closed ... super sorry! ><

[eden .]

Welcome to my brain~
After swimming about in my ever expanding playlist, I've found myself making up plots to some of my favorite songs. This thread here is devoted towards keeping my short stories and floating ideas about songs that I hear. Perhaps we'll get a shiner, eh?

If you're an awesome human [ or creature. Human likeness is not a necessary requirement ] you should check out Kitty's Corner by Kitty-lover93. We have a "sister thread" going on; they also write short stories and other ideas. There's even a member system there.
Note that this does not mean I'm suddenly advertising your story threads. Sorry!

[eden .]

The only rule I can think of is not to post pointlessly. Please say something if you find anything that is amiss, including grammar or spelling, or if you have helpful criticism [if you do this, please be as specific as possible]. Please post if you find something interesting as well! This is meant to be a casual, fun writing for me that'll hopefully keep my muse [and sanity] going for a nice while :3

Also: if you have any song requests, please either post them here or shoot me a PM! I'll do my best to depict a picture from that song. However, try to make it a sort of song that's relatively easy to make a plot out of ... so nothing that repeats one word too much or anything, for example. Use your common sense. Please realize that I have the right to deny your request ...

[eden .]

1. Over My Head [Cable Car] by The Fray
2. Eyes on Fire by Blue Foundation [Zed's Dead Remix]; WIP
3. Blow Me Away by Breaking Benjamin
4. Time of Dying by Three Days Grace; Requested by weegeestar5
5. Who Knew by P!nk; WIP
6. Concrete Angel by Martina McBride; Requested by goldh31
7. Our Story's Told by Tyler Ward; Requested by goldh31
8. My Love by Sia; Requested by Bristle
9. Falling Inside the Black by Skillet; Requested by Smamm

[eden .]

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The china cup shattered against the mantel in a piercing and resounding crack. Bits of colored glass, hand painted to depict images of ornate and detailed imprinted petals, ricocheted every which way, the cup's delicate and beauteous edges turning jagged and forever broken. Unmendable.

"Quinton!" a shrill and panicked voice called him from a bedroom. Some pounding of feet on the stairs later, a mother in a tight skirt and an even tighter blouse entered the study to find broken glass on the posh and byzantine carpet, a stiff and heavily breathing boy, and another cup in his fist.

"Quinton! Are you okay?" she asked, gingerly stepping forward onto the carpet in her bare feet and taking the boy by the shoulders to turn him to face her, fearing scrapes or bruises. In the light of lack of casualties, however, all she could see was a very expensive piece of china ruined, a full set of chinaware and tea set now incomplete, and a very large mess that she would have to clean up. A severe frown that was mimicked by the creases in her forehead, the mother demanded, "Quinton, what do you think you're doing? You've made a mess!"

The boy kept quiet, defiantly glaring at his mother's shoulder rather than her eyes and keeping a tight grip upon his second teacup--another china cup from a separate set than the first. Red and gold abstract designs decorated its surface, making it one of the most grandiose and brazen cups in the house. His knuckles were beginning to turn white, his pudgy fingers gripping the cup so tightly his mother was afraid it would break in his hands. Saying "Give me that", the mother withdrew her overbearing touch from his shoulders and reached for his hand. The boy didn't react. He neither stepped forward nor leaned backward. He did not move at all, and yet his mother could not prise the glass from his fist. She tried her best, yanking and pulling and yelling, once even spanking the boy in an attempt to get him to let go--to no avail.

"Quinton! Let go of the cup!" his mother screamed at him in frustration, raising a hand as if about to slap him across the face. The boy did not move, but his eyes flickered upward once in apprehension at the raised palm when a pair of very annoyed feet approached. "What's going on?" their owner demanded. The boy determinedly kept his head down and glaring at a particular stain on the carpet--no doubt from when he played in this room about a year before--but his mother whirled as the new person entered, rising and almost guiltily stowing her hand at her side. "Nathan," said she somewhat nervously.

"Eliza," the father greeted his wife stiffly before calling into the room, "Cue, are you okay?" Quinton looked up at last, glancing between his mother, whose straw blond and bobbed hair was disheveled and flying, and his father, who looked as if he had only just risen from the couch. Nervously, afraid of retribution from his mother who was all too close for comfort, Quinton gave his father the smallest of nods. His mother let out a sound between a shriek and a snarl of frustration, throwing up her hands. "Oh, he nods for you. He doesn't even look into my eyes." Quinton felt himself shrink, trying to inconspicuously shuffle back behind the nearby swiveling leather chair and take refuge between it and the alcove under its accompanying desk. Nothing, however, escaped his mother's hawk like glare as she demanded in indignation and not without some hurt, "Look! He's even hiding from me. Why is he so afraid of his own mother?"

"Maybe it's because you've slapped him upside the head a few too many times," his father suggested quietly, and his mother turned on him, now in a fit of wild rage.

"Don't act like I'm the only one that's guilty here! Where were you when I left on business? I come home and he's eating raw ramen--ramen for God's sakes--and you're lounging on the couch watching TV! How the hell is that taking care of your child?"

"He can take care of himself!" his father roared defensively, becoming angry, now.

"He's ten. He's not a teenager or an adult, Nathan, he's a child! He can't do everything himself!" his mother rebounded in frustration. "How many times do I have to tell you?"

"About as many time as you've hurt him!" Nathan snarled. "Tell me, if you're such a good parent then why is he afraid at the very sight of you?"

For a moment his mother was silent before casting Quinton a small wan look. By now the boy was already under the desk and pulling the chair towards him in an attempt to cage himself in. He paused as he spotted his mother staring at him, staring up at her in apprehension. His mother looked for a moment to want to tear the chair away and forcibly yank him out from under the desk, but instead she turned away and gave a deep sigh before putting a hand over her eyes. For a moment the room was filled with a tense silence before his mother said, "Do you have the stuff?"

"Yeah, it's over on the desk," his father responded, nodding towards the very same that Quinton was hiding under. His father paused a moment before stepping into the room himself, casually stepping across the glass in his thick slippers. "Hey, kid. Just gotta get something, okay? Why don't you come out."

Quinton stared up at his father before throwing a glance in his mother's direction. With his back to her, his father gave him a slow blink and an encouraging eyebrow raise. Swallowing, the boy pushed out the chair and crawled out from under the desk. His mother turned from him and made a strange tsking noise, apparently distraught.

"Why don't you go play, Cue?" his father smiled at him, his eyes crinkling at the sides. The ends of his dark hair were beginning to gray, and Quinton stared up at them in childish fascination. When did his father get old? He watched with some interest as his father grabbed a thick stack of papers that looked quite official and held a note of finality about them. Quinton had the sudden urge to tear them from his father's grip and rip them all in half. He craned his neck to see what the title was in hopes that it was not what he thought, and spotting his glance his father turned the papers away from his looks, but not before Quinton could see the D-I-V-O-R.

"Off you go, Cue. This is boring adult stuff." His father gave him a gentle push towards the exit. Sighing, his mother bent down and reached for him, ignoring his clear recoil at her touch, his mother lifted him up and carried him over the shattered glass before safely placing him on the hardwood outside. "Off you go," she said to him, giving him a small and crooked smile, a strange quality in her eyes that Quinton would not be able to place until later in life as melancholy.

♣ ----♣---- ♣

Why haven't you been responding to my e-mails? I'm just wondering how you're doing. Your father and I are worried about you.

"Quinton!" she exclaimed, lifting a hand and snapping her fingers in front of his face. Quinton jumped, looking up from his phone.

"I'm breaking up with you!" she snapped at him, clearly frustrated, although Quinton couldn't fathom why. His mouth sagged open in shock, and he swore his entire chest was shattering like glass.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" the girl demanded, her curled blonde hair tumbling about her shoulders. When he didn't say anything, she ordered, "At least close your mouth. You look like an idiot." Immediately Quinton shut his gaping maw and swallowed hard, staring at the woman before him, his eyes reminiscent of a doe in headlights. The pair were silent as the noises of the restaurant continued around them, the hustle and bustle oblivious to the end of the world that was stemming from Quinton's very spot.

"You're not going to say anything at all," the girl sighed, more of a statement than a question. She leaned back into the back of the booth's seat, crossing her arms and staring off at another table. Quinton knew what she was looking at: another couple that was clearly engaged in each other, overly lovey-dovey...Quinton's jaw jumped as he could feel her sizing him up to the other boy there. He thought he might be sick. He and the girl sat for a while before she said without looking at him, "I don't understand. You're like one of the best businessmen ever. Like, you're literally a genius. Why is it so difficult for you to just talk to me once in a while?"

Quinton remained silent, blinking rapidly as if holding back tears as he scrambled for something to say. What could he do to make all this better? What could he possibly do in this situation? Quinton was at a loss. He was already drowning in work, floundering for approval of his coworkers, and nothing seemed to be going his way. What would it take, then, to at least keep his one anchor of the world?

"Will you marry me?" Quinton blurted out, his voice hoarse and more like a croak. She started, clearly surprised and quite taken aback. She hadn't expected him to speak at all, much less ask her to marry him. "What?" she asked, her face somewhere in between embarrassment and humiliation. Scrambling now, Quinton tumbled out of the booth to kneel at the foot of her's. It was what he was supposed to do, right?

"Um," Quinton stuttered, wiping his hands on his pants, his eyes flicking in every direction: the paused conversation of the booth behind them, the smiling family with their children as they politely kept to their own business, the staring couple that she had been looking at before, and at her, who looked completely indignant--thunderous, even. "I don't have a ring, but...Lizzie, would you please...marry me?"

She stared at him for a while, unblinking--perhaps in shock--as Quinton looked up at her imploringly. "Please," said he with some desperation.

Lizzie didn't say anything. Instead she grabbed her purse and pushed herself past Quinton, who kept dumbstruck on the floor, and rushed out of the restaurant, struggling to keep her composure. Quinton, on his part, was unsure of what to do next, feeling incredibly silly from his position on the floor. Why was he like that? Oh, he was proposing to Lizzie. That's right. Where did she go?

The restaurant was silent before some soul in the back corner cleared his throat, and the activity began again somewhat awkwardly as they tried to give Quinton a moment to recover himself. He stared at the bottom of the booth's couch, wondering what he should do next. He didn't want to stay, but he couldn't find the energy to move, either. What was this feeling? It didn't feel like he was falling, but there was a swooping, lurching sensation in his stomach that he couldn't quite--

Slapping a random wad of bills on the table, Quinton shot out of the restaurant into the large and spacious square before rounding a corner and retching into a gutter. Passerbys paused and asked if he was alright, while others turned up their noses in disgust at such a man in such a suit who dares commit such atrocities in public. Wiping the saliva and dribble from his lips on his expensive sleeve, Quinton turned and glanced around the square. What was he supposed to do, now? He had work to do, certainly, for his company, but he had no way home. Lizzie had driven him here. There were no bus stops nearby. Perhaps someone could pick him up? But who? Not Lizzie, certainly, and none of his coworkers gave a damn about him. He was completely floundering at work. His employer had even threatened to fire him if Quinton didn't pull himself together. It wasn't that he wasn't intelligent, it was he didn't quite understand the process of things there. Normal interactions. He'd much rather prefer to be left alone to his own devices.

Quinton pulled out his phone from his pocket and scrolled through his contacts, making himself quite conspicuous by standing in the middle of the sidewalk as people jostled by him. Quinton, however, did not move as he looked through his barren list. There were really only two options there. Working his jaw for a moment, Quinton considered his options before pressing the "call" button and putting the phone to his ear.

"Hello?" a familiar voice sighed into the earpiece after a few rings. Quinton kept silent for a moment, regretting his decision and unsure what to say.

"Hello?" the voice asked again, their voice crackling. "Hello? I'm hanging up."

"Mother," Quinton finally let out. He was welcomed with a silence, and he removed the phone from his ear to check that the line had not disconnected before raising the phone, again. "Mother?"

"Quinton," his mother responded, an odd mixture of emotions bubbling forth. "How--How are you? I--What do you need?"

"Would you mind very much if you picked me up from Gates Mills Square?" Quinton asked wearily, feeling ages older. His mother responded almost instantaneously, "Yes, yes, of course. I'll be there in ten minutes. Where shall I pick you up?"

Quinton told her which restaurant he'd be in front of before ending the call without saying nor waiting for a goodbye.

♣ ----♣---- ♣

The car ride was smooth and without many bumps in the road. It was also quiet, air conditioned to the point of freezing, and static with tension as Quinton's mother repeatedly opened and closed her mouth in search of conversation, only to abandon the venture before starting. Finally, she asked somewhat nervously, "So, how's your work? Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Somewhat," Quinton responded into the window, watching the scenery pass with interest and smiling a little as his breath fogged up the glass. He took a free hand and drew a smiling face.

"Well, as long as you like it," his mother said with a brisk and bracing tone before settling into silence, again.

"Did you receive my message?" she asked again after a few moments, to which Quinton answered, "I've not responded because I'm too busy with work."

"And I suppose that's why you were in a shopping center, this afternoon?" his mother asked coolly. This time Quinton did not answer.

"Quinton, Nathan and I are worried about you. You've not contacted us in months, now. We're your parents and--"

"Please do not speak to me as if you have any idea what a parent might be," Quinton interrupted her, his usual habit of silence seemingly shattered along with his heart with Lizzie's abandonment. He stared out the window and kept thinking he saw her in every blonde set of hair, every laugh, every smile...

"...I'm sorry," his mother murmured, going back to her silent driving. Quinton was somewhat surprised that she had apologized but did not turn to give her his forgiveness. He had matured some since that day. He did not forgive her. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. And neither did he forgive his father.

"Nathan and I were planning on meeting today," his mother began again hesitantly. "Would you like to join us?"

"Why are you two meeting?" Quinton muttered into the glass suspiciously.

"We thought it would be a nice time to reminisce."

"Please do not lie to me."

"...We wanted to see you. Set things straight."

"Please drop me off at my house."

"Quinton--"

"If you please!" Quinton demanded, this time turning to glare at his mother, who stiffened and tightened her grip on the wheel before sighing, "I--well, if that's what you want."

"It is."

His mother put up no more argument, instead readjusting her path to go towards Quinton's apartment on the other side of the city, far away from his mother's home and his father's as well as being close to where he worked. With their arrival Quinton exited the car without much more than a "Thank you" and slammed the door before his mother could respond. He could hear the window begin to whir down but he was already halfway through the entrance of the apartment, ignoring his mother's calls to try and return him to normalcy. Instead Quinton took refuge in his apartment on the first floor, ignoring the rhythmic pounding of feet from the floors above as he descended into his couch in the sitting area.

The apartment was simplistic, plain, bare, although not to say it wasn't expansive. It indeed was quite large, having one full bathroom and one half, one large master bedroom and one guest, and a kitchen that, while cramped to the professional chef, quite a size for a man like Quinton, who rarely made himself his own food. There was one long cream couch, one small television that Quinton never used, two large beds, one king and one queen, a single wooden dining table with its corresponding set of chairs, an assortment of dishes and utensils, and side tables here and there for convenience. All in all, it was an inhabitable room, but without decorum or personality. There was no sort of way to know the person who lived in here except perhaps they preferred things always clean and disliked brazen, blazing colors and sharp edges. Such was the sort of place Quinton spent his spare time.

For a moment Quinton kept to the couch, considering the lazily beating fan revolving above his head. Slowly, as the sun sank Quinton rose, checking his phone once more to find that he had missed seven calls from both his mother and father. He supposed it was a good thing he had left the phone on silent. Sighing, Quinton retreated to the kitchen, the pain of losing Lizzie beginning to dull out of weariness and sheer shock and depression. Blinking blearily, Quinton opened up a cupboard and drew out a cup at random. Only after he had filled it with water from the faucet did he realize which he had taken.

The cup was graceful but efficient--something that Quinton needed, who had not the patience to deal with clunking cups--decorated with carefully hand painted, simplistic royal blue that heralded Dutch influences, the trim gold, two twin thin bands encompassing the cup's rim. Given to him by Lizzie, it was Quinton's favorite.

Without hesitation, Quinton threw the thing onto the tiled floor, pieces flying and whizzing off into corners, under the fridge, some creating shallow cuts on Quinton's feet before disappearing. Water seeped and spread across the tiles, puddling at his feet. Roaring, Quinton reached back into the cupboard, pulling forward cups and dishes alike as he in blind fury shattered them upon the floor, the room filling with crystalline pangs and deep glass clangs. When the cupboard was empty, Quinton's feet were whittled with small cuts bleeding into the water underneath him, and the glass was littered across the floor, some bits floating in the water. Mocking him. With a hoarse gurgle Quinton sank to the floor, leaning against the counter, ruining his suit, and wept into his hands. Everything had fallen upon him, and they had now shattered like the dishes upon the floor. Now all he could do was rise.

At the very end I was struggling to tie up the story. I found myself slowing down, getting a tad lazy with it. I was planning on something like that to happen from the very beginning, but I wasn't sure how I was going to finish it all off.
Hopefully all of the imagery, symbolism, and even some psychological innuendos came across. I've not enough experience, I think, to effectively depict such influences that affected Quinton later into his life, but I hope there were some parallels that were spotted [like, for example, the similarities between his mother and Lizzie, which I hope came across]. As my first real short story that I've finished on CS, please be a bit lenient as you give me some criticism yourself. Hope you enjoyed, I'll try and make the next story a bit less depressing ... >>
I hope some of the meaning of the song as well depicted what was going on ... I was loosely basing it on the song, but I tried to keep some of the elements there. It might be fun to listen to it while you read this :3

[eden .]

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096 glanced up from the seated position in the swiveling chair, loading and unloading the gun in deft, familiar motions. The magazine made satisfying sliding sounds as it locked into the barrel and back out again.

"You've found her?" 096 asked, rising. Leaning forward onto the desk, the agent glanced down at the scientist for an answer.

"If I hadn't I'd not have bothered to say so," the scientist responded, rolling his piercingly blue eyes only to sweep back his tussled blond hair. It was nearly white, really, but he never described it so. It made him feel old.

"So where is she?" 096 demanded, ignoring Caspar's cynicism. He glanced up at 096 in slight amusement before saying, "She's attending the presidential campaign, today. That's convenient, you can kill her while you kill the candidate," Caspar observed nonchalantly, nodding in appreciation of the efficiency of it all. 096 leaned in closer, brushing Caspar's shoulder with hair for how close she got. Lifting a hand, she ran it along the nano screen, the small transistors reacting and bending to her calm, cool touch as they rippled out, her finger tip serving as the central point. Quickly, easily, the nanowires shifted and compacted and reshaped themselves into a single thin band that 096 took and snapped onto her wrist, the band curling about her arm at the impact to create a bracelet of sorts.

"Really, Oh-Ninety-Six, you could've just asked me to do it," Caspar sighed, turning his chair so as to watch her as she gathered her things. The seat made a conspicuous squealing noise, putting 096 off and of course encouraging Caspar to continue. He spun and maneuvered the thing, nearly making 096's ears split open. Snarling, 096 holstered her two pistols before raking her hair back into a quick ponytail.

"You're not actually going to a campaign like that, are you?" Caspar said, raising an eyebrow and glancing over 096's jet black combat suit and sighing. The agent looked down at herself and demanded, "What's wrong with it?" while feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious. The scientist shook his blond head at the floor before rising with cat like ease and laziness. "There's nothing wrong with it. It just won't work for the type of place you're going to. For one thing, it's open air, so there are no places for you to slink about in. For another, it's a high-class presidential campaign. It's more like a party than anything else. You'll need--"

"I'm not wearing a dress," 096 interrupted him, predicting Caspar's next suggestion. "Never will I wear a dress."

"Don't be unreasonable, Oh-Ninety-Six," Caspar frowned at her. "This is for your name, remember?"

096 hesitated, unsure of how to continue. Caspar was right, of course. He was always right.

"Oh-Ninety-Six, it's just for one night," Caspar said, rolling his eyes and grasping 096's shoulders. It was clear that he found the answer obvious as he steered her towards the elevator, where they both stepped inside and Caspar pressed the numbers to bring them to 096's room. She remained silent while she mulled things over, a slight crease in her forehead. Party clothes were something that 096 never indulged in, and to do so now seemed somewhat hypocritical of her own values. But if it was just once ...

With a slight clunk, the elevator announced their arrival, and Caspar gave 096 a small push on the small of her back to urge her into the hall. She obediently stepped forward before heading towards her room, leaving Caspar to catch up with his longer legs. 096 was always frustrated by her stature. With her head coming only to Caspar's shoulders--and just barely, at that--at five feet and five inches 096 had to struggle to prove her worth. Not that it was much of a struggle these days. No one really came near her anymore.

[eden .]

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WARNING! Some content may not be suitable for children. Contains some gore [but not overly explicit].

The harsh crack of the gun echoed through the exposed clearing where they stood, smoke still billowing casually along the wind as the bodies neatly crumpled into the ditch behind them, thin trickles of blood running from their foreheads. With sharp barks a soldier ordered five more prisoners to step forward, dragging their fetter, the chains making an ominous and ghastly clanking as they hissed at their feet. Their clothes were faded, torn, and no longer of importance. One was a boy that couldn't have been older than twelve wearing shoes that were much too big for him barely keeping from bursting into tears and his shoulders trembling uncontrollably. His nose was running, but he was apparently too nervous to break the morbid silence of the clearing. He kept his eyes on the ground, not knowing where else to look, as he struggled not to trip over his own two feet, the chains rattling mockingly around him. With a stifled exclamation, he fell on his face, his nose and mouth filling with damp upturned earth as he spluttered. The somber line paused for a moment, unable to continue due to their obstacle, and one of the officers stepped forward in undisguised disgust and impatience as he shouldered his rifle. In one smooth motion, he loaded the gun while leaning forward, pressing the barrel to the simpering boy's temple and putting a muddy boot on his cheek to steady himself and keep the boy down. The boy was able to let out one single, wavering wail of despair before a gunshot rang through the trees and scared off a crowd of crows, their caws sounding like cackles of the Devil. Snorting, the officer unlocked the shackles on the boy's legs before kicking the lifeless body into the ditch to join the others, fresh tears still running along his cheeks. Muttering something in clear annoyance, the officer stepped aside and waved a hand to get on with it, snapping something at the remaining prisoners. It was their last batch of the day, and he was anxious to get going. Obediently, hopelessly, the last prisoners who survived this long looked wearily into the faces of their killers, no longer able to find the energy to raise their head in dignity.

More gunshots. A shout from the officer called another line of idling soldiers to come forward bearing broad shovels as they began their dirty work, returning the recently upturned soil back into the earth, covering the many twisted bodies in the semblance of throwing trash in a landfill. The officer continuously shouted biting and clipped insults to his soldiers. When were they going to finish?

Finally, as the first few cooling droplets of misty rain began to descend upon their helmets, the soldiers deigned their task finished, and the officer grunted to wave them back to camp, no longer caring how well the earth might be packed in. It was cold, he was hungry, and he was tired. He wanted to go back to his bed and take a nap. And who could blame him? he asked himself. Anticipating a good rest tonight, the officer led the way through the forest, the camp based near a town close by. Smoke was already spiraling from the fires there, and the place was roaring with activity. Army men looked up at the group's approach and let out a round of approving shouts calling welcome, congratulations, and a job well done. Another day done.

♣ ----♣---- ♣

The metallic chair rattled and screeched with the wrenching pulls of the prisoner, the strait jacket straining against his strength as the buckles clanged against the seat. It rocked side to side, threatening to keel over to one side if not for the chains binding the legs to the ground. With a frustrated, animalistic roar, he made one last single pitch forward before collapsing back, the four legs of his chair clattering before settling themselves.

"That's him?" a colonel asked with some distaste and morbid fascination, watching the prisoner pant, sweat and saliva running down his chin in a small puddle beneath him. As the colonel watched, the prisoner curled his lips into a ferocious grin, his teeth bared and almost fangs in their own right as he let out a howl of mirth, shooting forward and jerking his head towards the colonel and his comrade as if to swallow them whole, tendons rising from his neck, eyes popping. The colonel had seen many things in his lifetime however, and this did not phase him. The prisoner could very well be faking, anyway. Nodding at the doctor, the solid metal door opened with a soft creak, and the colonel stepped away from the bullet-proof glass to enter on its other side in the room. It was harshly lit, doubtful to give anyone a good night's sleep, and completely featureless, made of steel paneling and a single glass window that revealed the world going on and about without them. Signaling with a hand, the doctor reluctantly shut the door once more, locking the colonel and the prisoner inside. The colonel considered the prisoner with a carefully blank expression on his face while the prisoner chuckled madly, flopping his head over the back of the chair, his matted black hair falling over the edge. Licking some of the sweat off his lip he said with clear amusement, "Are you going to kill me?" Even as he said it he could not contain his laughter, breaking down into derisive cackle. The colonel waited patiently until the prisoner had no breath to continue before saying evenly, "No, you're valuable to us. Of course we're not going to kill you."

"Then you're a fool!" the prisoner exclaimed, his mood changing to a desperate, shocked tone that the colonel could not help but be concerned about. "For every day I live another life is lost!" Snorting in giddiness, the prisoner took his head back and giggled into his chest before turning to look at the colonel again, a pleading and fearful look in his eye. "You must kill me."

With some scorn, the colonel said, "We've invested too much in you. Here you will stay until you are willing to cooperate. Remember, soldier: for every day you live another may be lost, but right now every day brings another hundred deaths to our door. Does saving one single life by killing you seem much of an improvement"--the colonel leaned in and spat on the prisoner's cheek, his filed mustache rippling in barely contained rage--"to you?" Sneering, the colonel straightened before motioning to the doctor again, who opened the door. The prisoner, unable to wipe off the spittle from his cheek, instead chose to ignore the humiliation that had been wrought upon him and fixed on the sudden cool breath of air from the world outside his cell. He stared after the colonel with disdain as he struggled to keep himself under control.

"Has he any signs?" the colonel asked the scientist on the other side of the glass. The prisoner glowered at the pair but was not able to hear what they were saying. Frowning, the colonel's mustache twitched with some uncertainty and he waved the scientist to turn his back on the prisoner, a creeping notion that his lip-reading was just as accurate as his hearing.

"Nothing to indicate that he is who he says he is," the scientist frowns, "but nothing to say that he's not. I'll have to run more tests."

"Why can't you just kill him?" the colonel demanded, his voice tight and impatient. The scientist looked taken aback, and the colonel scrambled to defend himself. "If he really is the 'savior', he should just come back to life."

"But if he's not--"

"Another casualty of war," the colonel snapped, waving a hand unconcernedly. A life of an eighteen year old meant little to him otherwise. He had stood by and watched ten year olds, eight years even, be shot in the head without a second thought. The scientist, however, was never part of war. He was never in the field. Experimentation on human beings was frowned upon enough, but killing? The scientist cringed, unsure of what he was more fearful of: taking a life or saving one and going directly against the colonel's orders. After an appropriate length of silence the colonel snorted, the bristles of his facial hair billowing roughly. He muttered something that the scientist couldn't make out before approaching the door guard, to which he ordered to open the door. Obediently, the guard did so, and the scientist yelled out as he realized what the colonel meant to do. Too late the scientist burst into the room after the colonel, the gunshot ringing through the metal room and nearly splitting his eardrums apart. On the chair was a limp bodied teen, red blood on the side of his face and dripping down on the white strait jacket, dyeing it. The floor also had some splatters of blood. A single bullet wound was carefully centered at the boy's temple. The colonel at that very moment was stowing his gun with some contempt. "Not him," he said unnecessarily. He brushed past the scientist, who was standing agape just inside the room, and was about to cross the threshold before a shrill and whining voice rang through the place. "That f-cking hurt, damn it!"

The colonel whirled, first taking in the stiffened scientist, and then seeing the snarling and very annoyed prisoner in his seat, flipping what hair he could out of his face, it now damp and dripping with dark blood.

"What the hell was that for?" the prisoner demanded, straining against his bonds. "Who f-cking walks in and shoots someone without a f-cking explanation? That could've killed me!"

His face ashen, the scientist stumbled back out of the room, nearly toppling over the colonel in his haste. The colonel, to his credit, held his ground, although his face was as blanched and faintly ill as the scientist. Still, he stepped forward, the prisoner practically jumping out of his seat as he made its legs clatter and rise from the ground and screaming oaths of death and plague upon the colonel's head before another gunshot silenced him. His head snapped back in the recoil, another bullet wound in the center of his head, now. Had the colonel been any close it'd have been point blank. As it was, it was unlikely that he alive.

But he was. As quick as he had whip lashed back, another second and the prisoner's head snapped forward again, this time cackling in the crazed manner of his. "What's wrong, colonel? Haven't you ever seen a man come back to life?" Howling, the prisoner yanked and pulled at the chains on the legs by rocking back and forth, trembling in uncontrolled amusement. The colonel stood stock still, his gun still raised, not knowing what else to do, as he watched in terror as the prisoner snorted and giggled into his chest, the bullet wounds still bleeding along his face. Impatiently he shook out the drops from his eyes like a shaggy haired dog. It was an annoyance. Trivial. Somewhat bothersome.

Three more shots--this time squarely in the chest, one over the heart and one over the solar plexus, the third completely random. The prisoner jerked and trembled for each strike before collapsing against the chair. The room was silent once again, the colonel swallowing back the bile that was at the top of his throat. Sweat dripped down from his chin, and his gun arm was now visibly trembling. He wondered if the scientist had run to get help, but he dared not look away from the motionless--

"Could you stop?" the prisoner demanded, his voice nearly cracking. He jerked his head to flip his hair to the side once more. "That hurts! Have you ever been shot before colonel? Eh?" With his final exclamation the prisoner jerked forward, a weak link in his chair's chains finally giving as he pitched forward onto his face, his cheek landing on the ribbed metal with a painful sounding slap. His nose was at the tip of the colonel's shined black boot before he moved it away, fearful apparently at the proximity of the prisoner. He chortled into the floor, unable to rise due to his awkward position, as he was still in the chair. Hair in his mouth and blood on his tongue, the prisoner could not control his mirth as he angled his head to stare up at the colonel, who stood with true terror on his face. The prisoner stuck out a tongue to lick his lips. It was a quick, unsettling gesture, his eyes wide and pitiless. Pain was wracking his body, screams of protest from his body nearly rendering unconscious, for the prisoner was restricted to the healing capabilities of any normal man.

"I am the savior," the prisoner giggled at the colonel, his voice settling into a small, cheerful albeit unbalanced squeak. He chuckled into the floor again for a moment, apparently not noticing the colonel shiftily stumbling out of the room, abandoning the boy on the floor.

"YOU HEAR ME?" the prisoner suddenly shouted, snapping from his collapsed position to raise his head like a snake. He glared at the window, the door now closed, screaming, "I AM THE SAVIOR. NOTHING YOU DO WILL ESCAPE ME. I AM THE SHADOW ON THE WALL WHEN YOU WALK, COLONEL. I AM THE WIND ON YOUR NECK. So be go-od," he tagged on, his voice dropping back down again into a singsong jingle, rocking his head from side to side in time with the syllables. Grinning crookedly, he returned to the floor to cackle to no one as the lights outside the room were hastily turned out, the only source from the prisoner's room as he shuddered on the floor. His peals of insane laughter carried through the halls, echoing up to the surface as the grate was shut with a clang of finality.

This was actually loosely based on a full story plot that I was working on but never really came together, as I couldn't think of a good plot for it. I was very proud of the characters I had made, however. As you might of guessed, this was central around the savior. Originally the savior was going to be a girl, but the story decided to write itself into being a boy, so there you go.
I was kind of struggling to find tons of synonyms for "laugh" and "amusement", although I tried to stay away from a thesaurus. For some reason I don't like using those very much >> Hopefully there's some good variety, but if you spot anything please point it out. ^^
If you enjoyed this story, you may be interested in the others that I may pull up--once I find a good song for them. XD There are six others that are in the group along with the Savior here [being the prophet, the creator, the judge, the avenger, the warrior, and the martyr].

[Rolly-chan]

As promised, here's my reply =)

I very much like the story to "Over My Head". I think you have characterized Quinton well, child-Quinton as well as him as an adult. I can picture a child caging himself in with a chair to somehow hide from an abusive mother.
His relationship with Lizzie is pretty interesting as well (and yes, I could spot some similarities between her and Quinton's mother). It's like he's trying to compensate the lack of love from his mother by drawing it from Lizzie. It's very understandable why he feels like his world has shattered when Lizzie tells him she's breaking up with him.

Nathan is a very secondary character compared to his mother, though. Aside from his mother's comment that Nathan is way too laissez-faire I don't see why he should be so angry at his father as well. But I don't think it takes away from the story, since it seems to focus more on Quinton's relationship with his mother, anyway.

His inability to fathom simple human interaction is a great way to show that what went wrong in his childhood is still swapping over into his adult life. He had this dysfunctional, distorted relationship of his parents to look at and experience, since his parents obviously weren't getting along (the divorce and their conversation in general), and it's known that the relationship of our parents influence us greatly in our own relationships.

And I don't know if you intended for it to be that way, but I don't see the ending as so overly depressing. He has shattered all the porcelain. Everything. And I kind of saw it as a symbol that, yes, his life was a mess of shattered glass, but also that he could start anew now. That last sentence ("All he could do was rise") to me seems to be a resolve to build a "new" life now. A fresh start. But as I said, maybe you didn't intend for it to have that meaning ^^°
I liked that story. Your style is very atmospheric and nice to read.

Sorry for not really critiquing that story ^^° My mind's a bit mushy right now.

[eden .]

Thank you very much for your comments! I am glad.some of that came through. Lol yeah it was supposed to be kind of depressing

[Rolly-chan]

Maybe it's the optimism I inherited from my father coming through xD

And I completely forgot to mention his interior decoration! I like the fact that it's so bare of anything personal. Big and expensive and nondescript. Same as he seems to be. Good businessman, clad in a suit, all professional, nothing personal about it. And it seeps through in his interaction with Lizzie as well. At least she says he's like that. Not talking to her as much as she'd like. Like he's got nothing to tell her. Like there's nothing behind his success. Which we get a glimpse of when he reveals that his boss has threatened to fire him.
So, good job ^^ To my mind, you're a really good writer. Keep it up!

I guess I'll read the other stories when I'm back and I'm not feeling as groggy as I do at the moment xD

[eden .]

Ah, how flattering. ;A; thank you.