Random Writings: Unlucky Sod

It was something that he, as a tiny unimportant human being, felt was beyond his control. No matter how he tried and pushed and moved nothing changed. He got up each day, went to work, came home, slept; rinse, fill, drink, repeat.

It had never really been his fault. He couldn’t control how he was made no matter how much he thought about it. In honesty he felt his mother should have been more considerate of how the information of his conception would effect him, but then she had always been a very conceded woman, concerned with her face and counting each calorie. 

Every time some one would ask about his family he would shrink away. How was he meant to justify a pyscho for a mother and a demon for a father? Especially since he had never once met his father and his mother was no longer in contact with the bastard. He couldn’t very well tell them

‘Oh well my mother and father met and conceived me during a ritual to call back the voices of the ninth. Nasty stuff really. They were friends for a while after while my mother was pregnant but ultimately my father had three other men and women on the side, and had demon stuff to be getting on with. The usual.’

No, there was some things people were better not knowing. 

Knowing that you were part demon was bad enough but feeling it was a whole different ball game. One he’d rather not play.

Monquie

The lights were dim, the gloom engulfed young Monquie in its endless squaller. Fragments of plaster and shattered glass were stern around the small room, the once cream white walls were stained by damp and graffiti.

Monquie sat cross legged upon the abandoned, iron bed. The mattress was torn and filthy wit age. She stared out the barred window. A bitter draft blew in through its glassless frame and 'the victims of the autumn' had built up below its sill. 

No one came here. No one ever visited any more. Large gates had been put up with plastic, yellow warning signs and the front doors had been bolted. 

Monquie was alone. She wandered the dusty halls, kicking stones with her bare feet as she went. Madness drover her to dance along the corridors and sing a melancholy tune. 
This was her little home. Her palace of utter solitude. Stuck between humanity and hell, she was happy in limbo.

There was no war here, no pain or love, no worries and not work; just constant bliss. Entertainment was around every corner, a new brick to be inspected or an old room to be reviewed. 

The tails of her cotton dress fluttered behind her as she twirled, the soiled and frayed hem trailed along the ground. 

And as she stood upon the crooked roof and prepared to dive once again the church bell would toil midnight and she would disappear before she hit the ground.

Hero

How long had he been walking? Forever it seemed.

The northern winds pushed against him cutting straight through to his bones. In his mind’s eye he could see the people out searching for him, crying and screaming his name. Like a silent movie it played out in his head and he smiled sadistically to himself at their tears. Little did he care.

Being strong was overrated. It was cruel and unsatisfying; hiding was never fun if you were never found. Always like a pillar, being toppled with burden and woe betide if you crumble.
The bitterness of the weather matched that of his heart. He had long since given up on the notion of being saved yet he spread it like the word of ‘God’. It was lies; horrible, misleading lies.

Even heroes have a right to fall, so, where was his right?

When the aching in his chest became too much he fell to his bruised knees and pulled his thin sweater around his body. There he was, hunched into a tight, human ball upon the frosted ground. He was engulfed by the solitude of the mountains, nothing and no one around him for miles. The sky and the clouds where his only witnesses.

He had waited so long to lay down and give up that the aching wails poured from his body almost desperately. He barely registered them; he just allowed them to flow. It felt like the blood being released from an infected wound and he could hear his inner agony in each scream.

The pressure in his lungs had become too much, there was only enough air for him but barely. The burdens he held for others were smothering along with his own; there was simply no more room. With shaking fragile hands he began to grind down the gravel. His palms became raw and sore within moments and droplets of blood oozed from the scrapes.
This was his reward; the right to break down. He would scream it from every roof top, every mountain, that he had fallen and fallen hard.

And when he is set on the road for judgment, as we all will be, he will whisper; Even angels have the right to bleed.

Tribulation of sight

The sleet was steadily increasing. Mist closed in around the edge of the lake and the cold nipped at my naked fingers. I pulled my scarf up to my nose and huddled my hands up into my sleeves. At the edge of the lake my own pallid skin reflected off the frozen water, my hair a dark and ebony chaos reflected my swollen insides. My eyes, once so full of teal, saucy life now held nothing. It should matter; but not to me.
The crunching of the snow beneath my boots was the only sound that accompanied the yawp of the crows and the bustling of the aspens. The water had long stopped running when the frost had come just days ago.

I was well and truly alone ; It was better that way. 

A year ago I died; not physically but mentally. All my mirrors had shattered and in their place was the image of brutal reality. Like the still water beneath the ice, I was trapped and unable to run. No amount of pushing or coaxing had brought me back to the surface and pills did nothing to warm me.

In my mind the image of their broken corpses lay spread before me. I see myself shattered and curled into the farthest corner. My skull throbs as it did then, my rips ache and my breath hitches in my throat. I was meant to be back there, back in that ungodly room upon the soiled concrete and cowering in the pitch darkness. But I ran.

"Tuhota"

That word was etched into my brain, it rang in my ears in the deafening silence; cutting through me like a knife. To be alive when my friends were all dead. To be there with their bodies, hearing their last breaths and their sobs in the shadow of twilight. I should be with them under three feet of soil with roses upon my head. My body should be reduced to maggot meat, my eyes disintegrated and the skin separated from the bone. But I stood by the lake fully alive; physically, not mentally.

There was as much reason for me to live as there was to die. .There was nothing tying me here anymore and I felt going back to where it all happened, finding out the mystery behind this, a mystery which had been closed for four months, was my own option. The pros did not out weigh the cons ,my own tie to the past, pulling me back, tipped the scale in cons favor; if anything the cons had become my heroes.