Post by bellarosa on Jan 11, 2015 10:20:25 GMT -5
(I was unable to copy the code effectively, but this is the death scene prompt..thing. Number 5, to be exact. I apologize for not copying the code, but again, I was unable to..)
Life had always been a fickle mistress; abiding to some she deemed worthy of her graceful power, and daintily removing the being from those she no longer needed. She was kind in her pampering, but also a brutal reprimander, and this was his punishment. Chest heaving, and cheeks flushed, he reached for the ceiling of his room-such a light blue, with the mobile his mother had not bothered to remove from his infant hood chiming above, it's very existence mocked him. For up there, in a world of chiming music and pretty lights, it was safe from the darkness that had long since plagued his heart. No matter how far his arm, barely visible in his overly large pajama top, would reach, the taunting promise of safety seemed to shrink from his fingertips. "Mommy..daddy.." He had not called them to his bedside in years, and yet, he did it now, clutching the black feather he had found in his small, bony hand. When he heard a door, so far away from the world of nothingness he was being dragged into, open, he wanted to cry out. He wanted to say he was sorry, that he would never act badly again, but the words died in his throat. They were talking, but he did not hear them. They were touching him, trying to shake him, but he could not feel. He was numb, stuck in a world of ice, and inside, he was crying. The final thing that breached his lips was scared, desperate when his body gave up on him and the clock that had been wound to power his heart creaked to an unsettling halt, "I'm....sorry....mommy....daddy...." His words vanished, as did the beating of his heart. Nothing...he felt nothing but a coldness. He saw nothing but darkness, and the swathe of energy around his departing soul made him want to cry. What had he done? "You tamper with death, child," It was the voice of his closest companion, the only one he actually seemed to love. "Hush." The minute he felt tears prick his eyes, a black, ghost-like appendage that looked like a finger ran down his cheek in a comforting manner. A single, ice blue eye penetrated him through the inky blackness, and the creature crooned in his ear, "Embrace your death-trying to halt the natural cycle is pointless. You're mine..and you will not leave me." He nodded, feeling a chilling wave down his spine. "You're my bestest friend ever; I won't leave you for anyone." In that, the creature was satisfied, and he was left with an embodiment of nightmares cradling his now unfeeling soul. "You will always stay with me...even in death." Feeling colder than ever, he stayed in place, and death itself was permitted to hold him in its embrace like a mother would a child. As he was held a measure tighter, he remembered, very vaguely, what his mother and father always told him about death-that it would befell everyone eventually, and it was the gateway to eternal bliss. What was this, then? Being held by something that haunts your dreams, being controlled by something you cannot name, is this bliss? Isn't it supposed to involve the happily singing voices of magestic Swanna and a world in the clouds themselves, ruled by Arceus, creator of the world? Instead of feeling at peace, he felt more restless than ever, his muscles taut and rigid beneath his pajamas. Instead of feeling happy, he felt empty and hollow, as if nothing mattered to him. Instead of a wave of joy and everlasting peace taking his mind and heart, a wave of darkness and rage took his heart and plagued it like a disease. The urge to kill, to tear through warm flesh to the warmth of blood beneath, to strike until the bodies piled one after the other in his bedroom, was even more powerful now than ever. What was this, if not "bliss"? He couldn't name where he was, he could no longer comprehend what was real-the weaving blackness that distorted his vision was too much for his senses to bear. It was then that he realized that this was not wrong; something about the darkness clouding his mind and heart, of the bloodlust that tore at his body and made him thirst for death..was joyful. Yes; this enticing feeling of lust and overpowering anger and hatred intermingling into one..was true bliss. The restlessness was something he now welcomed, and the darkness in his heart was now becoming a part of him he no longer wanted to let go of. "I love it here, Darkrai..." His voice whispered, as the rest of his spirit relaxed completely. He was dead, he was in a world of nightmares, disease and darkness with a creature so benevolent it seeked utter destruction and control..and he was, at last, truly happy. It was then, in that moment of the first true happiness and joy he had ever felt in his rather short life, that he thought of his family-his mother, his father and his younger sister. Of course, his younger sister would be sheltered from the truth of his death, the finality of it all; she was the precious thing that they loved more than they ever loved him, when he had been living. She would undoubtedly be showered in love, petty sympathy, and enough hugs to crush her poor body. His father, a scornful man when he was around the son he thought was cursed to stain the family's glorious reputation and vast wealth, would act as he always did; on the outside, he would be a saddened, loving man who had adored his fallen son, and on the inside, he would be shamefully joyful, happy that the boy he so greatly despised was dead. And his mother? She would paint on a smile like she always did, trying to act kind towards everyone who offered sympathies, but undoubtedly harbor a deep, regretful happiness that her only son had just passed so soon. In the end of the lies, the deceitful little shows they would put on for other people and his younger sister, they would practically throw a little party, ecstatic with joy, and pop open several bottles of champagne to celebrate the fact that their own child was dead. They would embrace one another and have another baby other drinking too much champagne, then replace him with a child he would never get to meet; he knew that much. When they did, he would be erased from their memories forever; no gravestone would ever be etched with his name, no memorial would be made for him, and they would probably sell or discard everything he ever touched or owned with the pathetic excuse that they were "grieving" and it was "too painful" for them to remember him. The child born that eve would be treated so much better than he ever was that it would grow up spoiled rotten, and get anything it wanted..and he would rise from the dead. He would kill his parents for their stupidity and deception of others, he would kill the child for being born, and he would make his precious sister drink their blood.
Life had always been a fickle mistress; abiding to some she deemed worthy of her graceful power, and daintily removing the being from those she no longer needed. She was kind in her pampering, but also a brutal reprimander, and this was his punishment. Chest heaving, and cheeks flushed, he reached for the ceiling of his room-such a light blue, with the mobile his mother had not bothered to remove from his infant hood chiming above, it's very existence mocked him. For up there, in a world of chiming music and pretty lights, it was safe from the darkness that had long since plagued his heart. No matter how far his arm, barely visible in his overly large pajama top, would reach, the taunting promise of safety seemed to shrink from his fingertips. "Mommy..daddy.." He had not called them to his bedside in years, and yet, he did it now, clutching the black feather he had found in his small, bony hand. When he heard a door, so far away from the world of nothingness he was being dragged into, open, he wanted to cry out. He wanted to say he was sorry, that he would never act badly again, but the words died in his throat. They were talking, but he did not hear them. They were touching him, trying to shake him, but he could not feel. He was numb, stuck in a world of ice, and inside, he was crying. The final thing that breached his lips was scared, desperate when his body gave up on him and the clock that had been wound to power his heart creaked to an unsettling halt, "I'm....sorry....mommy....daddy...." His words vanished, as did the beating of his heart. Nothing...he felt nothing but a coldness. He saw nothing but darkness, and the swathe of energy around his departing soul made him want to cry. What had he done? "You tamper with death, child," It was the voice of his closest companion, the only one he actually seemed to love. "Hush." The minute he felt tears prick his eyes, a black, ghost-like appendage that looked like a finger ran down his cheek in a comforting manner. A single, ice blue eye penetrated him through the inky blackness, and the creature crooned in his ear, "Embrace your death-trying to halt the natural cycle is pointless. You're mine..and you will not leave me." He nodded, feeling a chilling wave down his spine. "You're my bestest friend ever; I won't leave you for anyone." In that, the creature was satisfied, and he was left with an embodiment of nightmares cradling his now unfeeling soul. "You will always stay with me...even in death." Feeling colder than ever, he stayed in place, and death itself was permitted to hold him in its embrace like a mother would a child. As he was held a measure tighter, he remembered, very vaguely, what his mother and father always told him about death-that it would befell everyone eventually, and it was the gateway to eternal bliss. What was this, then? Being held by something that haunts your dreams, being controlled by something you cannot name, is this bliss? Isn't it supposed to involve the happily singing voices of magestic Swanna and a world in the clouds themselves, ruled by Arceus, creator of the world? Instead of feeling at peace, he felt more restless than ever, his muscles taut and rigid beneath his pajamas. Instead of feeling happy, he felt empty and hollow, as if nothing mattered to him. Instead of a wave of joy and everlasting peace taking his mind and heart, a wave of darkness and rage took his heart and plagued it like a disease. The urge to kill, to tear through warm flesh to the warmth of blood beneath, to strike until the bodies piled one after the other in his bedroom, was even more powerful now than ever. What was this, if not "bliss"? He couldn't name where he was, he could no longer comprehend what was real-the weaving blackness that distorted his vision was too much for his senses to bear. It was then that he realized that this was not wrong; something about the darkness clouding his mind and heart, of the bloodlust that tore at his body and made him thirst for death..was joyful. Yes; this enticing feeling of lust and overpowering anger and hatred intermingling into one..was true bliss. The restlessness was something he now welcomed, and the darkness in his heart was now becoming a part of him he no longer wanted to let go of. "I love it here, Darkrai..." His voice whispered, as the rest of his spirit relaxed completely. He was dead, he was in a world of nightmares, disease and darkness with a creature so benevolent it seeked utter destruction and control..and he was, at last, truly happy. It was then, in that moment of the first true happiness and joy he had ever felt in his rather short life, that he thought of his family-his mother, his father and his younger sister. Of course, his younger sister would be sheltered from the truth of his death, the finality of it all; she was the precious thing that they loved more than they ever loved him, when he had been living. She would undoubtedly be showered in love, petty sympathy, and enough hugs to crush her poor body. His father, a scornful man when he was around the son he thought was cursed to stain the family's glorious reputation and vast wealth, would act as he always did; on the outside, he would be a saddened, loving man who had adored his fallen son, and on the inside, he would be shamefully joyful, happy that the boy he so greatly despised was dead. And his mother? She would paint on a smile like she always did, trying to act kind towards everyone who offered sympathies, but undoubtedly harbor a deep, regretful happiness that her only son had just passed so soon. In the end of the lies, the deceitful little shows they would put on for other people and his younger sister, they would practically throw a little party, ecstatic with joy, and pop open several bottles of champagne to celebrate the fact that their own child was dead. They would embrace one another and have another baby other drinking too much champagne, then replace him with a child he would never get to meet; he knew that much. When they did, he would be erased from their memories forever; no gravestone would ever be etched with his name, no memorial would be made for him, and they would probably sell or discard everything he ever touched or owned with the pathetic excuse that they were "grieving" and it was "too painful" for them to remember him. The child born that eve would be treated so much better than he ever was that it would grow up spoiled rotten, and get anything it wanted..and he would rise from the dead. He would kill his parents for their stupidity and deception of others, he would kill the child for being born, and he would make his precious sister drink their blood.