Sycamore

~Genre: Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Supernatural
~Warning: Mention of rape. Swearing. Sexual situations.
~Summary: There are things beyond our limited perception that can be actualized if given the proper means. But one has to be careful with what it sows and worry for he will undoubtedly risk to spoil everything and what could have been a potentially, favorable auspice will meet its end before it got any chance to begin with in the first place.
~Author's Note: My latest, unarticulated nonsense...short as it is for now.... Don't forget to review, the author will deeply appreciate it.... *goes and preps the cookie jar* ^^


In This Web of Smoke, Forsake Me


Prologue


For a long period of time, I used to think that the entire world revolved around rough caresses. That is until those caresses killed me and left my body to soak in a puddle of its own blood. And the only decent thing my shell could do was to writhe pathetically as if caught in ever turning pincers, counting seconds, waiting for the once rosy lips to kiss the last breath of air. Lame, I know… But that was all that was left of my intellect – a basic, incongruous need, back then, in that sorrowful place, inhabited by tragic, frail glimmers of despair or hope.

Does an idea feel any pain when it commits suicide? I bet you’re wondering why an idea would do such a thing in the first place…. Well lets suppose she was depressed or maybe envious on all the other better, shiny ideas strolling around on their white stallions and every time she looked in the mirror, she saw a duckling, dull, deterred and insignificant beyond belief. Funny how no longer constricted by a flesh cage, the mind is striving relentless in nonsense. Or maybe it was just coping with what happened to its warm, protective cocoon, now shredded, torn, raped. Who could tell? Humans are so careless with their havens, taking them for granting when Fatum just lays around to catch them and seal them... Like it managed to do to me as well. Late, way too late… to confess.

*Ideas are so volatile and come in so many different shades, it’s hard to keep track of them and some are harmless, some lethal, some ought to be taboo while others simply are masochistic. That was new…. Since when could an idea – ethereal as it was – override the master-program? And now, the answer was not obvious… If it could have been so easy, I would’ve easily avoided the physical damage and probably even my own mind’s torture inflicted ironically on itself…. That seems so redundant but true, valid and falling neatly under Logic’s forth principle of necessity.*

In another order, a body is a tool inhabited by sprites and the Great Anonymous knows, that the biped machinery that has existed only for the purpose of defining me, was always rented out. By Him. By the Touch. By the narrow-minded Craving. By the Clothes Discarded and the Make-up Sessions. Should I include Smell, also? Why not… It’s all the same, the shards finally have gotten back together and recovered a faulty reflection of my eyes…. Electric Green, now long departed… Will I be to cruel to say that it was me who wreaked this havoc, who reaped this hail of sadness?

It’s weird. The way I ended up is more than unsettling. All this time I hoped I could avoid something so foreseeable. Even there in that amniotic chasm, I still had my money put on the underdog…. I knew that I was not just one of those screwed-up things rotting in the graveyard, down by the Void. Somebody must’ve felt my weeping and sought me out in the only way he knew how. I was acquainted with my potentiality and all I had to do was get myself in reality, in one of those viable mechanisms. In order to escape from the others, my vicious Brothers and Sisters. And when it happened, when I began to feel as though I was taking a shape, I, figuratively speaking, burst into what I could only guess, were tears.

Post hoc ergo propter hoc…. Though still…Still, though…. I wish I could still be able to feel sorry but I’m no longer able to enterprise such an overbearing task…. I can’t even crave for a touch and funny enough I didn’t even get to have one…. Instead I met Nemesis and it got to me before I realized wh….As I said already, too late, too slow, too weak. Pathetic. No chance whatsoever. Raw force beat down what I could only call, ingenuity but at least I got to save him and He was probably worthy…. After all, he gave him a chance, unknowingly as he did. But chances, no matter how many are given, are useless and easily wasted. Recyclable.

I wish I didn’t bleed from so many orifices, I wish there’d be more cloth to cover my spoiled carcass…In that wanton pose, anything would feel undignified and think of it as inappropriate. If only I’d combust already, literally fade into thin air, gone, forgotten and forsaken. Away from the darkness that I dreaded, erased from any trace of Possibility. Nullified. And curiously, I can still feel a voice ushering me, clinging to the remnants….of? What I was? But I was Nothing before I was This yet This can’t possibly resemble what I was. At least, the thing now laid upon me is warm and the mores I wrap myself in it the more I’d like for it to be a body and attached to that body, I’d wish there’d be potential. Though truth be told I can no longer wish for anything.

“I was too late.” I hear a voice say bitterly. If I could I would apologize, I did not mean to cause discomfort. I was selfish and got retributed accordingly. So I beckon him to stop, I pull away from his hold and claw at the hand trying to prevent my fall. And when I’m back down to the asphalt that I bonded for so long with, I lose myself in the veils of Tiredness and Slumber.

“For crying out loud, Blake! Why can’t you be more careful? Wasn’t he, injured enough?”

“Cella, please! You made your point already.”

“What could good did it do? Lets go, Mathias is waiting by the car.”


TBC