in my head // pilot

[chelsey]

The night was treacherous, glinting mischievously with black blood and smiling silently in the darkness with all of my deepest fears and horrendous nightmares embedded into it’s rotten teeth. The monsters revealed themselves from under my bed, they emerged from the shadows of my closets. They crept under the glow of the slow moon light, peeking up at me with hazy gazes and yellow eyes. Layers after layers of blanket don’t stop me from shivering or from my teeth rattling in my mouth. We don’t speak, we only stare, as I pray silently begging to God to save me from whatever horrors lie before me. Sweat dribbles down the back of my neck and forehead as the night drones on, and I continue to imagine what other sufferings I must go through tonight. Even with my eyes clenched shut, and sleep sweetly calling me to dream haven, I am jolted from such slumber from the creak of the floor boards, from the wind knocking on my window. Paranoia runs through my tired brain, and I can not stop the scenes playing in my mind.

Oh, but what imprints in my mind aren’t these sickly, hazy eyed creatures. Despite their unflinching stares, they all remain innocent to me - they pose no threat upon me other than plain fear itself. No, the voices that curdle my own and twists inside my fragile and feeble mind is what makes me want to scream and tear out my hair. The voice that whispers sacred nightmares and horrific images of death. It buries me alive in my own pain, and I suffocate, gasping hard to survive yet another sleepless night. Oh, Blanche, why must you fight against me? It murmurs in a sigh - as if disappointed at my reluctance. It’s breath tickles the bare flesh of my ear as the words graze against my skin. I only tremble, and feel my response grow into a lump in the middle of my throat. There was once a princess named Blanche Derilium. She lived in a tower by herself, longing company and friendship for she had nothing but solitude. These words send me into a tremor. It isn’t until I feel my lungs violently shaking that I've realized that I stopped breathing. When, one day the princess was blessed with a friend. Yet, she casts her new friend away. Only making it cling to her even closer. The sick fairy tale leaves me screaming bloody obscenities, and even as my throat goes rasp as it exhausts my chilling cries, it cannot mute the voice and it’s haunting tale.

I don’t sleep this night. But, then again, I hardly ever do.

But still, I cling onto the first ray of Sun that will stream through my bedroom window in the morning, like a banner of rich silk. I desperately hold on to this morning light, knowing that if I dare let go, I will be dropped into the darkness of the night. Leaving me more scarred and scathed than ever.

And, when this hopeful banner finally makes its first golden and long awaited appearance in my room, the sweat clamped on my forehead smooths away as the voice kisses me good bye for the night. Good bye, good bye for now. Oh, but I’ve lived long enough for me to realize that the voice will always come back by the time I least expect it to. I recoil wildly as I feel it touch me, but relax ever so slightly once I know it has retreated for the morning.

And this leaves me with only my own voice to worry about.

Sit up, Blanche. This is me. I know it’s me because of the shaky unsteadiness of my voice, whereas the voice is never unstable. Breathe, Blanche. I do. My chest and rib cage aches as I heave in a gulp of the musty air.

I don’t bother changing out of my dressing gown, instead, throw on a long pea coat that almost completely covers the gauze material. I don’t bother looking in the mirror to untangle the wild nest that serves as my hair, because I know that my reflection will reflect a hideous monster shattering the glass into pieces instead of reflecting me. Or maybe I really am just that hideous monster. I leave the horrible room before the voice can stop me from doing so.

It’s early in the district. Too early for anyone to be awake. My hands and knuckles are chilled to the bone as the sun barely begins to peek over the horizons like a seemingly curious child. The events surrounding me send me into a wild frenzy - I witness talking mice on the sides of the damp street, I witness a group of men using each others eye balls as targets to throw darts in, I refuse the tempting urges to enter a gaping hole in the middle of the street that beckons me to enter it. It’s nothing new though. Nothing weirder than what I’ve seen before. Some “normal” bystanders who see me yelp at the talking mice, or gasp at the group of men, or avoid the large hole raise a quizzical brow at me. I don’t return it, though, once their faces begin to morph into that of bloodied corpse. I keep my eyes to the ground, a small song bubbling on the edges of my lips to keep the images out. This only gains me more stares of the walking corpses.

The ringing of a bell indicates my entering the coffee shop. I hear people shift in their seats as they spot me - ”the freak.” None make room for me in their tables, so I turn to the tiny counter, where only few other customers sit. I take a seat next to a man bending over his coffee.

I don’t order, not just yet. I sit with my fingers twiddling on the counter before me, intently staring at them as if my life depended on it.

[/i]I watch as my fingers grow from five, to six, to seven, to eight fingers. I shudder and close my eyes, and upon opening them, hear the voice speak. Good morning, dear Blanche.

“Morning.” I mumble gently back, just loud enough for the man next to me to hear.[/blockquote][/justify]

NORMAL // 887777

CHARACTER'S DIALOGUE //775566

OTHER DIALOGUE //BBAA99

EMPHASIS // 775555

[OOC // CODING IS A WIP cause I'm in a rush...]

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[cameron]

Mornings had never been Pilot's time of day. Neither had nights. Or afternoons, evenings, dusk, or dawn. Days weren't really his thing ever since his only reason for living had died. Gage Cooper, District 3 Tribute of the 58th Hunger Games. He had almost made it, too. That only made it worse, of course, for Pilot. Days of hope ripped away in a single stabbing motion and it was all over, Gage's and Pilot's lives both out the window.

He hadn't gotten out much since then. He quit his job, separated himself from Dashica, and pretty much sat on his bed all day every day.

Sometimes he'd go out and drink coffee still, but he never sat at his and Gage's table. The corner table by the window stayed vacant at least from his body, and Pilot always made his way to the counter to sip on the blackness. No creamer. No sugar. Just straight coffee to burn his tongue and drown out his pains. Pilot could never bring himself to alcohol, so coffee was the next best thing.

Pilot had barely done anything for the past three years but drink coffee and hole himself up in his room. Silence filled his days, and that was what he wanted. He waited people. He hated life. He hated being awake. But he could never sleep. Every time he dozed off, nightmares would attack him left and right, torturing him with images of his lost love, forcing him to deal the final blow, and he'd always wake up screaming and sweating. That's the only reason he continued to drink coffee so much. It wasn't that he wanted to remember Gage, but it helped him avoid the nightmares and the cries of agony.

In every sense of the word, Pilot was miserable.

He had been at the coffee shop, leaning over his coffee, spooning his pointer finger in little loops. Burned skin floated in the cup, but he didn't care. The coffee tasted like shit without sugar anyway. He just couldn't bare to taste something good. His fingertips had long since been stained black, and it earned him several stares on the walk from his home to the coffee shop. But Pilot avoided all human contact. The waiter brought him the coffee and he paid without talking every day. He couldn't handle talking to someone. He'd rather die - but he was too much of a coward to do that himself. One day, though, he'd get lucky and fall victim to some murder. He could only hope.

"Morning," someone muttered beside him, and he didn't budge. He didn't speak. He kept looping his coffee. With a quick glance up, though, he saw that the girl wasn't looking at him but at her fingers. She seemed nervous, anxious, pained, and he felt like she understood how he felt to a T. Pilot had never seen the girl before, but he could tell she was troubled too. He considered speaking back to her, but he decided against it. Let her be troubled and let him be troubled by themselves. Two troubled people don't need to interact and just become more troubled than before. What kind of sense did that make? None.

Yet for some reason he found himself muttering back to her, "morning to you, too." He smiled at her, blinked, and realized what he had just done. Quickly he turned and buried his face back in his coffee, fingering the drink faster now.

For the first time in three years, Pilot had spoken, and he regretted it with all his heart.









ooc: so so so sorry this post sucks. rushed. ugh.

[chelsey]

The voice takes my greeting as an invitation to cloud my head with shushed murmurs. I can hardly pick out the words that tickle the outside of my ear, they sound so strange and foreign that I begin to wonder if what I'm hearing is even English anymore. Whatever language it spoke, it still contained that deadly power to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand. The whispers were demonic, in a way, haunting me with memories I don't want to remember.

I clench my eyes shut, and my hands follow suit. My nails claw into the inner skin of my palm, but I don't stop even when I feel that I've drawn blood. I have to take slow and unsteady breaths, shuddering at my exhales. I hum softly under my breath, a lullaby my mother used to sing to me before the dark days, but it doesn't block out the horrifying sounds that fly past me in blurred colors.

"Morning to you, too." Says a voice that's too warm and silky to belong to the nightmare that usually speaks to me. I cautiously open one eye - for all I know, the voice is just playing tricks with me - and the broad smile that stretches from the lips of the man sitting next to me involuntarily causes a shaky smile of my own to appear. He's the first of today that hasn't been disfigured and shaped into an ungodly creature, he's the first of today that actually looks... normal. Immediately, the effect of his words sink in and all the murmurs around me hushes into a low hum, until it's gone altogether. I'm left with nothing but silence, other than the sound of coffee brewing somewhere behind the counter and spoons clinking against the rims of their mugs.

But, as sudden as it had come, the smile dissipated on his face. He blinked, and looked away. I'm left to wonder if he had even said something, to begin with.

I turn away, too, not wanting to sink farther in the awkward silence that suddenly flooded between the two of us. Though I'd still take an awkward silence over the voice any day.

[/s][/color] Even though he returned his gaze to the cup of coffee in front of him, his welcoming words still ring in my ear, echoing a slight warmth within me that reminds me of an emotion I thought I have forgotten long by now.

Gratefulness.

Grateful that he was able to pick me up and out of the black darkness that encased me, even if it wasn't a permanent rescue. Even if he refused to look at me afterwards.

But, why would he say "Morning to you, too," if I hadn't even told him a "good morning" to begin with? If I hadn't even spoken a word to a soul at all today? Had I spoken today?

The thought puzzled me, and the words flowed out of my mouth before I even had a chance to realize what I was saying, "I didn't say good morning to you, did I?"[/blockquote][/justify]

NORMAL // 887777

CHARACTER'S DIALOGUE //775566

OTHER DIALOGUE

[/color] // BBAA99[/center]

EMPHASIS // 775555

[OOC // your post was great, don't worry about it~ And uhh sorry if what Blanche says hardly makes sense, I couldn't think of anything else atm. ]

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