Retreat

How pathetic.

"Just walk away," it said, "Retreat and find a place to recover."

She did as she was told, scanning the lake house's living room.  The boys were all in the kitchen, noisily scrounging around for sandwich materials, so she slipped away unnoticed down the dark hallway.  Without thinking, she went into her room, an obvious hideout, and shut the non-locking door behind her, just hoping vaguely that no one would try the handle.

"Now sit down," it said, "and cry."

Easy.

She settled on the corner of the queen-sized bed, her fingers digging deeply into the tree-print comforter.  Within seconds, there were tears: hot, helpless tears followed by screams.  If she had been out in the forest alone at night like when she was a child, she would have let them go, screaming these pathetic, horrendous shrieks of desperation.  Instead, she caught the noise, just throwing the action with her head tilted back, her throat rippling with pain.

Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.

No matter what, your life is worthless.

The wild look in his eyes, the way he seemed to be grabbing her shoulders and yelling at her - man, that felt so bad.  Why did games always go wrong with these lethal people?  Bruised hands, thoughtless words.  Sometimes, she got the sense that nothing ever changed between then and now.

I'm sorry that I let you down.

Just like in that muggy summer with the smell of American coffee lingering in the air, if he was mad, she would have taken his punishment submissively.  She would have bowed her head and apologized.  If he wanted to yell because she was unimportant or burdensome, he should have the right to yell.

No matter how much you accomplish, you are still pathetic.

You can never be good enough.

In every sense, you are without value.

Well, that was a lie, because he - neither of them, really - had any say over her intrinsic value.  "Only God does," it reminded her, and, for a second, that argument gave her hope.  She lifted her head, her tears stopping for a second, but that was too much effort to pick up her mind's edge and fight - and despair proved stronger.  In another second, darkness had crushed the righteous action in its fist, welcoming that familiar sense of hopelessness.

She cried for a long time, weak gasps and whimpers escaping her tired body.  Eventually, that death-loving urge became too strong, and she scratched at her forearms, leaving large swaths of red and white inflamed skin.  She was spiraling, and, at this point, she knew she was spiraling.  After dealing with this villain in her for so long, she knew what it said, what it tried to do, how it would make her bleed as she tried to cut her flesh to the bone.

Worthless.
Pathetic.
Burdensome.

These are the words that describe you.

"No," she said to no one, her panic becoming more and more violent.  Was she back here after putting up a fight for so long?  Even though she had been denying that sense since last spring, was she really, truly as needless and fake as she kept thinking she was?  If he was yelling, just like they all did, then she was unloved.

That was all.

Her life was worthless.

Weapon.

Frantically, her bloodshot eyes flit across the room for anything.  Pain broke this cycle: glass, a knife, a piece of paper, anything that could make her bleed.  She was trapped, trapped in the soft, secure, weaponless bedroom of a vacation home.  She could run out now and make a scene, crashing into the arms of her brother to only gain more attention - and maybe that would save her - or she could keep struggling here.  What would that do anyway?  They would all be asking her what's wrong, and what could she say other than that she wanted to die?

"Someone--"

That sea of complete desperation.

"--someone help me."

"Hey, does anyone know where she went?"

Silence.

Footsteps.

...no.

Closing her eyes tightly, she sat still, her adrenaline peaking.  For a second, the thought crossed her mind that, like a child in a thunderstorm, she could hide in the closet with her hands over he ears - but that would be even harder to explain if he found her.  He stood at the bathroom door at the end of the hallway, knocking, and then came back down, pausing at the other side of the closed door after he knocked.

"Hello?"

She was shaking uncontrollably, a whooshing in her ears as her chest tightened.  No one ever came after her.  If he even dared to intrude on this privacy of hers--

...but, at the same time, she wanted him to come in so badly that tears started squeezing out of her shut eyes again.  Even if she was just dead weight to him, she wanted him to come, to love her, to heal her with those soft words like he always did.  But how could she ask for even more?  Those piercing snarls began flooding her mind again: "Shut up!  Shut up!  SHUT.  UP."

She had yelled back at him too...

Too pathetic...

Before she could find the courage to cry for help, he had moved on to the other bedroom on the hallway, knocking there.  In that moment, she felt both relief and death, covering her face with her arm.  The salt from her tears stung her scratched skin, but she was safe.  Out of the two disasters: her remaining in that room, locked and alone, or him coming in after her, she had avoided the worst.  Even if this path meant that she would suffer and sacrifice herself to save him...

Well, she didn't deserve his help anyway.

You're just a burden on him.

When he got no response from the other empty bedroom, the small-steps hero called to the others in the kitchen, "Which bedroom is hers?"

One of them replied with the correct answer, and the footsteps came back with only a perfunctory knock this time.  The doorknob turned, and he was there in the doorway so suddenly that she jerked in alarm.

Instantly, the tears stopped, and she hastily rolled down her sleeves.  Then, he called out her name in a voice full of sadness, and that was all that the solider in her could do to regulate her.

Boom.

A gunshot in his voice.

Her strength took a direct hit.

In her name, he had given her permission to be weak.  "I know you are here, and I came after you," he said in his actions, and she was losing more and more control.  Heaving for breath, she keened, no longer able to hide her cries, and he pushed further in to her chaos, closing the door behind him and sitting on the bed next to her.

Stop, stop, stop.

Anyone who saw this weakness of hers before had left her with an "oops, sorry" - but here was the punk, trying to peer closer into her face scrawled over with embarrassing, illogical self-hatred.  Even worse, he felt like he had some responsibility for her feelings, didn't he?  She could tell that much by his quiet caution.

Shielding her face from his view with one hand, still acting like a toddler, she hunched her shoulders and tried to disappear - but that felt awful too, pushing him away like that.  He seemed concerned.  After the first few times, she got the idea that he should be jaded to this by now, but he never seemed that way, not even now as he started talking like he always did, his voice low and soft and hesitating.

What was he saying?  She never paid too much attention to the words, but to his presence and his feelings of overwhelming distress for her.  How she even knew that was a mystery since she was too fragile to even search his face.  He apologized for the way he acted, saying that he put her in a horrible position, and she murmured some short, pathetic replies, too angry at herself to completely neglect his kindness.

What...was wrong with him?

She avoided his steady gaze, but she was crying irrepressibly again, her shoulders shaking.  She could perceive his desire to hold her then too, to wrap her in his arms and never let go - and how much he fought that off in respect to their decision.

"I--"

Fate was rude, like usual.

Before the conversation could lift off into its regular flying pattern, the voices in the living room called them and said that they were going to start their next session soon.  Another external force caused another reversal, and the solider came back to life.  While he got up and responded to them, she went to the bathroom, scrubbing away her tears with icy water to reduce the swelling.  Maybe the others would notice that she had been crying, but they shouldn't know how close she was to hitting the bottom of the cliff.

If he had just left me like a sane person...

He stood in the doorway of her bedroom again, watching her from there with those eyes filled with grief.  Flicking the lights off in the bathroom and drying her face, she walked towards him and pushed her face into his shoulder without hesitation, breathing in his scent and feeling the warmth of his jacket pressed against her numb skin.  He stood with his arms at his sides, not touching her, and, though her palms raised instinctively, she also stood her ground, brushing the ridges of his clothes with the left side of her lips.

He said something, and she pulled away to listen, her gaze still cast down.

When he was done, she rested her forehead on his chest for another moment before gathering strength to go out to the others.  In the dim mirror in the hallway, she stretched her pretty face into a convincing smile, squinting her eyes forcefully, and then went out into the sunny meeting room with an unnerving laugh.

Fake.

~ ~ ~

That afternoon, he took her back to his apartment, the late sunlight playing on her hair and eyes as she rested her head in his lap on the long car-ride.  She should have apologized to her other friends who drove - for being antisocial and pathetic - but apathy and numbness had her completely surrendered.

Once they were dropped off, they walked quickly inside, cutting over the well-manicured grass with some admitted guilt and a quick laugh.  The air was too cold, and they were both too tired, so the heinous act was overlooked with some effort.

Then, for the rest of that day, they rested together.  There was a big, thick, green-and-red comforter that smelled like him and his fingertips playing on her face, funny videos and home-made beef bourguignon over rice, and his eyes, watching her steadily as she calmed down.

He was like that.

Protecting her.
Loving her.
Talking to her that night with her brother about her misplaced sense of value.

She knew what she had done wrong anyway.

The point is that no one gave him permission to intrude into her darkness, and he did anyway, walking through her hell consistently like he had been there before.  With that calm readiness, he kept naming her crows and demons, smiling softly, and holding her close to him in the night.

Is that love then?  To fall for a hero who keeps saving you?

I'm...helpless.

~ ~ ~

Bad ending but I'm too tired and emotional to care haha.  No amount of my editing is ever going to convey how this feels anyway; I'm pretty convinced of that at this point.

Night, y'all.

Write on!
Clove

Chapter 3 - Jaiden

I have to say I’m impressed.

Bellumine won the civil war.

Honestly, I doubt anyone saw that coming.

Especially the former government.

Haha.

  Staring at the television, I sprawl out on the couch in a sports bra and sweats, sucking on a cheap grape popsicle.  The reporters are going insane on every channel, excitedly or cynically commentating on Bellumine’s first official press meeting.

I admit I might be a little hyped too.

  The old man looks pretty good on television, surrounded by his entourage of political and military superstars.  I guess it helps he was born with one of those leader-like faces: chiseled features, sweeping gray-brown hair, broad shoulders and a full frame.  Today, he’s wearing a navy blue suit and a periwinkle tie that works well with his blue eyes.  Behind him, the white capital building of the Maximum looks just as polished and bright as ever, standing to contrast with his dark clothes.

What a man.

For almost two minutes, the crowd continues to cheer, and the reporters kill time with professional filler-gibberish.

I start nibbling on my popsicle stick, anxiously flipping upside down.

Finally, Bellumine holds his arms up, shaking his head.

  “Thank you!  Thank you!  You all are far too kind.”

I wonder if he’s enjoying this a bit too much.

Eventually, the crowd calms down.

“First of all—” Bellumine has a voice that’s low and manly but still clear, “—first of all, I want to say that I am enormously humbled to be here today.  Compared to the men and women and children - the heroes - who stood behind me these past ten years, I am a mere man.  Only because of your sacrifice and your service are we here today - free of oppression.”

“Eh, he’s not kidding around, is he?” I say, sliding off the couch impatiently as the crowd explodes in applause again, “I wonder when was the last time Twainside even laid eyes on a leader like this…the self-righteous, indifferent prick.”

  Well…

Maybe name-calling is out of place.

  I should be clear.

I respect Bellumine - but I hate him all the same.

From what I’ve seen, he’s fantastically intelligent in strategy, and his heart for democracy is unmatched.  I mean, you can’t just win a rebellion against a militaristic, tyrannical government that has been established and grounded for decades if you’re some spineless, lily-livered flop.  Bellumine - over the last ten years since he began his uprising as a small pro-democracy anti-group - has seen his own ups and downs, even losing his wife to the war, but he’s always made the right decision for his followers, and I appreciate that.  I suffered under the last government too.

Still.

Until he gives up his hunt - and he never will - Bellumine and I can never see eye-to-eye.

That much is clear.

  “I have many people I need to thank,” Bellumine continues, “Thank you to the many journalists who have come here tonight to celebrate victory with us.”  Applause.  “Thank you to everyone who served in our military, strategy, and support divisions for your endless selflessness over the last ten years.”  Applause.  “Thank you especially for those from the former government who have helped provide a smooth transition of power.”  More applause.

  “Honestly, I could go on,” Bellumine admits with a small laugh, “I’m so incredibly happy right now, happy to be here alive and happy because of the response we have received from you all through the war.  I know we have suffered much, myself included…”  Dramatic pause, tangible pathos.  “…but we have survived, and we now bear the responsibility of rebuilding, recovering that which was lost.”

“Woo,” I intone as the crowd spasms in excitement.

“I doubt you all would like to hear me carry on when you have your own questions.  Please,” Bellumine says, “let me try to answer as many of them in the next half hour as I can.”

Instant bedlam.

Out of my mind from the waiting, I groan and close my eyes as the journalists desperately try to get their questions out first, all of them screaming like angry toddlers.  Laughing kindly in a self-effacing sort of way, Bellumine points into the crowd, and the first woman steps forward with an almost shrieked-out question: “What preventative measures will the new government take to restore checks and balances of power?!”

“This begins with me,” Bellumine replies, “I am not arrogant enough to believe I am a man righteous enough to withstand the corruptive effects of absolute power.”  The crowd disagrees, but Bellumine shakes his head.  “Over and over in history, we have seen good men turned evil by opportunities for self-gain.  Even if I am the exception to this rule, how could I risk your well-being to determine that?”

I grimace at the television.

This man is unfairly good.

“In the new government, according to the New Contract, if we find that the citizens of Twainside are in agreement, we hope to install a nine-member council, represented by the members before you here.”  Bellumine flourishes an arm at a number of faces I know - and some I don’t.  “These men and women will be direct ears for you in a legislative and judicial manner, and they will be ultimately responsible to the executive power, which will be comprised of another council.”

“How will we be able to trust the councils?!” someone yells.

Bellumine smiles kindly in response.  “You will be the councils.  Every council member will both hold a two-year limited term and be voted in by fair-ratio proportion representation - with a salary cap.  If you love Twainside as much as I do, perhaps you could be a member of the council.”

“What are your plans for the Minimum?”

I perk up instantly.

  Finally.

Yet, just as the world’s best journalist asks the question I’ve been dying to get the answer to, the door to the loft swings opens, and Janiyah, my little two-year-old sister, runs in, laughing and shrieking.  A second later, Dante, my nine-year-old brother, comes up after her, scowling.

  “Sorry, Jaiden.  She got away.”

  I shake my head, turning up the volume.  “Don’t worry about it.”

Janiyah climbs onto the couch with me.  “What - you - watching?”

“News.”

“For now,” Bellumine says, “we do not have the stability to tamper with the Minimum.”

The crowd rustles.  Their first evidence of disapproval.

  “However, I have no intention either of letting the Minimum subsist untouched for any length of time.  When the Maximum is stabilized sufficiently, my reform team will amend the violence and squalor rotting beneath these city grounds.”

“What is the time estimate for reform?” another reporter asks.

“Two years,” Bellumine answers, a cool edge in his voice, “If we pull everyone together cooperatively during this current unstable moment, then we will likely proceed in less time than that.  The new councils will discuss this matter in length and release an official statement.  For now, if we do not continue to rally together, we may very well lose the footing we hold now.  The war for democracy is a life-long battle, my friends.”

  Dante looks at me, tilting his head.  “What's squalor?”

  “You,” I reply deadpan.

He grimaces and leaves, slamming the door.

I think I’m done too.  I have the answer I needed.

  Scooping up Janiyah in one arm, I click off the TV with my free hand and toss out my popsicle stick with the other.

“Down you go,” I say, pushing Janiyah out of my room and closing the door.

She squeals, protesting, but runs off to harass any of my other seven siblings, probably Dante again since he’s so good with her.  When she’s gone, I sink to the floor, drawing my knees into my chest.  Just being around her for those few moments, while hearing Bellunine’s estimation at the same time, suddenly makes me feel incredibly sick.

  Down here, in the cavern city underneath the Maximum, exists a dirty, highly-criminal culture that was well-culled by the former tyrannical government.  The drug lords had their regular customers and no more; the gangs kept to their respective territories and nowhere else.  Since the turn of the government, though, crime has quickly bloomed with no authority to step on the Minimum’s illegal activity.

  How many friends have gone missing within the last week?  How many corpses have I seen dragged into dark cracks in the rocks, shot to shreds?

I can’t let any of my siblings leave the house…

  Even when I leave to buy groceries or to work, human traffickers are always watching, waiting for me to be alone…

The Maximum needs to help the Minimum immediately.  If Bellumine’s focus isn’t here, then my first order of business is to get his attention at any cost, which means I need to make a phone call to my only connection to the surface…

Antony.

~ ~ ~

Write on!

Clove

Chapter 2 - Silvia

  All right, here’s the deal.    If I write my side of this story, Brook has to keep up his side of the deal.
    That is the only reason why a kickass chick like me is writing a book, okay?
   Laugh if you want.
    I’d still beat your lame-ass ass blindfolded with both hands tied behind my—
    Ugh.
   Brook says I need to stop cussing.
    Go away, Brook, you’re cramping my style.
   Haha, he says I’m breaking immersion.
   Ooooops.    If you just agreed to go out with me now, Brook, we wouldn’t have this problem, hehehe.
    (He just smiled, kissed me on the forehead, and left.)
   (Worth.)
   (Sort of.  Maybe.)
    (Ugh.)
    Look, I’m just going to get this done quickly, so…yeah, ummm…have a paragraph break.

~ ~ ~

     Sup.
   My name is Silvia Thornton, resident sarcastic hottie of Twainside, future girlfriend to Brook, and the hungry devourer and vanquisher of all solid, double-stack hamburgers and seasoned fries.
    To just stick with the essentials, my side of this story probably started around six months ago.
   I had just gotten off the subway station at dusk, and I was kicking my skateboard through the dim streets of Twainside, probably grinning like a mad fool.  That musty, over-packed subway was literally the worst.  The new government had just opened up this jail-bar wall that went around the entire city, and, suddenly, everyone from the countryside and their mother was riding up to the capital to try to find work and a better life, myself included.  The subways were clogged.
    Oh, also, I’m the second oldest of seven kids.  My responsible older brother stayed behind to handle the duties on the farm, and the younger ones were too little to be employed.  I’m 18, by the way.  The next youngest just turned 15, so I was drafted by my parents to go and work in the city.
    Sound harsh?
  I wasn’t really too concerned.  My dad raised me straight, and I got my mom’s silver tongue.  Between those two, I’ve never had much of an issue, whether finagling or fighting my way through life.  Besides, my mom’s older brother - my uncle - lives here in Twainside, and he already had work lined up for me.  As long as I did well in whatever he had for me, I figured I would be all right.
    Those subway seats, though, I thought to myself, massaging my backside as I swerved around a young couple.  Did the old government actually pay an engineer to design a torture device like that?  At least my rear is well-endowed, another courtesy from my curvaceous mother; I can’t say so much for the others on that seven hour train ride.
   Most of them were unhealthily thin.  Granted, yeah, six months ago when this happened, I was a bit underweight myself, but, at least we had a farm, so food was right at our fingertips, and we weren’t paying through our nose for a bag of flour under the rule of the former government.  Everything said and done, we were pretty well-off during the former tyranny.
    That’s not to say I wasn’t looking forward to the new government when I came to Twainside.  My parents fought over money more than they fought over anything else, and, for all the brawling I do myself, man, I hate hearing other people get at each others’ throats, especially people I love.
    As I tore through the streets, I glanced back briefly, my skateboard making a suspicious amount of noise.  Sure enough, two kids my age were keeping pace behind me on their own boards: a guy and a girl.
    Boyfriend and girlfriend?    No…siblings.
  Twins, maybe.    They both wore smiles similar to mine.  Maybe Middle Eastern?  She had an adorable pixie cut under a basketball cap, and he sported a dark brown goatee, tons of piercings between the two of them.  Their white chucks were matching, and their fashion styles seemed to sprout from a similar theme: faded, near-white denim and lots of those iron-on appliqués.  Hard to tell if they were rich enough to afford a sense of fashion - or if their pieces just so happened to match in a fashionable way.
  Anyway, I made eye-contact, and they scooted up next to me, one on my left and one on my right.    “You’re Silvia!” the girl said.  Her voice was higher than I expected and super cute.
    “Yeah?”  We kept skating, even though that felt awkward.
    “I’m Kelsie!” she said, “We know Shrike.”
  Ah.  Shrike.  My mom’s brother.  My boss to-be.   Kelsie extended her hand, and so did her twin brother.  I crossed my arms to shake their hands, wondering for a moment if this was some sort of trap.    “How…do you know me?”
    “Pictures.  We were expecting you.  Shrike told us to keep an eye out on the station in case if you got into any trouble.  Crime’s not at its lowest, you know, and you got here closer to night.  He said you might need some help defending yourself in the case of an accident, but…” I got an eye-over from Kelsie, “I guess that might not be the case.”
    Huh.
  I wasn’t blaming Shrike for sending the twins - the last time he saw me, I was just a helpless toddler - but I wish he had given me some sort of warning.  Random strangers aren’t the easiest to trust.    I glanced at the brother.  “I didn’t get your name.”
    “Jessie, but you can call me Jess.”  He winked at me, smiling softly, and I laughed suddenly.
    He’s that kinda guy.
    “I hope this is all right,” Kelsie continued obliviously, “Shrike was also worried that you might not trust us, but he said this would be better than nothing.”
    I nodded, wiping the smirk off my face, and slowed to a stop at an intersection.  I think we needed to cross there anyway.
    “Nah, it’s fine.  Just curious how you two know Shrike.”
    Jessie and Kelsie hopped off their boards just as the cross walk sign changed, at which point we all skipped quickly across the intersection on foot towards the training center.
    “We work for him.  You know what your job is, right?”
  I laughed again.  “Nope.  Not the foggiest idea.”    “Ohhh…”  They exchanged a side-ways glance that made me feel 100% included.
  “Well,” Jess said, “basically, you’re like…our maid?”    “You’ll get paid really well, though!” Kelsie quickly interjected, “And I’ll kill anyone if they even think about looking down on you.  We’d love to have you hang out with us too, so…you don’t need to f-feel like you have to…be…alone or a-anything.”
    She sputtered to a stop and glanced at me with an apologetic face.
  “It’s fine,” I replied, unable to bear how cute she looked at that moment, “I figured I would be doing some sort of menial labor.  Besides, I’d be pretty impressed if you can give me a task in the city worse than mucking out stalls back at home.”   Jess and Kelsie exchanged looks again - they have that kind of ability to communicate without speaking that everyone wishes they had - and let out what seemed to be a sigh of relief.    “Cool,” Jess said, “Let’s get you settled in then.  Shrike will give you your first tasks from there.”

~ ~ ~

Break is great, guys.
Write on!
Clove

Chapter 1 - Skain

Iris vomits into the most extravagant toilet I’ve ever seen.

  What even are those?  Gold inlays on the handle?  Flowers, real flowers, in a basket on the tank of water, and this weird series of buttons on the side that I imagine controls the bidet feature of this porcelain masterpiece.  What a bizarre display of wealth.

  But I guess that’s rich people for you.

  I hold Iris’ long golden hair back as she heaves one more time and then pulls away, gasping pitifully.  She grabs toilet paper, which also seems ultra-fancy and thick, and wipes her mouth, smearing lipstick across her cheek.

“What’s the time?” she asks.

“You have plenty,” I reply, helping her stand on her five-inch platforms.

She shakes her head, flushing and dropping the smudged paper into the swirling cyclone of water and vomit.  “What’s wrong with me?”  Her manicured fingers linger on the gold lines of the toilet handle.  “For that matter, what’s wrong with this toilet?”

“Rich people,” I remark, smirking a little.

She steps away from her mess, which is now already swallowed up by the piping, and stands in front of the bathroom’s fancy mirror, washing her hands in the fancy sink using fancy soap that smells fancier than normal.

I wait, watching her.

“My makeup,” Iris mutters at her reflection.  Sweat lines her nose and forehead, and her lipstick is horribly marred.

“I can get a dresser for you,” I say, but she shakes her head.

  “If even one more person touches my face with less than a milligram of powder, I swear I’ll break.  I’m going to take it off.  I can’t stand this.  They don’t know what they’re doing.”

Sensing that familiar ring of stubbornness in Iris’ voice, I stand down, smiling to myself as she dumps the contents of her clutch onto the countertop.  Given the fact that, outside of a combat knife, the rest of the items in her clutch are cosmetics, I wonder if this has been her plan all along.

Either way, I get it.  I didn’t feel like the cosmetologists currently in the Plus House knew what they were doing, not necessarily because they were poor makeup artists but because they just have no idea who we are.

Iris’ eyelids are matted in golden glitter, her lips a fresh, vivacious pink to match her blush, which gives her a strange frilly look when combined with her classy black ballroom gown.  By the time she is bare-faced again, she already looks vastly more appropriate for tonight.  Then, she adds her killer eyeliner, dark and thick and sharp, and a blood red lipstick, and she’s fabulous - and lethal.

The way she is in reality.

The way I have always known her.

Blowing out noisily in annoyance, Iris puts her items away and tosses her hair away from her neck, giving herself a final once over.

“How long do those buffoons study before they get to paint their clown faces?”

  “Hard to improve on perfection,” I say, “Go easy on them, princess.”

She laughs weakly and turns, facing me.  “How much time?”

I check my watch again.  “Thirteen more minutes.”

“Do you have a smoke?”

I pull a packet out of my jacket’s inner pocket and hand one to her, taking one myself.  I may not have been the one to throw up out of anxiety, but I would be lying to say I wasn’t slightly nervous.  In a sense, everything is finally coming together.  All twenty years of my life before now were just long, slow stages of incubation, leading up to tonight’s birth.

  Iris and I eventually take a seat on the edge of the fancy shower, slowly breathing in and out and letting the drugs calm us down.  Maybe we’re about half-way through our cigarettes when there’s a knock on the bathroom door, a sound that immediately registers in my mind as “weird”.

We were on the third floor, in an abandoned hallway next to Heinrich’s office.  Everyone should be two floors below, ready to spill out onto the portico to face the journalists.  Glancing sideways at Iris, I get up and hesitantly unlock the door, peeping outside.  In that second, I catch a glimpse of maybe seven or eight plain-vanilla Maximum soldiers before they slam open the door, almost whacking me in the process, and squeeze into the unaccommodating bathroom.

Iris is on her feet, her clutch open, but I hold her back with a finger at my side, tacitly telling her to wait.  These young men, dressed in their formal service attire, are Bellumine’s soldiers, which means that, in a relationship akin to the historical American Army and Marine Corps, these kids are our unofficial allies.

  We still hate their guts, but, allegedly, according to our higher-ups, we work together.

  Besides, they’re pretty drunk, and fighting drunks is never fair in Heinrich’s eyes.

“Heyyy, Effar!  How we about that Maxi?!”

I ignore Dunce A’s coarse slur and reply, “Fine, thanks.  Can we help you?”

They snigger, like I’m a comedian, and shove me back a step, so that Iris and I are side-by-side.

“Has the sun been bothering you?” says Dunce A.

Dunce B adds, “Need to borrow my shades, Effar?”

Dunce C elbows Dunce D and says, “Like SPF ten thousand, am I right?”

What’s more amusing is that the sun does bother me, and I do need to wear sunscreen in the daytime.  What’s less amusing is that we don’t have time for something like this.

Glancing at my watch, I read 1853, so seven more minutes.  I toss my burnt out cigarette into the fancy toilet and grab Iris’ hand, intending to walk confidently past the Dunces and head downstairs.  Like most drunk people, if you ignore them, they become confused and fail to respond.

The Dunces, unfortunately, are more aware than I thought.  Before I can shoulder past Dunce A, he shoves me back again, except harder this time, in a way that is meant to hurt or spill me over.  I narrowly keep my footing as someone else ends up shouldering me in the chest one more time.  Knocked out of breath, I trip over the side of the fancy shower and fall, hitting the far wall and landing hard.

Iris stands in the corner between the toilet and the shower, watching with wide eyes and waiting to take action.

  “Just want to let you know where you stand,” Dunce A says, smiling, “Did you think we were drunk?  With your cool underground skills?  Nice performance, huh?  Were you patronizing us, just like you condescend everyone?  Calm down, Effar.  Remember where you were born, and remember what she is.”  He throws up a rude sign at Iris that, strangely, out of all of his comments, makes me the most angry.

“Noted,” I reply, a bit banged up, but more damaged in the ego.  My heart is roaring in my throat, pulsing from an adrenaline surge in a way that feels like I’m about to be strangled.

“See you downstairs, then.”

The Dunces, who I realize too late actually don’t smell like alcohol, filter out in a cold silence, and Iris offers me a sweaty, shaking hand.  I climb to my feet and take a second to catch my breath.

  “I need to vomit again,” Iris whispers, “but now is not the time.”

“We can talk to Heinrich about them later.  Come on.  We’re going to be late.”

~ ~ ~

Write on...at 2:27 AM on a Saturday morning!  :P

Clove

Front Row

Her eyes are so full of regality.

She looks like a princess, but not a first or last born: some discontent 6th or 7th daughter of an emperor's harem wife.  She must live an amazing life, though, full of pleasures and handsome men, rich feasts and wealth.  I think...maybe she has no idea how much she actually has, or maybe she is lonely.  If she is, I have a feeling she desires to remain alone.

That look in her eyes is too bitter, too condescending and beautiful.  To her, I bet I look like a beggar, something filthy that got stuck on the heel of her hand-crafted leather boots.

Write on!
Clove

June 8th, 2017

The gas station lights curtained us off from the rest of the world so that reality was clarified to that nighttime scene: his silver car parked behind mine, the two butch store employees loitering on the cigarette-littered sidewalk, and the tense, incessant soundtrack of cicadas.  We had finished filling up for the two-hour carried back to our summer apartments, so there was no reason to remain there - and yet we hesitated, facing each other sadly.

"I wish we could stay longer and just chat a bit more," he said quietly, almost as if speaking just to himself.

"I know," I replied, "I'm sorry, but I need to go..."

He nodded, although the look on his face grew more conflicted.  Even after twelve hours together - that azure quarry lake, the hot, spicy Thai dishes, and his laughter in the cool movie theater - we had done so much, and I felt sick on happiness.

Then don't leave me...

My throat hurt.

For another moment, I stood, taking in his existence, branding his expression into my memory so that I would not forget my desire, my purpose and focus.  Force, constraint, necessity.  He seemed to be feeling even worse, his eyes frantically searching my face, an anguished laugh tearing from his lips.

"I...really, really like you," he said.

I love you.

I knew what he wanted to say.

I stepped closer, watching his expression carefully as I said, "I like you a lot too."

After that, maybe he said more.  If he did, I responded without conscious thought, my attention narrowed in completely on his alarmingly tormented body language.  Was I mistaken?  His eyes bared his soul, and I tore my gaze away, unable to stomach that look of affection...

No...

This feeling will go away.

He was on the brink of pushing forward.

I knew.

I know that words are completely inadequate in expressing how I feel.  I need to use my body to tell him correctly, and, above all, I need him to know how much I love him...  If I could only have him for a night, I know my hands, my lips, and the shape of my hips could express how much I care.  If only he would feel how much I care...

I saw that sentiment in his eyes.

He leaned forward, fighting an almost unnoticeable movement of his arms tensing, but I knew I could not be misguided on his cut-back intent.  Then, quiet now, but breathing in deeply, he fell more indescribably sad than I have ever seen anyone look, the war of desire and judgement, adoration, forethought, and excruciation surfacing on his face.

"Please."

I knew what he wanted to say.

No...

This feeling will go away...

The noise of the cicadas faded, as power came into my hands the way the paths of fate always light up before me.  "Correct action" - that to me was to end his suffering for him, to step into his chest, wrapping my arms around his waist and leaning my head on his shoulder, inhaling his beautiful scent and brushing my fingers through his soft hair.  To hold him tightly.  To tell him that I understood.

To love him.

Then, I blinked, and the sound came back in.

Gripping the bladed edge of my mind, I cut through that dizzying reality, adrenaline spiking my vision with electric darkness so that I knew that that moment - or my sight in that moment - would not be recorded.  Why design the carnage to hunt me down in my sleep?  I hated myself in that moment with an incredible loathing, but I took a step back, a cold, charming smile already on my lips.

"All right, I need to go," I said with sharp finality.

He seemed shaken, unaware of the gore-soaked sword of perception in my subconscious' grip.  "Yeah..."  Then sighing, he said, "Yeah, we should call it a night.  Good bye..."

"It's okay," I said, grinning as I twirled to create dissonance between his sorrow and my fear, "Have some self-control."

"You should leave before me," he said, "You drive faster."

"Yes, I will quickly outpace you."  Far too comfortable with my assassination, I had reached my car by then while he was still watching me, and I swung the door open, unwilling to break my cheery facade until I was folded into the dark curves of the road.

"Thank you for the cookies," he called out.

"You're welcome," I said, "I hope they're not too dry."

He fixed me with an "are you kidding me?!" look, and I laughed, saying goodbye again before getting in, plugging my apartment location into my phone, and turning on music: something incredibly banging and wild to mask my gasping as I tore out of the parking lot.

I know what I am doing.

I lost someone because I lost control.  If I have to kill again, the same way I did before so that this feeling of loss becomes everything I feel, I will.  Why else did I regret for twenty-seven months?  I promised myself something when I promised him the world, saying I always kept my word...

...so that is why...

Alone in the dark, I curled over, tears clinging to my hair, and screamed until my voice was hoarse, and then I drove and drove and drove in silence until I was home.

Here's everything that's been cooking in my brain for the last year

Wow, I've been gone for a long time.  I'm not sure if I'm going to reinstall this blog for the general public due to schedule constraints (growing up is time-consuming, I've found), but I'll probably keep posting here and there about my own writing musings.  If you want to keep reading, please feel free!  Just... as a disclaimer, moving forward, this space is probably going to be more for my own sake: a place to put down the continuation of my fictional writing.

Speaking of which, here's a synopsis of my story on paper (or cloud memory, whatever).
I finally have everything I like in here, and all of the characters are good, powerful, exciting types.  A love triangle between an INTJ, ENTJ, and ESTP?  Fantastic.  XSTJ government authority?  Naturally.  Complete with two INFJ villains for kicks.

Act 1

     The new government is installed.  Impacts of the utopia settle down to the Minimum where the good is abused.  I'm thinking, like...because of the family program, the Outsiders begin to empty out foster homes and orphanages to facilitate human trafficking.  Distributed clothes and food are bottle-necked by crime lords who distribute as they see fit.  While the government is in transition, the gangs have begun to grow more bold: more murder, more territory advances, more deals with the Outsiders for increased influx of drugs into the market.  Most of this is seen entirely through Jaiden's perspective, who is desperately trying to get Antony's attention.  They scheme to leave an obvious opening for the Maximum to be attacked so that the Minimum gangs will, which will get the government's attention, directing Heinrich and company towards the exacerbated crime.
     In the Maximum, Skain is having success at quieting any remaining riots, not that there are many. He and Iris work in tandem well and beat down the arrogant crew (who enter again later - which is trope-y, I know...  I may scrap this or find a different way to use this).  Silvia (weird name for an ESTP at this point...  I may change her name again) is installed and cast as Skain's surrogate sister.  Because of his relationship with Brielle, he's not extremely thrilled about any of that, but Heinrich is insistent because of the transparency of public records at this point in the world.  She is very comfortable and obvious about her intentions, in a sort of Kanbaru way.  Both he and Iris quickly learn to take that in stride.

Act 2

     When the Minimum begins to seep into the Maximum, Skain's force is turned in that direction.  They are quickly, substantially out-matched (as in, not even close).  (This is where Mitch gets shot by his old gang; this will also be a good opportunity for Silvia to save Skain's backside.)  Because of Skain's team's complete and utter failure and continued infiltration into the Maximum, the city quickly confronts the government about the problem, and Heinrich releases his plan to stop all inflow of help to the Minimum, leaving border guards at the above and below ground entrances.  Skain's team is put on surveillance and scouting (to determine who is leading the Minimum skirmishes).  During this time, because one of Skain's best friends was harmed, performing is more difficult.  Drug use increases amongst the team, and morale drops.  (This is where I get a chance to play with some darker themes.)
     When Skain goes back down for scouting work, he successfully notices how involved the Outsiders are (with their stock of rulers, one always taking the place of the next dethroned).  Jaiden tracks his movements just to monitor him.  (I'm not sure exactly how I'll write this, but I want a fast series of clips: back and forth with increasing pressure on both sides.  Firstly, to obtain information; secondly, to determine why he's being stalked.)  Eventually, when he has made the right conclusion about the Outsiders, Jaiden catches him and threatens him, stating that she knows about Brielle.  Upon return, he reports to Heinrich, hiding his fear and any details about the threat.  Iris is unconscious, drugged, and, while worried, Skain quickly rules her out anyway.  If Jaiden knows about Brielle, she certainly knows about Iris.  Heading back to the facility, he takes Silvia out of the city walls to talk about his worry, realizing that, some day soon, he'll be forced to betray her too.  (This is the same scene from the first story.)  She advises him to stay faithful to what is right.
    This arc ends when he goes to visit Brielle with Silvia.  He explains to Silvia what happened to Brie.  She had periods of mental stability between hallucinations, so he brought her there and paid for her on his own.  Even though the government was medicating her, she was having more and more violent hallucinations (which I may or may not later reveal was actually caused by the additional medication), so they began to sedate her instead.  Silvia insists on breaking out Brielle that night, taking her back to her home so that (1) Brielle could heal off the medications and (2) Brielle would be out of Jaiden's sight, buying Skain some more time.  Even though he is doubtful of Silvia's claims to be able to fully heal Brielle, he agrees.

Act 3

     Having tracked his phone, Iris finds him at dawn at the train station, hungover.  Beat up and exhausted, they grab food and then get drugged up again for the day; she explains that she was knocked out in an explosion during a Minimum counter against the tech center.  During their breakfast, Heinrich, having been given sufficient information by Skain and having talked with the government about their plan, calls a meeting and sets forth a comprehensive strategy to finish off the Minimum, which includes handling all of the Minimum in what Jaiden sees as a proactive, preemptive sense.  (Since they were attacked first, to Skain and Heinrich, that's not really proactive.)
    Full-on war is waged against the Outsiders, but, despite how hard they're working, the force is not making much progress.  Before Silvia returns, Jaiden catches Skain again, infuriated that Brielle vanished.  Jaiden informs Skain on Antony's plan and says that, if he does not cooperate, they'll go after Silvia as soon as she returns.  She lets him go without touching him this time.  Soon thereafter, the government recalls Heinrich and holds a discussion on whether they should continue or not because they're rapidly losing ground.  Antony suggests putting up a treaty with the Outsider leaders, and a vote is cast.  Skain, being the leader of his own force, has significant sway.  Still determined to follow Silvia's advice, he does not agree, along with all of his team except for Iris.  Shrike does not.  Heinrich abstains.  The vote does not go through.  The government instead sets for a final allotment of their budget towards battling the Minimum, claiming that they do not want a pugnacious reputation and also claiming that the people deserve better than to spend their money on crime reform.  (The city needs education and work opportunities first.)  If Heinrich fails at that point, their duties will be reduced to simply guarding the Maximum from the effects of the Minimum.
     On the way out, Antony threatens Skain, saying that he made the wrong decision.  Unconcerned, he sends a text to Silvia, telling her to stay where she is; she responds with "okay" and claims that Brielle is doing much, much better.  Encouraged, Skain works out and goes to bed.  That night, when he's in the facility, he's kidnapped, more or less.  Jaiden had separately caught Iris and threatened her (using him, though he doesn't know that or know that Iris would even be willing to assist the antagonist to save his life), and Iris had intercepted Skain's texts, responding as Silvia.  As scheduled, Silvia came back that night and was taken by Jaiden's crew.  She's used against him so that he agrees to work with Jaiden to save her life.
     Their plan to is simply keep Skain under lock and key; Iris returns to report deceitfully that Skain had an opportunity to infiltrate the Outsiders, so he took it and went offline to do spy work.  Because Skain is an integral branch in Heinrich's division, their plans are broken up even further, and more money is wasted bringing and training more forces.
     Silvia, having been too unconscious to know exactly what happened, recovers.  She remembers at least that Skain was in danger underground.  Hoisting Skain's team together, she demands that they break from Heinrich's orders to find him; Iris is vehemently against this, for her own internal reasons (for Jaiden).  Sensing that Iris' disagreement is not simply for loyalty to Heinrich, Silvia misinterprets Iris' false motives as jealousy and, even as injured as she is, fights Iris and wins.  (ESTP > INTJ haha...)  With newfound respect from Skain's team, she gets the team to agree.
     On her side, Iris was unable to come up with a plausible alibi; she had claimed that Skain was gone to do spy work, but then the team went to find him.  Forced to confess, she is kept under watch by Heinrich, though she helps the team by giving them the location of Jaiden's base.  They break him out, wreaking havoc in Jaiden's base as they go; in the explosions, Jaiden is killed.  When Skain comes back, Iris is inseparable from him.  Silvia has an epic moment where she condemns Iris for not understanding sacrificial love.
     When Skain is awake again, he firstly tells Iris that he's going to need time and space to figure out what to do with her feelings.  She takes this well, having learned a lesson from Silvia.  In the meanwhile, Heinrich states their ultimatum.  They have about two more days of resources before they will need to back off.  Silvia suggests baiting the Minimum forward the same way the Maximum has been continuously baited, but not to cut off the limbs.  The limbs will point to the head; if they want to end all of the rulers, they will need to retrieve the information from the Outsider lackeys.  This plan moves forward; there is success, and the city ultimately wins.
     During the trial, Antony gives testimony to his and Jaiden's initial desires: to preserve the good within the Minimum.  The government takes this into account and continues supporting the Minimum.  I'm not yet sure what I'm going to do about Iris and Silvia, but, in the final scene, Skain goes to Silvia's home and finds Brielle completely recovered.  (Maybe I'll just make Brielle male, and then give him to Silvia.  I dunno.  Actually, that would be funny and fitting, I think...ahhh, no, I'm totally going to do that.)

Last thing I wanted to jot down: trying to synthesize my beliefs with my writing, I know for sure that any pain I exhibit must be compelling in an upward direction.  Some kinds of darkness are sharp, I've found, and they poke you towards being a better person because they feel so disgusting.  Other kinds are addictive, and I would rather not glorify those.  Still, I have no intentions of shirking away from sex, language, abuse, suicidal thoughts, drugs, poverty, or lack of regard for human life - because those are integral elements to life, and, as my INFP said, fiction is the best place to explore darkness uninhibited.  Starting from a utopia is going to help me leverage the contrast of good and evil according to my beliefs.  I'm not sure how I'll do this yet, but I think, as I sort through my own darkness, I'm finding a better balance between what is disgusting and what is necessary to help guide people to a vicarious understanding of darkness.

Happy to say this once more:

Write on!
Clove