misguided ghosts { tattle }

[cass]

[bg=143D2C][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true] mis•guid•ed /misˈgīdid/ 1 Having or showing faulty judgment or reasoning 2 wrong in e.g. opinion or judgment; "well-meaning but misguided teachers"; "a mistaken belief"; "mistaken identity" Run, run, run away Buy yourself another day A cold wind's whispering secrets in your ear So low and only you can hear Run, run, run and hide

[/color][/right]

”Alright, everyone time for bed.”

I finally draw my eyes up an away from the empty pieces of paper before me. The pencil still lay beside the paper, as blunt and useless as it always was. I never picked it up, I never placed it against the blank white sheets and I never, ever wrote a single word. I saw no point in the laborious, arduous task. Why must I bother with spilling my million thoughts upon a piece of paper, when the only person that should have to read this nonsense is me? I don’t want another person to lay eyes upon the workings of my mind; they were mine and mine alone. Besides the warden’s her were very mean. They often hurt me. Not in the way of bashings or beatings, I’d been hit maybe twice –well aside from the, you know, holding mew down and forcing me to take medication part– but more in the way of their pocking prodding words. They stung me and hurt me a lot. Most of the time they aimed for that kind of result; well at least I’m sure they do. Why else would they keep asking and asking and yelling and forcing me to believe that she isn’t out there and that she is dead? Because I know the truth and she isn’t. Yes, they just want to make me hurt. They’re so mean.

A light tap on my shoulder causes me to sharply look behind me. I’m faced with the grey, green dull material of the warden’s dress. The colour often reminded me of the sea, a startling contrast to the actual uniform and expression that came along with the clothes set before me. The warden’s face was normally creased into a scowl, always, always with a flicker of annoyance burning in those cool, brown eyes. They were hard and lean and little to basically never friendly. No, she only allowed that annoyance and impatience to dissipate when another person is dropped into the hospital. And a charming sight that is, seeing a rather round woman going from stone cold to an astonishing mask of pleasure. Yeah, it could only be described as desire, a new toy for her to hurt and play with. Amuse herself with the other warden’s and doctors. Sometimes I wonder if this entire building is a horror house and I’m the faltering hero that is oblivious to it all. I can’t hear the screams and all I can do is wait to succumb to the same life as the rest of them.

Well, anyway, the clothes did remind me of the sea as much as any boy who had never even seen the sea could imagine it. I guess it was more of the colour that I thought the sea would look like. It is how all the books described it. It is the exact, perfect shade that I view when I leap into one of my dreams and went on to save Mama. I wonder if she is watching all of this? Is she getting ready to dive in and save me like I have tried to save her? Maybe not, after all no matter how many times I sit among the clouds or draw the perfect shaped circle or dance with a dragon in a furious clash of steel and blood, it is never enough.

One day maybe it will be.

The warden’s hand grasps my shoulder and I’m roughly drawn to my feet. I make no sound, like always. I’m there watching this all happening, but I’m not feeling it. The drugs seem to do that a lot to me. I feel as though some part of my mind has been completely cut off from the rest of me. And no matter how much a push and prod at the invisible barrier in my mind I can’t get past it. It is all spinning and twirling and I’m tumbling through that black abyss that they call my mind, but every second that I stumble I hit some kind of wall. I can’t feel anger when the drugs are in me, and I feel like I’m locked into this one state where I can see nothing else, but through that one little hole. Every time I try to turn my head and look out another one, to feel something else and act like me I can’t. It’s like some crazy game and I can’t get through. I’m losing; I’m losing and failing whilst I’m stuck here and in this spot. I can’t fight and I find it so hard and difficult to be me, to slip into that other version and go off and save the world. I’m stuck.

”Bed time let’s go.” She snaps, that ever present impatience biting into each of her words. I give her a blank look. Her ugly face deepening into one of those famous stony scowls. Her eyes flicker away from my lifeless face and if it was possible –and maybe it is– that scowl grows deeper, burrowing into that face of hers. She takes in the blank paper before her. She looks up. I stare at her, my face unreadable. I think she is going to say something, but instead she just shoves me away from her and towards the door. I spin clumsily around, my feet almost catching on the stone floor. It was as rough and as cold and unwelcoming as the rest of this place.

I walk into the empty hallway, my eyes not focusing on anything around me, but rather straying inwards and away from the unresponsive world around me. I’ve lived and stayed here for so long that my subconscious seems to be carrying my feet to my room and I don’t even need to focus on each step that I take. Suddenly I’m drawn to the corridors before me. I halt, my hands dangling by my sides, my eyes staring straight ahead. I frown slightly, shaking my head I race one thin pale hand through it, tussling the orange mop that sat on my head. I freeze, this time I look left and right, an odd feeling slipping through me. Goosebumps cover my skin and within seconds I’m shaking slightly. I swear I had seen her; right there, in front of me. She’d been standing there, wearing the same clothes as the last time I saw her. Clinging to that small ball of hope that had unexpectedly blossomed in my chest I start off again. My feet moving with more need and purpose then before. “Mum?”

At first the call is soft, almost hesitant as if the very thought of saying those words could ruin it all. “Mum—“ I stop once more, eyes looking rapidly left and right, trying to see her once more. Just a small glimpse of her, “—are you there? Please be here, please.” A touch of desperation enters my voice, and I bit it back. That ball of hope fading with each moment of silence.

Somewhere no one else can find
Tall trees bend their leaves pointing where to go
Where you will still be all alone
Don't you fret, my dear
It'll all be over soon

[/color][/right]

[/size][/blockquote][/justify][/center][/td][/tr][/table]

[Tattletale]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-image:url('http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lt2qovS6JB1qass69o1_500.jpg'); border: 0; padding: 10 10 10 10 px; width: 150px;]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: ffffff; border: 0; padding: 10 10 10 10 px; width: 350px;] ERIS W. The atmosphere is stilted, and it only takes one deep breath to taste the air – tepid and stale. I should’ve gotten used to this. It’s been years and there are times when I’ve fallen into a comatose-shaped hole to never go back up again, to feel the way as the rest do, like spirits with no senses to stimulate, just the rhythmic sound of our heartbeats and our breaths in perfect harmony. We are used to schedules and activities designed to make some use out of us, like maybe walk out the grounds to get some fresh air (I needed it the most.) But there are afternoons when the sun is bright but not high up or hot enough, and it’s half-suspended among the filtering leaves and branches of trees. It’d be perfect for walking and witnessing the funeral of a beautiful thing, but it seems the staff has another kind of logic for their heads, and decided to gather everyone in the common room. We were given papers and pens, certainly not for penning letters, and stare at it stupidly for a moment, hesitating as they look on eagerly (or, as much as they could. They were half as dead as us.) I gave in. Maybe my mother went to a fortune teller before naming me. I never believed in magic and hoodlums and in all that seemed so far off the ground, but my father used to say there’s no better answer. I used to think I was the exact opposite of what I was named after, Eris, some ancient goddess of discord from a long-gone civilization before, even before the Dark Days. Back then, everything was in its place. I had a home, a family, and tomorrows to look forward to. Now, the only safe thing to say is that all I have left is the residue of whatever I once had. There are times when I lose my perception of reality and break away, molecules disintegrating into atoms until I’m figuratively only pieces of myself scattered across the thresholds of time. I’m remembering different moments at the same time, little broken pieces stitching themselves together in my vision until it’s almost like a nightmare, with the overlapping sounds and the flickering images. But if anything, it was a comforting nightmare, the kinds where you openly submit yourself because it’s either too strong for you to fight back, or you just don’t care. I like to think I’m doing the former. The thought of discord is like the sound of blunt fingernails scraping against the blackboard. It’s frightening and irritating, the way things never settle and there’s no sense of security at all. Others may revel in constant change, but I don’t. Somehow having my family torn apart and ending up in the Home was a cruel sardonic twist by someone up above. There’s chaos in seeing them being pulled away from me, like pulling a loose thread from a fabric and messing it all up, creating ruches and vacant space, but the Home was perfectly systematic, the dull drone of wake up-eat-tests-sleep humming underneath the floor tiles and reverberates into our bodies until it’s embedded in our bones. It’s what they call a desert blessing, an ocean curse. I’ve tried to stop feeling, ever since the day I was admitted and given my own room, my name printed in block letters on a sign that hung from my door, perhaps the most permanent to reveal how I’m to live here forever. There’s no getting out, and I’m not so much alarmed at the thought that I am at my lack of fear. Sometime on my first week, in between the fast-forward montage of black, white and grey – those long periods of doing nothing but sitting and facing the wall in front of me, looking out the window and seeing the expanse of our isolation - the tears have fully dried on my pillowcase and staining nothing against the whiteness of the sheet, I’ve convinced myself that I’m alright. (“Are you okay, Eris?” “I’m okay.”) I’m alright, and that’s what I should say to everyone else, when they’re already cowering behind their own shadows. To the stark contrast of red against white in my bathroom sink, to the increasing pallor of my skin, to myself and the printed letters on paper stating it’s back and it has no plans of leaving. That’s all I have and all I’ve got. The warden says our time is up, her voice cutting through the thickened silence that has swollen and filled the whole room. I hear her quite well, but I don’t loosen my grip on my pen and instead look out the window. It was a beautiful sight outside and for all the hours I have guilt shows no sign of coming near me, and I only readily agree to waste the seconds. Only until I’ve seen the room is empty then I leave, folding the paper neatly and keeping it in my pocket. There’s a box of letters I have under my bed, and maybe sometime when the Home is finally in ruins and there’s a gravestone with my name embedded on it, my story will be free to be heard and not kept under pressed lips and the pale glow of fluorescent lights above an operating table, the little chaos of the pills against the container when a hand turns it over. After all, you will only see a heart only when it’s dead. It’s not a long way to my room, and it’s in the same hallway with the others. They tend to keep us in the same place, because in a way we have grown up together, torn pieces off books and taped together in an attempt for a family, but we all know we’re far from that. We’re the pulled threads left on the ground, in the cracks of floorboards, gathering dust by the corner. As I walk through the white hallway, I trace a finger against the wall, sensing the coldness but feeling nothing at all. It’s a habit. But not until I see the splash of red, and my mind registers the familiar: Finn. He doesn’t even need to turn around for me to look in his eyes to know that he’s lost; it’s in his very form, or maybe patients have sixth sense that’s interconnected with each other, but either way I just know. Hesitation and passivity calls out to me as a siren’s song, but the vision of my father’s profile in silhouette, a clear cut of black against the milky light from the window panes, and the smoke that curls from his cigarette, lodged between his index and middle finger – the outcome will be a wave crashing hard against the ocean-beaten stone and it’s not at the very least poetic, but disastrous in every way. He calls out for his mother, and although I’ve gotten used to this, it’s difficult not to flinch at the sound of his voice. We’ve all got desires, no matter how hopeless. “Finn?” I walk towards him, slowly, resting a hand on his shoulder. “It’s Eris.” And not your mother. (I’m sorry.)

[cass]

[bg=143D2C][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true] war /wôr/ 1 A state of armed conflict between different nations or states or different groups within a nation or state. Run, run, run away Buy yourself another day A cold wind's whispering secrets in your ear So low and only you can hear Run, run, run and hide

[/color][/right]

In his mind there was a war. In his mind the battlefield before him was filled with blood. In that tiny little head of his soldiers fought, brilliant weapons of all kinds flashing in the moonlight. The full moon shone brightly above them, a brilliant shade of crimson red. That was hardly surprising. The moon took the shape of his pain, as did the world before him. It was always a mass of swirling, crazy colours, but when the mood was red it meant pain. It meant destruction, anger and abandonment. The blood being spilled on the field was a replication of the pain that flowed through his veins; it spilled over the rim and covered his skin, layering him in his own shade of anger and rage. And among the stars there was even war. The dancing balls of gas and light zipped this way and that way, a flash here and there. And then there was a bang, the loud boom of the sky exploding and falling all around them. The crimson drops seemed to spill from the sky in a shower of blood. It was raining. Ruby droplets fell to the ground not a single cloud in sight, and the sky faded, the world tumbled and twisted and turned. It was tugged this way and that way as the crimson moon was peeled away, to reveal the dark, gloomy inkiness of a cloudless night sky. In its place there was no moon. In its place there was nothing and the darkness crept along the ground. It tugged at Finn’s feet and legs, swallowing him until he was invisible. It was always this way, when the darkness came the world would shatter and disappear and when the darkness fled it would be reborn again, into some knew monstrosity, some new torture of his own creation

Even though there was nothing and no one to see him disappear in a swirl of shadows the war raged on. This time the soldiers took the floor. And they fell. Man after man collapsed, vanishing before they crashed onto the grass. Disappearing in a flash before they could be deemed dead by their enemy. In this world no one died. In this world there was no life or death, there was no space in between. There was simply being and not being. You were one or the other and as of this moment Finn was neither. He was the creator and the destroyer, the keeper of the balance in this world, because in this world of pain, suffering, loss and gain he was king. He was king of it all and it was up to him to choose when the moon rose, the sun set and when the world bled and when it flourished. It was his decision and his alone, because he ruled it. This tiny little bubble was a world absent of one thing, and one thing alone. It was rough, rugged, wild, free and untameable. It was missing one thing and that thing was love, and with love came kindness, care and happiness. There was no hope, no love, no care and no kindness. Fields, upon barren fields enclosed each and every inch, leaving behind nothing, but a trial of destruction and pure, fragile loneliness. It was destroying him from the inside out and every day it was becoming more obvious. He was losing the tiny bit of control he had over his actions and over the mood swings that determined how he acted. Most people believe that there was never any control, but Finn knew better, he knew that his own power, will and strength had once determined when he would flip and now that will was fleeing him faster than water slipped through his fingers.

Where there was war there was pain and that was evident in the grass that had been stained red. But if you could not look close enough you could not see that there was indeed war. To the untrained eye it was a barren wasteland, where people vanished, where swords seemed to glow and eyes were as bright as the sun. Everything before him was a display of the anguish and pain that raged within his heart and mind. It was a show of pain and it was a horrible one at that. This boy knew not control; he knew nothing, but his own selfish desires to have their world exactly how he needed it and wanted it. It was hardly his fault though, he got no choice in how he acted or responded, and he got no choice when it came to his own self derived needs. Every thought that flickered across his hollow eyes was one that seemed to have been prematurely placed there, it was as though he were merely flipping over the cards as he got to them, but the order had already been determined. When he was locked in his world, it was not by desire or choice, it was forced upon him. But that had not always been true. A long time ago this terror had been joy, the suffering had been happiness and there was never pain, war or longing. The anguish that controlled everything that had happened had once been pure energy of excitement.

But any notion of happiness vanished when his mother disappeared. It was as though some invisible wall was tugged down and he was no longer the cheerful, jovial, sweet innocent child that liked to play with his mother’s hair and feel her arms wrapped around him. What was more was the fact that there was this emptiness and this confusion that was determined to swallow him whole. No part of him could possibly understand that small notion that his mother was gone. Every little part of him believed and new she was alive and it was what he fought for. It was what this war was for and it was draining him and tiring him. That spark of hope within him was no more than an ember, a small tiny glowing bit of light.

Eris’ touch was shocking against his skin, and he flinched, cringing away from her hands. Her words were just as painful, and even though they meant no pain, each sent a spike of stabbing pain through his chest and his body. Confusion riddled his face, incomprehension muddling his thoughts. “No, she was here. She wouldn’t leave me. She said she’d always be there.” He smiled at her a sudden realisation coming to mind. ”In fact, I bet she is in my room waiting to tuck me on, she’ll be so worried!” He exclaims, hands wrapping themselves around his chest. The small drops abruptly. ”She did that every night, you know? She held me, and rubbed my head and told me stories.” A sudden, undesirable sadness enters his tone, eyes filling with unexplainable tears. His hands pull themselves tighter around his body, tiny, thin arms keeping him upright. Just as quickly as it came, the sadness and honesty left his lips disappearing and once more he is smiling, a brilliant, happy smile plastered to his lips. ”Come on Eris! Come meet my mum! She’s waiting for us.” Delighted he grabbed her hand before tugging her forwards, feet moving with more urgency. His previous words of admittance barely more than a breeze in the wind to his own ears.

Somewhere no one else can find
Tall trees bend their leaves pointing where to go
Where you will still be all alone
Don't you fret, my dear
It'll all be over soon

[/color][/right]

[/size][/blockquote][/justify][/center][/td][/tr][/table]