Post by bijuu. on Aug 19, 2009 11:22:20 GMT -5
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i'll see you all falling ●●●
image credit to Ecthelian of deviantArt.
full given name.
sex / sexual orientation / position.
age / date of birth.
place of birth.
western / eastern zodiacs.
birthstone / birth flower.
ethnic origins.
family members.
aspiration / career.
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going out forever unknown ●●●
physical description.
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all motion is pantomime ●●●
personality.[/i][/font][/color][/size][/b][/left][/ul][/ul]
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to see paper wings ●●●
background.
So it figures I'll feel better about my dad's death if I write in this stupid book. They're so full of themselves, sitting in their expensive leather office chairs, with their expensive legs crossed in an expensive, supposedly caring gesture. They 'hm' and 'uh-huh' and 'go on' for the hour I'm stuck in their stuffy little rooms, and they get paid a fucking fortune for sitting on their asses and trying to convince a fourteen-year-old kid it wasn't his fault his father decided to up and blow his brains out in front of his own son.
They (no, should I say you, since you'll be reading this at some point like you give a shit?) don't know anything 'bout me. They (you?) get paid to make analyses about fucked-up teenagers like me, not for making fake attempts to get into my head. You're not my friend. I'm not your 'buddy', 'pal', or your 'son'. My father is dead, remember?
Mum's already forgotten. Or maybe she's just trying to 'move on', like some people say. It's been almost a year since he killed himself, and she couldn't keep her goddamned legs closed for barely a week after the funeral. She has no sense of courtesy. Not for me. Not for dad. Not that my opinion matters. Her 'boyfriends' stumble in half drunk, with her barely being able to keep their hands from wandering up her shirt. I'll slip out later tonight. She won't even remember she has a son if she's intoxicated enough.
August 17th. ...I'm not worth much.
She's stopped taking me to the psych, after the last time I refused to go. She doesn't care anymore, she says. I'm in the rut now, addicted to this shit as badly as I'm addicted to jabbing a needle into my arm. Her steady boyfriend, now that she has one, is a creep. It's like being watched by a hungry Sharpedo; he's not abusive. He doesn't hit me, or mum, but he must be as screwed up as I am, because he doesn't hesitate to practically rape me when she's not around. I don't call it 'rape'. I like the pain. He's just looking for an easy fuck, something different than a thirty-something woman whose systems were probably permanently ruined by giving birth. Maybe he was just too lazy to feel arsed to find another kid my age; I mean, most of the times he approaches me, I'm dead high and don't give a shit what he does to me.
My hands are shaking. I'm feeling a little sick. Maybe it's just the flu. Mum won't notice if I crash for a bit.
September 6th. Lack of a spine. Lack of time.
I've spent the last three weeks out of the house. I can't stand it in there anymore. Mum's drunk most of the time, and she's taken to calling me a slut, waste of space. She accuses me of turning her good-for-shit boyfriend into a fag, because he preferred fucking me over her. Sometimes I just wish I could go the way dad did. Quick and painless. Painful. Slow. I don't want to leave Wren behind and I don't have the heart to. That's right, my Espeon is more dear to me than my mother. He was dad's gift to me when I turned five, and we've never been apart.
I just want to get away from here.
Later...
My side is aching again; I know the doctor told me to take it easy, even though he didn't believe me when I told him I tripped down those stairs and fractured my rib on the concrete. The black eye and bloody nose were written off as injuries from the same fall. Truth is, mum was in one of her rages again, and I figured it'd be best to just split, but she caught up to me just off the hallway from our apartment. ..her apartment. Punched me twice, then gave me a good shove and I did fall down the steps. Then she just ambled on back into her room for more vodka. One of the the nicer neighbors heard the commotion and called 911 after he found me, even went with me to the hospital since my mother was incapable of caring and I was still underage.
I got off with a fractured rib and a slight concussion, along with some cuts from the decrepit concrete steps, and my black eye was nothing to worry about. The few nights at the hospital I clung to my Mesprit plush, Sen, and actually cried because I missed my father, my guardian angel, so much. Eventually, mum found her way to the hospital, and after a brief shouting match with both the nurses and the doctor in charge of me, she dragged me home, muttering under her stinking breath the entire way. Mew forbid I interrupted her soap operas and her incessant self-poisoning.
Once I can, I'm leaving this shithole.
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That's it? Fuck no. I know you're asking where I went afterward. I wasn't alone, no. I lived with what you'd call a 'fellow junkie'; Jackson Gray. We weren't officially together, but he was four years older than I was and had ties with a good dealer, so he was my first choice. My days were spent getting high, drunk, having sex, or just fantasizing about finally having the guts to off myself. My nights got more interesting when I presented a fake ID at a club downtown and glued myself to the bar until I could hook up with another guy in one of the filthy bathroom stalls for a quickie. I guess you could say I was living for the sex, alcohol, and drugs. I really didn't care anymore. I'd started keeping my forearms covered to the elbow with arm warmers because the scars from the syringes had stopped healing a long time ago. The veins were ruined, but it didn't stop me. One thing I never did do was smoke. I couldn't stand the acrid smoke, maybe because my mum made a point of lighting at least a pack and a half a day and even my room was eventually penetrated with the stench.
A few guys took interest in me even after a free blowjob or an opportunity for a cheap fuck, but they never lasted. None of them wanted to hang around after a few days, and frankly, I couldn't give a flying fuck less. I had plenty of opportunities for easy sex. I was an easy target, namely because I wouldn't complain about the pain, not even whimper. I was a masochist; I lived for the pain, the burning sting, and the bruises I'd end up with the next day. It was a surrogate for my own indecisiveness, my fear of finally just giving it up.
I'd started causing myself more pain, as if I was just preparing myself for the inevitable. Jackson didn't see any of it, and he didn't question my ginger movements when some of the deeper cuts threatened to open; no, he was more preoccupied with his other boy toys. I didn't mind much of it, namely because I was still fully involved what most mattered to me at the time; sex, and lots of it. Sometimes I'd inadvertently cry myself to sleep despite myself because the pain was unbearable; silently I'd swear never to allow someone to doublefuck me again, for any reason. The feeling was akin to being torn apart from the inside out, and even I wasn't that sick.
I withdrew even more from Jackson until he just left me to my own devices, most of the time zoned out on the couch, my eyes glazing over when I returned from some drug-induced high, now barely even realizing the difference between reality and my fantasy worlds. Wren was the only creature with some shred of attention left for me; being a Psychic-type, he could surely sense my loss of interest on keeping myself alive. I looked like shit, I must have realized at some point as I wandered into the bathroom, blinking through a swirl of hazy colors to find the blade I'd hidden under a loose tile. I was terrified of looking at myself, but I did anyway, through some sheer willpower alone. My skin was almost translucent under the harsh halogens of the bathroom. My eyes were sunken, the skin around them so bruised I looked as if I'd gotten punched a good ten times over. My lips were chapped, and there was a trace of dried blood around right nostril, remnants from experimental cocaine-snorting gone wrong.
I was sick of how my life was right now. I gripped the thin razor a little too tightly, and felt it cutting into my fingertips; Wren was winding himself around my legs, mewling like a kitten and trying to butt and push me back out into the living room as I brought the razor with shaking hands to my right wrist, being left-handed. For a moment, I let the blade hover, watching it curiously as if I was suddenly doubting myself. At that moment, Wren pushed against the backs of my legs again, and I blinked, moving my hand as if to set the razor back on the counter, and that's where it went wrong. I barely felt it when it slipped, slicing through my mangled skin like paper, leaving a jagged red line behind; I was confused, letting the razor drag sideways and halfway down my forearm, leaving a bloody shape curiously just like a crucifix.
Wren shrieked, panicking at the sudden change in my thoughts, because for a moment, my entire mind went smooth, blank as a slate; I was standing, swaying slightly and watching the dark red river welling out of my wrist curiously, almost as if it was a small brook overflowing. My heart must have been racing erratically, but I couldn't bring myself out of the reverie fast enough. Eventually, I had the sense to lurch sideways and back toward the living room, slowly realizing the fear building in me; I felt nauseated, weak, and suddenly my vision blurred and my legs crumpled. I brought my wrist to my chest slowly, choking back a tiny, questioning sob, as if asking, 'how did this happen'?
The phone was suddenly beside me, and I realized numbly that my Espeon had batted it off the table and was nudging it to my ear. I was too far gone to know what to do, and as I tilted my head to mumble something incoherent, my mind went blank again, just like that. Distantly, I heard Wren wailing, several crashes, and a series of footsteps; I could barely recognize Jackson's voice.
"Shit... shit, fuck, Blair, what the hell did you do to yourself? The phone, where's the goddamn phone..! Yo, Chris, call 911, now! Don't fucking ask why, just do it, now!"
I felt as if I was watching myself from the outside; pressure on the injured wrist, but there was blood everywhere. How could a human body have that much blood in it? The guys in the paramedic uniforms, carelessly shoving aside both Chris and Jackson to get to me, but they had to get past Wren; the Espeon was practically laying on top of me, ears flat against his skull and snapping wildly at both of them. Eventually Jackson grabbed him by the scruff pulled him back so they could help me; Wren lunged after the three of us, racing down the staircase after us and into the ambulance, uninvited. The paramedics had better to think about than one scruffy, skinny Espeon sharing the gurney with his trainer. The neighbours were curious, watching long after the sirens had faded into the distance.
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Waking up was like being hit with a sledgehammer. Twice. I gagged on the tube down my throat as soon as I tried to take a breath, and spent a moment choking before I mindlessly tore away the tape and pulled the disgusting piece of plastic out of my mouth, coughing violently as I threw it to the floor, feeling my eyes tearing up at the soreness in my windpipe. I relaxed a moment, blinking heavily and then moved my left hand to my right, finding it covered in thick bandages. My arms were bare, a battleground of brilliant red lines and purple-black, bruised injection scars that cast a disgustingly stark contrast against the white bedsheets. In a hospital, I slowly deduced, inhaling a shuddering breath, looking to the foot of my bed to find a very familiar form curled up on it, sleeping - Wren. I could only smile before I drifted off to sleep again. They must've put me on morphine.
"You have to understand this is what we have to do, Mrs. Riddall--"
"Have to? You're not putting Blair in an asylum!"
"Mrs. Riddall, your son attempted to commit suicide. There's ample evidence he's been under heavy influence of heroin, and cocaine. We found small samples of ex--"
"I don't give a goddamn shit what you found! You're not putting my son in a mental hospital! He's not crazy!"
"Mrs. Riddall, if you don't calm down, you're going to be escorted outside. Your son is in the custody of the city of Veilstone for now, until we can discuss this matter like civilized human beings. Please."
She didn't give a shit for me. She didn't want to spend the money, her money. It was dad's - Zachary's - money. He never wanted me to call him Dad. I let my tired eyelids flutter shut, and curled my fingers against the white sheet, wandering into dreamland.
"Dad...?"
My voice reverberates a little too much in the open space, and I blush a little at how loud I didn't realize I am. Dad smiles, inviting me to come sit with him, and I do so eagerly, pressing my back into the smooth bark of the tree, nuzzling into his arm, wishing I could just stay here forever, watching the Poliwag play in the tiny pond.
"Call me Zachary, Blair. I don't want you to call me 'Dad'." he interrupts my budding question gently, and I blink, chastised.
"Why?" I ask, then, my voice wavering just a little.
"I want you and I to be able to talk to each other without the parent barrier. Think of me as your big brother, instead."
"Da-- Zachary. Does.. does mum hate me? Did I... do something wrong?"
".. why would you say that?"
"She shouts at me a lot, for the littlest things, when you're at work." I don't want to cry, but my eyes well up anyway. "Am I that bad? I-I try to do what she wants, but she..." I succumb to my tears when he pulls me close, and lets me bury my face against his neatly-ironed shirt, staining it with tears and god knows what else. He doesn't care. He strokes my hair gently, rubbing my back until I'm done.
"Don't you think on it one minute, Blair. Anything she says to you, no matter what, none of it's your fault. Your mother.. she has a lot on her mind, but she could never hate you."
You were wrong, Dad. So wrong.
"I want you out of my life. You, and that... that kid you saddled me with, Zach. Go find your own place. I'm fucking done with this. My freedom is just fucking gone! I'm fucking sick of this! You and that worthless bastard you call a son can vanish off the face of the earth for all I care![/color][/b]"[/i]
Did you hate me, Dad? Did you hate me for being born, for ruining your relationship with mum? During those last few days, did you begin to hate me? Was that why you quit your job, your life, left me behind?
Fourteen years old. A freshman at Guy Windsor High School in Veilstone City. I live with my father, now, in a small two-bed apartment. It's small, but it's big enough for us. He still works as the CEO of the department store, and neither of us misses the woman I call my mother.
Today, something's wrong, though. I come home as usual, get greeted by my Espeon, and leave my bag in my room before I head toward the kitchen; I get chills when I see my father, no, Zachary, standing at the sink, looking as though he's sick. He's pale as a ghost, holding something shiny, black, and small in his hand; that hand is twitching, halfway raised to point whatever it is at his temple, but it looks like he's hesitating. The facade breaks when I open my mouth, forgetting for a minute what the arrangements are.
"... Dad?"
He jumps, regretting it when he notices my expression, and gulps down a breath, but doesn't lower the gun. That's what it is. It's a gun. My insides seem to coil into a knot.
"Oh. Hey, kiddo." his voice is a little high-pitched, but that faraway look in his eyes doesn't go away. He doesn't even correct me for calling him 'dad'. I take a step closer, but he backs away, toward the living room, until he's standing in the middle of it, acquiring a smile on his face and shakes his head; it doesn't reach his eyes, and it scares me. He looks crazy.
"... I'm really sorry, Blair. Please, don't hate me." His voice sounds like he's crying, and in the next moment, he brings the gun to his temple, holding it there while he pleads me to forgive him.
"D-dad? Put that down. You're scaring me. Why would I hate you?" My throat feels constricted, and I approach, but he shakes his head, and Wren suddenly roots me into place, lightly enough for me to move, but strongly enough to stop any advances on my father.
"Y-your mum. I can't take it. She took this to court. She wants you back. I don't know why, dear Arceus, I don't know. She's ruining me. She's after the money, th-the everything, and I can't take it." he sobs after a moment, and I feel myself go rigid with fury toward that woman.
"So what's the big deal? You can just get a restraining order. Or.. or something, right? Right?" I'm beginning to sound hysterical now, but he shakes his head again. That movement shouldn't even exist. It means he's saying no. He can't say no. Not to me. Not to me, damnit!
"I can't.. I can't do this anymore. I'm losing my job, Blair. Your mother's a psychopath. S-she's ruined my entire life; she's taking my money, she's taking everything from me. She's taking you.[/color][/b]"
The words hit me like thousand-pound bricks.
"... she what?" My voice doesn't belong to Blair Riddall anymore.
"Custody. Everything. I can't. I can't deal with this. Just please, please, don't hate me Blair. I love you more than anything in this world, and she took you away. It goes into effect in a few days." he continues, suddenly lucid, peaceful. The gun clicks as he cocks it, and my eyes fly wide.
"What are you doing? Dad. Dad! Dad, no, you can't! No![/i] Dad![/color][/b]"
"I love you, Blair. I'm so sorry."
The sound of that tiny hand gun going off is like an explosion. I scream, but it's no longer connected to that dream. I'm waking up again.[/i]
I didn't even try to understand where I was; I threw myself out of the uncomfortable bed, staggered to the door, and wrenched it open, pushing right past one of the nurses, who shouted something after me. I couldn't hear her. My bare feet slipped across the shiny linoleum, but I was intent on getting to that bathroom, too intent to care whether I sprained an ankle around the corner.
I'd already forgotten the hallway restroom was a popular place for the other crazies to get their fix, whether it was sex, or some other sick game. The two kids fucking somewhere near the sinks didn't so much as look at me twice when I shoved my way into one of the cubicles, dropping to my knees and emptying my stomach's contents with a hideous fit of retching and gagging; my stomach heaved as I choked up whatever was in it, my eyes tearing up from the remnants of my nightmare.
"... Blair? Hey, kiddo, you okay?" I flinched, still hunched over the toilet when a hand touched my back, and shook my head, tugging a piece of toilet paper from the dispenser and wiping my mouth, and then flushed the toilet. My roommate was behind me, Kai, the one person I'd come to trust a little during my stay at Silent Woods. I didn't give him an answer. I never did, but he still comforted me, cared about me, and gave a shit when I had to cry, or just plain-out needed to release my longing. Maybe that's why I didn't criticize the others.
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My arrival at the place was anything but pretty.
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●●● and watch them burn. blair. ☠
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