D2 † { Soren McCall } † DONE
Feb 16, 2014 4:49:09 GMT -5
Post by loren on Feb 16, 2014 4:49:09 GMT -5
S O R E N M c C A L L SEVENTEEN D I S T R I C T II |  I always find myself caught between saying too much and never saying enough. "You got something to say, Pretty Boy?" And I knew in the lock-and-key schematics of the world I was supposed to say some witty jeer about his weight or the fact that maybe my tormentor wasn't getting enough love at home or perhaps too much love at home to have to bully a pair of kids who collectively had .2 girlfriends their thirteen years of existence (because even though Nellie Jensen only kissed me when we were nine on a dare I am counting it to the grave) I didn't. I knew I should've said some heroic speech about how violence solves nothing and terror is just a malignant tide to the sandcastle walls of real friendship and that he'll never know the real, substantial happy shit of poets and puppy dogs if he kept this up but I didn't say that either. And I know that in this world everything runs on a system of action and reaction; that you can only receive a return from whatever you do. You keep your defense up, and you won't fall. You land enough blows, your opponent will be too broken to hurt you. You tell yourself you're perfectly fine enough, you might just start to believe it. Silence encourages the tormentor, not the tormented. And I knew that if me and Stiles were going to make it out of that schoolyard with our skin still virgins from the violent kiss of knuckles and boots I'd have to change this motherfucker's life with an enlightened speech to castrate the cataracts clogging his vision and bring him into the light of peace and virtue and not harassing schoolboys. But I always find myself caught between saying too much and never saying enough. "....you think I'm pretty?" Me and Stiles weren't too pretty after that. You could give me a thousand lifetimes to describe my best friend and it would still be a crude charcoal sketch when you wanted a painting and he deserves a mural. Not just because there's a distance of about four million leagues between what I think and what I say, but because that kid's got galaxies growing inside of him everyday you couldn't map if you bled, cried, and tried. And most of the time hanging out with Stiles is like engaging with the entirety of the universe. That kid is like a comet who never runs out of stardust to burn; an energy constant streaking across and behind and around every nook and lifeless meteor of this unimaginative town. And I don't think Stiles realizes that he's bothering with a dwarf planet when he's completely capable of swallowing the sun or he wouldn't hang around me anymore. He's the best part of me. He's half the reason for half of my scars, and knows about all the scars that trench beneath my skin. He has the other pinkie finger to every promise I've ever made, and was the other finger when we dared each other to flip off a pair of peacekeepers from the school rooftop. Stiles makes me crazy and reckless and I'm not dead yet, so I thank him. "Soren, I'm really messed up, aren't I?" And that's when getting caught between saying too much and never saying enough is enough to kill you. When your brother is far more broken than ever before. Because you knew he had his cracks like everybody else but worse and deeper and you admired his strength to piece himself together when the world insisted he fall apart. But the cracks kept unfurling around his mind, bleeding out like a single sigh of ink contaminates a glass of water and something or someone brought him to the point where his shards wouldn't stand for coming apart any longer, he just broke into dust. And I didn't know what to say. Of all the moments in my life where needing to have a voice was the most crucial, with my best friend whose sentences were more of derailed thoughts like my own than any other, I hadn't a clue of how to be there for him. He was fighting demons so much bigger than me. And I put my hand cautiously on his shuddering shoulder, afraid if my hand was any steadier he'd slip through my fingers like sand on the beach and the tides would pull him away to an afterworld I didn't want to know. And he was reduced to the stardust my flaming comet of a brother was burning and leaving behind all this time. And with my hands I tried my best to soothe the dust and perhaps piece it back together myself but this was the first fight tag team Stiles and Soren couldn't take on together. As much as I wanted to cement together his broken pieces and erect concrete walls around him to protect his heart from ever having this happen to him again, I knew this was something he had to do on his own. Not that you should worry, however. My best friend-- my brother-- Stiles is a comet. He's the spark children make wishes on at night because they see this beacon of light carving through millions of millions of miles of darkness to bring them hope and unknowingly know they won't be let down. But still. Even if he had to deck this one out in the ring while I screamed from the sidelines, I wish I had something better to scream. "I'm so sorry." I'm sorry your best friend is me. You deserve so much better. I had a dream a week after training with Dedric began. There was a girl in it. And she was running, but not of her own accord. There's a supreme difference between the aerial freedom of someone running of their own free will and the graceless, stumbling scratches of terror sheperding someone to leap before they look and rather literally sprint into the unknown than face whatever monster trails behind. Anyway, she's running. Bounding over tree roots and rocks and through shrubbery. And she's bleeding slightly, and you can tell she wants to scream but she's been running for so long she'd forgotten how to do anything but run and fear. Maybe she already screamed for help but help never came. And maybe she had been running for so long she forgot what was chasing her, forgot why she was running, or just sheer flaw of the curious human soul makes us look to the sun even though we know we'll get burned. But the girl turns around for a fraction of a second The monster that was chasing her pins her to the ground and ends her life with a knife to the throat. I had a dream a week after training with Dedric began that I killed Alita Garnet. I didn't see myself in the dream but I knew it was me. I was in the monster the whole time. The whole dream I was digging heels that weren't mine into the ground and straining muscles not my own against the current of will that prompted me forward. And I woke up sitting upright in my bed, tremoring like there were ballroom phantoms dancing in my bones so I ran to the bathroom and threw up. Just to make things clear, I don't want to kill Alita. If anything, she's the one who'll be the death of me. And not just because she could literally kill me with the slight of her finger and a flying arrow because, I'll shout it from the mountain tops no it doesn't make me any less of a "man" or whatever it just makes me honest, she can. Holy hell she can. She could kill me before I could reach for any sort of blade or dagger. She could kill me before I could realize my life was ending. She could kill me before I could look to the face of my adversary, my assailant. But she could never kill me before I could think there's really no other existing moment in time when she's in the room because I think of it constantly. And she could kill me in my seeing her nearly everyday but her never really seeing me. And she could kill me by holding my hand once and never touching me again. And she could kill me by letting me know of her voice and how it's the most soothing ballad I have ever heard but force me to forget the lyrics by never speaking to me again because I'm sure I never liked my name until I heard her say it. And I don't want to be some uneasy poetic cliche at an open mic night in some sleazy bar but there's really nothing I don't love about her. Nothing, I love... Absolutely everything. When I first met her. Shit. I felt like all of me was rapidly decaying and wailing to come alive all at once. My heart was beating so fast I wasn't sure if meeting her was to be my end or my beginning. My every vein and artery were going to burst with blood like crimson ink and script all the words I wanted to say to her but couldn't into poetry right into my bedroom walls. She had a laugh that wasn't meant for me. Sent it out to Stiles or Jairus or someone else but it didn't stop her from piercing every single demon where they hid in my chest and slaying the devils of doubt in my mind of ever leaving the pack. And maybe her laughter wasn't meant for me but I found a comfort in knowing that when my bones break and my skin erupts in scarlet signatures of a fountain pen sword, I might be able to hear it ring out over my head and at least have the bite taken off the burn. It's a lot easier to deal with pain when you're reminded there's a world beyond it. The day of the dream I ran to training loft. On any other occasion it's far easier to decipher dreams from reality. "Alita?" Just know I would never raise a hand against Alita. That you could hold me at gun point and I would never do anything but perhaps grasp her hand in mine if she'd let me. "Alita! Alita!" So how I couldn't have known whether or not I actually, really killed her is beyond me. Maybe the stress of the pack was getting to me. Maybe seventeen years of watching children mutilate one another for the gore of glory finally struck something sinister. Maybe the rebel riots and peacekeeper brutality against those who stand painted in indescribably grotesque fresco on every television and over every radio has finally gotten into my head. "Alita!" Maybe when you finally realize that life is the nightmare, you stop seeing the divide between what is fictional and what you wish was. "Soren, what's going on?" What's going on? What was going on was that, for a moment, I thought I was capable and had, killed Alita Garnet, the moon I had a perfect view of from where I stood every evening but could never reach no matter how much tried. What was going on was that I wasn't safe in my own mind. What was going on was that I woke up every morning that week hoping to die and spent the rest of the day wondering if I had because it was getting so damn hard to tell the difference. What was going on was that I think I might be losing my mind. What was going on was that I think I've got a war in my mind. What was going on was that at the end of every day, the only thing that I could hold on to and was real that no one else could convince wasn't otherwise was that I might not love Alita Garnet, but I sure do love everything about her. "...Are you going to use the throwing knife station today-- wait. Oh no, you're probably not, right? Because you always use the archery station... not that I'm saying that's a bad thing or anything. You're the best one here at shooting arrows! And other things! Not shooting other things, I mean... um... like you're the best at other things... Not that I've been watching to see if you're the best at other things! I'm just making an assumption here for the sake of... small... talk... where is Stiles, I need to go find him see you around." I always find myself needing to just shut the fuck up. template by chelsey |
