from van gogh's severed ear; kousei [blitz]

[heather - d2 [mylee]]

s h e l b y ♔ l e v i a n e

When I had imagined the world my sister saw versus that of my own, I imagined a world that spun 'round in colors I had never seen before. I had imagined the walls to bend and the floor to give way under foot.

I am sure now that this is not what my sister had seen in her eighteen years living.

Despite the delusion that had been written on her body as a permanent label, Cha Leviane was as calm as the sea at the break of dawn. She was precision in movement and fearlessness in action. She was everything I could not claim to be now as I stumbled into the training center on unsteady feet.

I was the storm without warning, appearing suddenly on the horizon with an unplanned course of action and no destination in mind. I was looking for something that would be impossible to find unless I gave my mind a moment’s notice to clear, but that meant making way for hysteria and realization, and those were two acquaintances I did not care to make again.

Like the man had in eight had told me that fateful night we took shots to patch our hearts filled with bullet holes, tragedy could not have occurred if you did not remember it.

There is no stability in a mind turned over itself, suicidal without the killing and indifferent without the opinion. Likewise, there is no knowledge to be found in a nameless face and no life to be found in dead eyes.

But there is always something hidden.

Whether it be otherworldly or commonplace, every soul has a secret and every bone has a breaking point. What is the point in being human unless you have something to show for your humanity?

Sauntering up to the boy from one, I lean in and whisper in his ear, “I know your secret.”

Bullshit is the most modern form of bravery.

[kousei ♚]

I wonder if he ever left a mark on an impressionable surface that was fashioned from something other than blood. I only ever knew of my predecessor as puzzle piece to hope previously unseen represented on a television screen but it was obvious to even the smallest child that he only knew how to make his mark in red. Holding a blade as if it was sewn to his palm, spilling blood as if he could dye monochromia in shades of red; had his sanity not been scattered like the ashes of those long dead along a beach he might've been the perfect career son.

(perhaps)

But he was not eternal, in a similar way, do I embody infinity; it doesn't stop me from tracing the edges of every blade I wield, the shaft of every spear I handle, the hilt of every sword I grasp for something that resembles something of Asha Lumiere.

(I never so much as spoke to him, I wouldn't know what I was looking for even if I tried)

It's a shame I've never been one for examining the odds and analyzing the statistics and possibilities, the time wasted squinting weapons and tracing my finger along blades could've been better spent doing something productive, fighting for versatility.

“I know your secret.”

I freeze, there's a shiver running up and down my spine and the familiar smell of liquor-ridden breath filling my nose. It's almost instinctive to reply with 'what secret?' but there's too many to even count on one hand.

So my reply comes in the form of a voice crack. "I don't know what you're talking about."

I see no escape route in sight.