It has, indeed, been a long time, hasn't it?
Life for me is intriguing, as always: a mixture of tedious, educational mundanity, nostalgic and sentimental pain, and ridiculously hilarious and absurd social ventures, which means, yup, I've been writing and writing and writing between the hours of school and violin.
Muchos emotion = muchos words.
Currently, as I've mentioned, I'm redoing Death Would Be So Near, which has been absolutely fantastic. Two major changes that should be noted: I believe I'm going to change the title eventually because the title DWBSN, which my twelve-year-old brain thought was epic, makes absolutely no sense. Also, I've decided to change the name "Deidre" to "Silvia".
(...aaand, for those of you who didn't follow my writing career when I was twelve and have no idea what I'm talking about, CONGRATULATIONS - you still must have your sanity.)
All such and such to say, I'm writing a new novel based off of my old novel DWBSN (and putting my old one with Millis, Pleibea, and Patra on the back burner because I do that with all stories: I get inspired/uninspired in bursts). Right here, I've got an excerpt from said novel that I'm posting because 1.) I don't know if it'll ever get into the end product, 2.) I love it too much to let it go unpublished, and 3.) it represents a lot of the feels in my life right now.
So.
Introducing~
--Skain Wolfe, ENTJ: a gang leader's son, a Darky (i.e. a member of an emo school club), and the total genderbent version of me.
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| dark-ebony, nearly-black hair brown eyes that look like the steel color of a gun at night and like golden maple syrup in the day pale skin lithe, hard-muscle frame |
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| dominant, stubborn, charismatic attitude either 100% self-inflated or 100% self-incriminating at all times expert tactician for his gang, less expert at coping when things go awry (because things so rarely go awry for him) addicted to power humility issues |
--Silvia Thornton, ISTP: a "Christian" living a double-life for adrenaline-junky purposes, a Riser (i.e. a member of a popular-kid school club), and the recipient of Skain's undying, entertaining love.
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| tan, tousled hair green-brown eyes that basically include every shade of a summer forest after a warm rain cream-hued, clean skin small, thin frame |
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| thrill-seeking, resilient, rational attitude 80% reliable friend, 20% explosively-energetic episodes (in which getting drunk and into fights is quite common) expert manipulator, less expert at being feminine addicted to adrenaline issues...she's just got issues, this one. x) |
So, without further ado, welcome to the wonderful world of my this-probably-won't-even-get-into-the-final-edit Death Would Be So Near excerpt except-that-I'm-changing-that-name-soon-and-if-you-have-suggestions-le-comment-box-is-below~!
*gasps for air*
~ ~ ~
SKAIN'S PERSPECTIVE
By the time we’ve reached the Kranks, I can barely see straight. The day was stressful and exhausting, but, worst of all, the day condemned me more fierily, earnestly, and accurately than anyone has ever accused me before. On the clean, northern side of town with shallow, excited teenagers in a mesh of hot colors and shining lights, I realized - it took me all that to realize - that I’m hardly human.
Yeah, I play the part, maybe, but hours of acting have left me dry, and the truth - that I’m a heartless killer with no guilt - is battering me worse than the cracked road is beating up Silvia’s car.
Rubbing a hand against my face, I close my eyes and drown in the murderous voices of my conscious that remind me of how many bullets, when, where, the bruises, the roaches, the girls, and everything else criminal that I’ve done in the Kranks as Dad’s valuable pet. I’m too tired to think nicely about myself; I’m too convinced otherwise to even try, so I don’t.
Eventually, Silvia drives up to my house and parks, shaking me gently and obviously desiring some attention, but I avoid her alluring gaze and gather up my stuff as she asks, “Did you have fun?”
I nod stiffly. “Yeah, thanks, Sil—“
My voice cracks, and I clear my throat, trying to take the haggardness out of my voice as I say, “I really enjoyed myself.”
Unconvinced, she turns to me with a playful, accusatory glare, and I hastily open the door, not even taking the time to kiss her goodbye as tears begin to well in my eyes.
“Bye, Sil. I’ll see you tomorrow—”
“—hey, Skain!“
Ignoring her disappointed pleading, I close the door before she can call me back or see my face - and run; running past my house, sprinting into the forest that borders our perimeters, and crumpling on the ground as a sob wracks my chest. My whole body tightens; I’ve not cried in years, and I don’t know what’s wrong with me now, except I keep hearing myself screaming in my mind, and I keep feeling under my hands the sensation I receive when I impact flesh with a knife, and I keep facing my own violence and darkness against the white backdrop of those perfect, loving teens who invited and included someone who is only alive for killing, manipulating, and strategizing.
I’m a Darky, yes.
…but I’m more than that.
I’m a terrible person.
I’m a terrible person.
My knife finds its way into my hand, and, through blurry vision, I rip off the spiked bracelet that hides my only tattoo: the word SUBJUGATED in white ink, and begin to cut at my forearm and at the marking, teeth grit to the pain, throat closed to my tears.
Blood and hurting.
It’s all sedation.
I just want to be sedated.
Silvia finds me in a few minutes like I assumed she would, and I straighten and scrub my face rid of tears quickly, but I know she could hear my high-pitched keening sounds. As if walking in a minefield, she sneaks up to me and sits on the cold humus in front of me, not touching me and not saying anything. I keep my head bowed, embarrassed and angry for some reason, though I don’t know what with.
Emotions are useless in the Kranks, so, whenever I feel them and I don’t like it, I take a knife to myself or swallow some Ritalin, but I’m not proud of my coping methods, and the fact that I can feel blood slithering into my palm bothers me. When she sees the damage that I’ve done to my skin in the dim twilight and pieces together why I was wearing long sleeves in the nice weather today, she reaches forward and grabs the dirty knife out of my hand, pitching the weapon a few meters away into the forest.
I open my mouth to object, but don’t trust myself to speak, so she speaks for me, directly and seriously and calmly.
“Skain, what’s wrong? Did I…do something? Why are you so upset?”
Upset.
Because of me.
My heartlessness.
My past.
“Please, Silvia.” Aggravated by her altruism, I climb to my feet and pace off into the forest, finding my knife, wiping the blood on my shirt, and then pocketing the weapon. “Go home. I’m fine.”
“Yeah, like heck you are,” she snaps. Hoping nimbly to her feet, she grabs my cut-up wrist tightly, and I cut off a cry of alarm as her nails dig into the deep lacerations I drew on myself. “People who are fine don’t do this, Skain.”
I unhook her thumb with my good arm and release myself. “Well, I’m fine now. Please leave me alone.”
“Why?” she retorts, “So you can go inside and keep cutting? I don’t think so, idiot.”
“Sil, I’m not in the mood to be babied.”
“And I’m not ‘babying’ you. I’m telling you that it’s fine to be weak and to admit that you need help sometimes, so quit acting like a fool and let me help.”
Silvia faces me, her hands on her hips, her chin stuck out slightly. Caught in the moment and dulled by my tears, I let my gaze wander across her face in the dim light of evening, her perfect features and the shadows of her collarbones. She stares back at me, stolidly and then with a softer expression after a second, and I take a step towards her, fingering her warm chin with cold fingers. Green eyes wide, she watches me, and I slowly, carefully, press my mouth against hers, eyes closing to myself and body loosening in sorrowful pleasure, but another tear slithers down my face when I realize that I’ve never loved anyone in my life as intensely as I’ve loved Silvia.
…and yet she doesn’t know what I’ve done.
And how could I tell her?
Tell her that I lost my virginity when I was eight, that Dad himself gave me my tattoo when I was ten to remind me of his total authority over my life, that I’ve killed and hospitalized more people than most Towner criminals could ever dream of killing and hospitalizing. She doesn’t realize what I’ve done, and she doesn’t realize that, for all the show that I put on, I’m unable to even save my sister from her torturous life.
I can’t protect Silvia.
I can’t love her.
I shouldn’t have even helped her in the first place.
Tasting salt between our lips forces resolve back into my actions, and I pull away with a small noise of angst and feel guilt wash over me again when Silvia tries to follow, her hand reaching to hold me close.
“I’m…sorry, Silvia.”
Yeah. No luck trying to hide the agony in my voice now.
“Please go home, Sil.”
She crosses her arms with a return of weaker determination, but I take off quickly and lock myself inside and sprint up to the loft, peering out to the driveway in time to see a defeated Silvia make her way slowly to her car. For a second, I’m tempted to throw open the window and call out to her that she’s beautiful, more beautiful than all of the altered sluts I’ve met in the Kranks and more beautiful than the forest in autumn, and that I love her and I need her and I can’t possibly manage without her.
…but rationality stops me - I can’t let myself have her, defile her, and ruin her with myself - and so I leave the window when she’s gone and gingerly wash the sticky, crusted blood off my arm, falling into bed even though it’s not even seven yet, tired and ashamed and more internally devastated than I’ve been in my whole life.
~ ~ ~
Write on!
Clove
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