Darkest Before the Dawn {Pogue}

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R A H B E R T E L L I O T “Can you tell me a story?” “What kind of story?” “One where things turn out right.” “Once there lived a boy who was nothing more than average. He lived in a brick house with square windows and a simple door. There were flowers in the garden and green grass in the lawn. He had a mother, and a father, and an older brother. They were pretty much the same as any other family, the parents worked, the kids attended school, and they would all sit around the dinner table in the evening and talk about how their days were. They would take turns washing the dishes, the younger brother standing on a stepstool to reach the sink, and the older standing beside him with a towel. The parents would watch on in contentedness, each one thinking the same thing, but no words were spoken. They would all say their goodnights and head off, the parents to their room and the boys to theirs. The younger boy would ask the older to check under the bed for monsters, and then would crawl under the covers and pull them up to his chin, vibrant eyes wide with wonder and awe. Of course, in the mind of a child, who’s more amazing than the older brother who stands guard through the night, the one who’s invincible? And so the stars shone in the dark sky, and the twinkle of adventure in bright eyes gave way to the realms of sleep, dark hair falling about him like shooting stars. Everything was right.” Sometimes, when things got particularly rough, I would go back to that night, pretending that his bed wasn’t vacant and that my eyes were still filled with adventure. But eventually, I would look out through the open window and realize that my life was far from the stories he told. He was always more creative than I, and no matter how many times I tried to fabricate a reality that wasn’t my own, I couldn’t. I would sit at the polished desk and open the third drawer down, reaching for the notebook that was almost torn apart from rough handling, most of it mine. When I first found it, right after he stormed out, it was in beautiful condition, his initials still engraved prominently on the front. I had been tempted to read the entire thing at once, to throw myself into the void of his imagination, only knowing that I would get lost in it. However, I made myself read it page by page, savoring each word that fell off of his fingertips, as it was the only new and undiscovered thing I had left of him. His stories were that of chaos and confusion, monsters in dimensions that I couldn’t even begin to grasp. It wasn’t until I read these that I realized just how lost he had been, even though he was leading me along a path that I never questioned. It was one night that I realized he was dragging me the same way he had walked, that one day I would become as frustrated as to storm out the door in the same manner that he did. But I wouldn’t do that, not to my parents, and not to him. I don’t really believe he meant to pull me down as well, but he did so in such a subconscious manner that no one realized it. The only way I could make him proud now was to stop, turn around, and sprint in the opposite direction. I had to fill the void that he had emptied for himself, for the stories he wrote only fell though the bottom. I had to fill his fantasies with reality, no matter how harsh it had to be. So when I walked out the door to our home, careful to shut the door quietly, I didn’t walk the way I normally did. I walked to my left, a way neither of us really dared to venture. I walked away from the brick house, with its white windows and wooden door. I walked away from the story that we so often told. “Can you tell me another story?” “What kind of story do you want to hear, Rahbert?” “One that’s realistic.” template by chelsey

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P A R I A H F E R
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The letters I try to write are what kill me the most.

Because the pencil that rests between my fingertips does not scrawl out words onto a blank page, and my mind cannot even begin to process what I should begin to write about, begin to say, begin to do if I were to ever mend what was left of my broken relationship with my own...brother.

And truly, it was broken, deteriorated to a point beyond repair, one that I never could have thought possible when Tsara suddenly just changed and I changed write along with him, hatred bubbling up and my eyes filling with hatred - not a brotherly love - whenever I looked at him. And so, each night I sat down to write out my shame and pride onto a page of redemption would end with ripped up shreds, cast onto the ground and scattered around the garbage can, torn through and ripped up like my life had been by this whole thing, by this whole damned family.

I'd find refuge in false friends and companions, in glasses of whatever alcohol I could find, plastic cups of regret and self-doubt. I craved the burn in my throat, the feeling of everything slipping away, everything getting better with each sip. And I surrounded myself with people who screamed each word, slung their arms around my shoulders, planted kisses on my cheek (a female exclusive right, of course), people who drowned out all the bad things, replaced them with a hangover the next morning, before it would all repeat itself yet again.

Somewhere, deep inside my mind I can tell it's not the right thing to do, that finding solace in alcohol and bad influences would lead to nothing more than putting myself into a coma of depression and denial. And as I watched Tsara cling to Lace like regret clung to me I could feel nothing but a deep, dark, and incredibly unnerving feeling of hopelessness, of jealousness in watching them become what Tsara and I once were. It hurt, worse than any hangover I had fought through or any punch I had taken during a drunken slob fight.

Tonight ended again with a broken pencil and torn up letters, and with a slammed door and a shaken head I stepped outside into the now summer air, taking in a deep breath of the polluted air that hung over our District. I have no opportunities to escape into a party for the night, plastic cup clenched between my fingers and drunken screaming matches surrounding me.

And so, I replace the plastic cup with some pebbles, and the party floor with a roof.

I do this sometimes, too, find my way to the roof during the midst of a party, stumble my way to the top and just, stop for a moment (Of course, the thought of being on a roof when drunk isn't as appealing when one is sober). Although, I have never done it while sober, and as I find my way to the top of my house I can only stop to take in the lackluster view of District Three, pebbles in my hand and regret on my shoulders.

I run each pebble through my fingers as if they are important to me, admiring each one as much as one can during the darkness of night.

And then, I throw them as far as I can, listening for sounds of them hitting the road even though I have no hope of hearing it.

I don't know if it's supposed to make me feel better about everything.

But hell, I don't know anything anymore, I guess.

template by chelsey

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R A H B E R T E L L I O T The sight of district three clothed in the blanket of night is not uncommon to my eyes, in fact, the sharp turns and potholes that dot the ever-extending road seem to stand out more at night than they do in the hours of day. Maybe it’s from severe repetition or the urge to step carefully in the dark, but as I make my along the right edge of the path, I do not stumble, not even once. I recall falling a few weeks ago somewhere in this area, but it was at a time where anger had blinded me from every sense of rationality, and my feet had taken it upon themselves to throw myself wildly at whatever came my way. It only resulted in bitter tears and a broken ego, followed by the decision to stay put on the ground and listen to the world turn on. But tonight I am not blinded by the irrational anger that stems from the hatred my brother planted years ago. His untimely departure from our family had only caused denial to take his place at the table, replaced by empty stares from my mother and meaningless sighs from my father. For days and weeks and countless months after they talked about their plans for him and life past the day he left because they could never actually grasp the fact that he was gone. He was lost in the wind and we had no chance of ever seeing him again and it seemed as if I was the only one who could wrap my mind around it. Ten year olds believe that everything they speak is in some way correct, and for that reason everything I said to myself about my brother at the time of his leaving was in some form, accurate. I made up a lot of stories about what he was doing after departing from our household. These stories ranged from his being a superhero that was preparing to save the districts to a super-secret spy, with multiple fake ID’s and fighting moves unequaled by anyone else. I argued with the rational part of myself by saying that even though he might not be able to fly over the rooftops of the city, he could possibly be saving someone. He told my mother that he was leaving because he believed he was ripping us apart, and by that token he was saving us by sacrificing himself, however, he was the only one whose interests lay at hand. He was definitely hiding something from me—maybe it was a top-secret file or something of the sort. He told my father that the things he had done were too heavy of a burden to lay on our family, that it would be best if we left those things unspoken, where they couldn’t hurt anyone. He was anything but the hero, and as I sat in my room with my toys and action figures and attempted to piece together the stories that I wanted to hear, my ten year old self realized that even the greatest heroes can be hiding behind a mask of their own, in turn making themselves the villain. He had destroyed us all, with words that were spoken and those that were not. I’ve lost count of how far I’ve walked, or even where I am, but since my path has only been straightforward I’ve lost concern in figuring out my location. The only thing that strikes me as strange about my current surroundings are the inconsistent pings that plague my hearing. There’s one to my left, but I’m not quick enough to turn and see what it is before it meets its final resting place on the side of the road. From the volume of the noise, it can’t be very big, not larger than the palm of my hand. The noise sounds again to my right, and this time my reaction time is quick enough to see a small flash of grey vanish off into the distance. My mind filters through the options of what the mysterious object might be, but my thought process is cut short as another objects falls, this time not on the road. Its path is cut short as it lands in the patch of grass that’s just in front of the road, and without hesitation I reach forward to examine it. It didn’t take much of a deduction to realize it was a pebble, but where it came from was another question. I had seen the general direction in which it’s flight of trajectory had come, so I step off the road, looking back one last time to make sure I remembered in which way I had come before stepping off the pavement and heading in the way the rock had flown from. Each step is finicky, my toe touching down as I tried to not make more noise than was necessary. It’s only after the slow procession of careful steps that the house comes into view. It doesn’t immediately strike me as familiar, and I squint as I try to remember if I know anyone from this area. However, no answers come to mind, so I continue on my path towards the noise without a second thought. It’s not until the dim light of the roof comes into view that the frame of a boy makes itself visible against the dark outline of night. I’d carried the pebble that landed short with me the whole way, and before calling out to him I throw the pebble his way, smiling to myself as it lands somewhere on the roof. “I believe this belongs to you.” template by chelsey