Feeding -my- flame ~Zoe

[kousei ♚]

Insanis


Eyes on fire
Your spine is ablaze
Felling any foe with my gaze
And just in time
In the right place
Steadily emerging with grace

I grip the knife tightly in my head, slowly but surely scratching away at the wooden surfacer of the table. Gotta focus on the job at hand. My hand begs me to stop, I would be to, what has it been, three hours? Of my just scratching at the surface of this table with this kitchen knife. It started light at first - lighter than a feather, nothing more nothing less. And the longer I scratched and poked at the wood the more weight was added, like the cat next door that constantly seems to put on weight as time goes on. Scratch, scratch, scratch. I started off doing nothing in particular, just scraping and scratching to see what would happen then I developed a purpose, something worthwhile doing.

And then it went back to nothingness, nothing but arcane.

I'm pretty sure nothing in that sentence made sense but fuck it I'm tired.

I wish I had a purpose, something to do, I wish I had anything to do other than than scrap and scratch this table. I wish this was real flesh and it was blood not wood dust coming out of this, That's what knives are for, nothing carving stupid partners on a table that can't scream or beg for mercy. I take a quick glance around the room. Empty, no cries for mercy, no one to bother me. The silence is defeaning, I'm not used to having all this free room, before I came to the Keeni house I had all the space in the world, then I had no space - I fucking hated that - and now I have all this space again I feel as if I'm going to suddenly going to be swallowed whole by the empty air,

I never thought I'd admit it but with no Willis, Pyrian or Gypsy this place is as quiet as a graveyard.

Hah, it's funny cos they're dead.

I can't help but keep carving the patterns, I'm half expecting the usual, some random Keeni to burst it doing whatever and me to get up and snarl at them to fuck off. They'd either try to fight it or back away - I expect the former since I have a knife in my hand but you never know with these people. So irrational, so illogical. I mean we do have someone that was willing to fight me for a cat so that sums up that. But no matter how it goes the end result is always the same - I'm left alone in this same empty room and I have nothing to. Well there's carving patterns, there's a new hobby I found. If I close my eyes I can imagine this chill, dense wood is soft, warm flesh and this saw dust from the carving is red and the hair straightening scraping are horrible, but satisfying screams.

But I'm met with disappointment because my imagination is nothing like the real thing.

This room is all too familiar, this table always sits in the middle, permanently branded by my boredom and a sharp knife. And it's all too weird - all too familiar but also the silence is all too defeaning and arcane. Well, besides the constant scraping that's setting my teeth on end and making my wrist feel like it's going to wrench itself out of it's socket. And despite how I love having all this room to myself there's always a point where it's just too much room. "Fuck this," I whisper to myself and I stand up from the wooden chair and drop the knife half - branded table. I need something to do, anything but this,

I storm out of the door, messaging and rotating my wrist constantly and gritting my teeth from the ache.

I find myself in the middle of the tiny corridor and without thinking I turn into the first door I find.

And what I find makes my jaw drop low but my heart drop even lower. Mess, clutter, disorganisation, pandemonium, a fucking disaster! Items that I don't even bother to identify law scattered around the floor. This room is a junkyard and it makes me want to spew all over the fucking floor but I don't, that would just make an even bigger mess. I've never been OCD but I still have the common sense to be organised - this is far from even the bare minimum of organised. It's almost unspeakable, unbelievable...unthinkable. My eyes scan the room, the mess cluttered around the floor - it's a map and my dark eyes scan every little bit of it until I find the one person (no, not person, disgusting slob) standing in the middle of it. I stare the slob right in the eye, not daring to even move my gaze."What the fuck's this?!" I ask, not even bothering to hide the distaste riddling my voice.

[✨ zozo.]

PERSIA KEENI

[presto] I CAN'T ERASE IT FROM MY MIND I JUST REPLAY IT OVER THINK OF IT ALL THE TIME [/presto]

Four twenty-eight in the afternoon and she's already drunk. No, not drunk - just tipsy. A little bit buzzed, a little more sluggish, a little more oomph into her dancing around the paper-lined wooden floor. (I lied - she's hammered.) There's a glass bottle with some foul-smelling liquid in one of her hands and she hops halfheartedly to the beat of the song blaring out of her radio. She'll probably slip on one of the pieces eventually because she's got her eyes closed and kind of loves the rush she gets of not knowing when she's going to-

(shit!)

-almost crack her head open on the corner of a desk.

Regaining her composure, she lets out a laugh that bubbles into a hiccup that makes her laugh even more. The beat thumps thumps thumps through the rattling wooden walls and her heart thumps thumps thumps inside of her chest and the alcohol thumps thumps thumps in-between her veins. The quiet of her attic-room never felt so safe but she still thinks she's going to die up here one day and the thumps thumps thumps will turn into one loud THUMP

and the music will stop-

She opens her eyes.

The cobweb ceiling greets her and she smiles at her eight-legged friends. One evening she decided to give them names: Annabelle and Gertrude and Matilda. All girls of course, because men are vile and the four of them collectively decided that they were never going to speak to boys ever again. Her head turns and she's about to speak when a sudden realisation that the music is no longer playing hits her like a brick to the face: It's too quiet.

This house is too fucking quiet.

So she picks up where she left off, dancing and laughing and tipping one back, unraveling in the only way she's known how. Unwinding, she's falling apart. A disaster and she knows it.

Everyone here is a fucking disaster.

"What the fuck's this?!" someone eventually yells, interrupting her celebration for one (or four, if you count her only friends in the corner over there). She opens her eyes and tilts her head, wondering if she's disturbed her brother's slumber and then deciding that she really didn't give a damn.

"This is an attic," she replies with a hint of snark and a heap of cheek. "And what the fuck do you want?"

♠ 

[kousei ♚]

Insanis


Eyes on fire
Your spine is ablaze
Felling any foe with my gaze
And just in time
In the right place
Steadily emerging with grace

"This is an attic," She answers me, and despite that I don't like it. The snark drips from every word she utters like venom from a snake's fangs. Just her very tone makes me crinkle my nose and my mouth curl into a deep scowl that reflects my disapproval. I asked for an answer, not a heap od snark and attitude thrown in my face. I don't take that - especially not from some slob sitting in the dark as if she's drunkard on the street. Sometimes I wonder how we're even related.

And to make it worse the memory of my painstacking hours organising and dusting down this attic is still ingrained in my mind, and the happiness I felt when I finally turned it from clutter to something presentable still lingers in the back of my brain. So how the hell has it turned from something I created into this clutter kingdom?

But before I can ask she shoots a question of her own back, reflecting her rotten attitude back at me yet again. "And what the fuck do you want?" She asks, as if she owns this damn place - as if I'm the intruder that needs to be chased out like a stray cat. Does she fucking know who she's talking to? She acts like she doesn't, like this is her kingdom, her own makeshift castle and that floor is her throne. What does she expect me to do next? Bow and explain myself like some sort of jester or messenger?

The disrespect it's... inconceivable. I can just barely comprehend it and it builds up a volcano of anger within me, enough to make me erupt - explode like a fiery mountain, a volcano. And a volcano will always wipe out a kingdom, all of it's people...and the 'queen' especially. She's playing with fire but she just doesn't know it, she's tempting fate and that's brave - but also incredibly stupid.

I want to let her have it, yell at her, ring that stupid neck of hers (hell, just looking at her neck is sending my brain into an irrational frenzy) make her apologise to me and beg for forgiveness. I can't, I won't yet. Truth be told I'd rather not touch her, especially if she's been sitting in this nasty clutter for ripred knows how long, doing things I'd rather not think about. And I'd get it all over me, hell I'd sink myself down to this pathetic level. I'm not exactly a rich capitolite myself but I'm definitely not some kind of king of some slummy attic.

I chuckle, but it certainly isn't one of amusement, sarcasm and distaste riddle the harsh, dry chuckle as I stare daggers at my relative. "Very funny, but I'm not blind or stupid you know," I begin, inching closer to her slowly and slowly, "perhaps I need to be clearer; what the fuck is this mess and why the hell is it here?" I finish, keeping my voice at a calm and controlled volume but certainly loud enough for her to hear, loud enough so it's all she'll hear."Well? Explain yourself Keeni." I demand, clenching my knuckles at my side.

Give me one good reason why I shouldn't strangle you right now, if you can.