running down the crevices in her skin. A sickly sweet scent contaminated the air. It smelled metallic and was the scent of blood. For a minute, I regained control of myself. I often did regain control after my victim had been wounded. “I’m… I’m sorry! I can’t stop it!” I looked at her helplessly as the numbers took charge once again. With a command from twelve, I watched my arm swinging towards her. I shut my eyes as the blade connected with her middle. I listened as I heard one wet thump on the floor and then another. “I’m sorry,” I whispered to empty air, both she and my soul sliced in two.