Weeks 1-5, Season 2 The Bren LJ Idol
Dec. 25th, 2008 12:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dvampyrlestatThe Bren LJ Idol (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
thebrenljidol) is a community, a Survivor-type of writing community.
There is a weekly prompt...everyone submits an entry for that prompt...the entries are posted anonymously and voted on anonymously. People give constructive criticism or "notes" on the entries. As people are voted out it is revealed who wrote what. In the end there will be one writer left standing...will it be you?!
I lasted 14 weeks....and in the Top 8. Not bad, eh, especially for someone as mediocre as me. I got lucky.
* * * * *
Week 1: Prompt - New Beginnings
There were many ways I could have gone about it. Stepped in front of an oncoming vehicle, put a gun to my head and pulled the trigger, or hanged myself with a piece of rope…
If only to bring the end I so longed for.
For what else was there to live for?
What else IS there?
‘Alone’ would not even begin to describe how I felt the moment I stepped out of the train and into the platform this morning. The streets were bustling, and people moved around me with purpose in their strides.
Everyone had direction but me.
I was deluded to even hope things would change and somehow be better by leaving my hometown. Back there, everyone looked at me with either pity or dismissal. Or both. In their eyes, I was that ‘poor girl’, orphaned at such a young age, then jilted at the altar by the one person brave enough to love her.
But he wasn’t brave. At least, not enough.
When do we say we deserve the things coming to us? That was the question that echoed in my brain over and over as I walked the strange streets aimlessly. When do we accept that there are things that we can never control, but controls us?
More importantly, when do we throw in the towel and give up?
As I leaned my elbows on the handrails, I instantly thought nothing looked more inviting than the murky water under the bridge, those tiny ripples luring me to jump into its depths, into oblivion.
I guess that was when I stopped thinking. As I stepped onto the rails, the sound of traffic behind me dissolving into a low hum, I saw only the water. I let go.
Freedom.
The water’s embrace came as a shock. It was cold, so cold, but my body stung with the impact. But I ignored the pain; it would soon pass anyway.
But now, opening my eyes to these white pristine walls, the smell of antiseptic searing through my nostrils, I wondered if this was what Afterlife looked like.
Then doctors and nurses came in and started fussing over me, and I realized.
The pain would never pass.
That kind-looking man who literally fished me out of the water and into his boat…he was standing at the doorway with a look of sincere worry on his face. Our eyes met and there was warmth there, something entirely new to me.
And it felt good.
He came forward and I could see he was about ten years older. Those kind brown eyes looked down on me with an almost fatherly-like tenderness that I wanted to cry. But there was strength in his hands as they touched mine, and I clung on to that strength, keeping the tears at bay.
“How are you doing?”
The voice belonged to someone standing beside the older man, someone I noticed only now. There was no mistaking whose child she was. They had the same coloring.
My eyes went back to the old man, who was now smiling at me. “My daughter saw you floating in the water. She was the one who saved your life. Her name is Anna.”
If not for the concerned look on Anna’s face, I would have laughed at the turn of events. I did not ask to be saved, did I?
He went on speaking in that sing-song voice. “I’m Roger. My wife and I own the fishing boat that took you in. It was a good thing you weren’t hurt too badly. The doctors said in a few days you’ll be as good as new.”
Will I? Will I, really?
Will I be able to start over?
Anna peered at me with those unmistakably brown eyes. “What’s your name?”
I saw the innocence in those eyes, and the kindness in Roger’s. I felt the strength in his hand, the warmth in his smile.
Right there and then, I knew.
“No.” I heard my hoarse voice and wondered if I could change that too, if I could change everything.
“I don’t…remember anything.”
FIN.
Wasn't too happy with this. My first writing attempt in the community. Kinda like my baptism of fire.
* * * * *
Had to use one of two skips for this one because...that was the week I went to Manila to fix my visa for Taiwan.
* * * * *
Week 3 Prompt: Reflection(s)
She felt like a trespasser. Was she even supposed to be here? Was she even welcome?
Sure, they told her they would greatly appreciate her coming, but that did not necessarily mean they'd like the idea of her sudden appearance, did it?
For the nth time since Amy boarded the plane last night she thought about turning back, returning to that basically dull and uneventful life she was leading, way before all those discoveries came to light.
At this very minute, standing across the street from the serene chapel of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, ‘dull’ and ‘uneventful’ seemed miles more comforting.
But she knew this day had to come; putting off the inevitable would only made the waiting worse, a lesson she was learning the hard way right now.
Why did she wait? When they dropped the bomb into her lap months ago, she should have taken the first flight out and confronted the truth head-on. Instead she kept putting it off, saying there’ll be more time for that later.
That ‘later’ came much too, too late.
From where she stood she heard strains of a solemn hymn coming from the chapel. Apart from the cars neatly lined up on the side of the streets, the place was empty of people. Clearly they were all inside the chapel.
Amy didn’t realize how tightly she was clasping her purse until she looked down and didn’t recognize her own white knuckles. Taking one deep breath after another, she willed herself to relax.
It should be all right. She had carefully picked a simple white dress under her brown coat, and she looked presentable enough. She’d just have to go in, pay her respects, perhaps even say hello to the bereaved family, and then leave.
Amy took her time crossing the empty street, her footsteps measured as she walked up to the wide doors of the chapel. She took a deep breath and tentatively reached out to push the door open.
The wide door made a small creaking noise as it swung open. It wasn’t too loud, but it might as well have sounded like an explosion to her ears.
Heads turned at the sound and Amy froze in place as she felt the intensity of the gazes grow heavier and heavier by the second. Murmurs arose from the congregation, some even gasped.
This was a bad idea, Amy thought, contemplating running back down the stairs and away from the chapel.
But then her eyes fell on the casket in front of the altar, the candles’ flames dancing around it.
Just with that, everyone faded into oblivion. It was just her, and that person lying in wait. For her.
Amy took tentative steps through the threshold and as she neared the altar, her treads became firmer, more resolute. She no longer heard the whispers that now grew louder, the glances – some furtive, others openly – thrown her way.
An elderly couple at the front pew got to their feet as Amy moved closer to the altar, but she barely noticed them. She never stopped walking until she came to a stop before the ivory casket.
Then she looked down.
Her heart leapt to her throat. She had known about Lane’s existence for a few months now, even came to terms with the fact that she had a sister separated from her at birth when their single mother died in childbirth. Still, nothing prepared her for the tumultuous emotions that overwhelmed her at the first sight of Lane.
A shaky hand reached out and touched Lane’s cheek. She was so cold. A sob rose through Amy’s throat but she tamped it down. No. Lane wouldn’t want her to cry. Not now.
But she was sorry. She should’ve come sooner. She should have gone to Lane the moment she found out about her.
She should have been braver.
Lane was wearing a white dress, almost the same as the one Amy was wearing now.
Whatever tiny amount of doubt she’d had about their relationship faded as Amy gazed down at her sister’s still form.
Right now, she felt like she was looking into the mirror, at someone who looked exactly like her. The same coloring, same bone structure, same body build...
The only difference was that Lane’s eyes were closed, and never again will they open.
FIN.
...I kinda liked this....KINDA.
* * * * *
Week 4 Prompt: The Golden Rule
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
His voice sounded alien, even to his ears.
“It’s been…seven years…since my last confession.”
The reply came in a soft, calm voice, very much unlike his.
“That’s a long time, son. What took you so long?”
He opted for honesty. “I…forgot.”
“But now you remember.” It was not a question but a statement of fact, and he felt shamed choke him.
“Am I saying the right words?” he inquired, his voice falling below a whisper.
“Words are just words,” said the soothing voice again. “Tell me what you feel, son.”
He wondered if the priest on the other side of the screen could make out his face, see the wretched being that he had become. Up until seven years ago, he had been an altar boy in this parish. This very same confession box had been his refuge whenever the other boys at the orphanage decided to have their fun by bullying him. Many heartfelt prayers have been spoken within this box, and its silence had always been his salve.
Then he had to leave the home he had known since forever. Little had he known just how much he’d lost since. Now, on his knees, on this confession box, an unfamiliar priest waiting for him, he felt the weight of that loss even more.
“I feel…unworthy,” he whispered. “I have done…things. Things I shouldn’t have, things I knew were wrong but…” Even through the screen, he felt the priest’s patience as he waited for him to continue.
“I lost my way, Father. I have stolen, I have cheated on people. I…killed people.”
Suddenly the air seemed to grow thin, closing in on him. He closed his eyes to fight off the dizziness that threatened to swallow him. A few minutes…just a few minutes more… That’s all he needed.
“You…killed people?” This time there was a trace of something else in the priest’s voice. Was it fear? Disgust?
Judgment?
“Yes,” he replied. “I got paid for it, and handsomely, too.” He couldn’t stop. Not now.
“You get paid…to kill people.” There was no judgment in the priest’s voice; he knew that now. Instead it was pity, and it broke his heart.
“They were jobs, Father. Strangers and names, faces I’ve never seen before. But lately they haunt me in my dreams, so I stopped sleeping. Now, even wide awake, I see them. Everywhere.”
There was a short pause. “What did you come here for, son?”
He thought about it. What did he come here for? Forgiveness? That sounded so superficial. Peace? He had shunned it the moment he picked up a gun and made his first kill.
So why did he come here?
He wanted to go back. But there was to be no returning. No, not for him.
He bowed his head. “I don’t know…” Slowly he got to his feet. “I don’t know…”
With heavy footsteps he walked away from the confession box, his face hidden from view of the few parishioners deep in prayer inside the church. He should not have come here.
It was too painful.
He reached the open doors of the church and stepped into the dark street. He didn’t stop walking until he reached the corner and found himself alone. Leaning against a lamp post, his hand gingerly reached inside his jacket.
He looked down as he drew his fingers out, slick and wet with his own blood. What used to be a white shirt was now soaked in red, covered by his black jacket.
He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the post. He recalled the look of pure hatred on his attacker's face when the knife was plunged into him.
The attacker could not have been older than twenty years old. His voice, when he had leaned his face close to his as the knife dug deeper, was that of a boy’s.
What did the boy say again?
“An eye for an eye.”
Who was he? A rival in the killing business? A son of one of his many kills? A random thug on a stabbing spree?
An eye for an eye.
He swallowed, and tasted blood. Sinking slowly to the ground, he was struck with the realization that he would never know who that boy was, or why he did what he did.
Darkness swelled around him. This is the end, he thought. He got what he deserved, that’s what most people would say. He no longer cared.
He was just glad that, in these last few moments, he remembered.
FIN.
...Someone said it would've been better if I shed some light on the pain of the attacker...but I guess I was too lazy, and did not want it to be long. Lolz.
* * * * *
Week 5 Prompt: My Addiction
“I thought you decided not to come.” Micah slid on the seat beside Mart, at the last row, obscured by the many bouquets of flowers adorning the aisles of the Church.
“Well, here I am,” came Mart’s terse reply, his eyes straight ahead, not looking at her.
“What changed your mind?” she asked, and ended up waiting for a reply that wouldn’t come. Finally she sighed. “You could not stay away, could you?”
“Would you?” he asked back, and it was Micah’s turn to be silent. She openly watched his profile, noting the dark smudges under his eyes, the weary lines that weren’t there before. At least he decided to look halfway decent, she relented, noting the nick under his chin, a mishap from shaving. Even his clothes were pressed, albeit shabbily.
Mart had always been the free spirit; not one for appearances, he embraced life like a gift, too precious to waste. Being his childhood friend, Micah had grown up with some of that enthusiasm rubbing off on her.
She had spent most of her life watching him live it up, his exploits, his many adventures. If he were a movie or a play, she had the premium front seats. And backstage passes.
“You look good in that dress,” he said mildly, and under normal circumstances, she would be flattered. He rarely gave compliments so when he does, one knew he meant it.
But this wasn’t a normal circumstance, and she did not feel at all flattered. He never even looked at her for more than ten seconds since he entered the Church and she sat beside him.
Her eyes stinging, Micah blinked rapidly, looking down at her folded hands. “Thanks,” she whispered.
“A new one?” he asked.
“I bought it yesterday.”
“It’s pretty.”
More blinking. “They had it on sale.”
“Of course.”
Micah looked up at the hint of amusement on his voice and, sure enough, the corner of his lips was slightly lifted in a small smile.
“Stingy.” Finally he slid her an amused glance, and Micah found herself beaming back at him, momentarily forgetting where they were, and why they were here.
“Wise spender, you mean,” she corrected him.
The moment disappeared all too soon. The first strains of the wedding march resounded through the now-filled Church, and Micah watched the warmth quickly fade from Mart’s handsome face.
Reluctantly, Micah stood up along with the rest of the congregation. Mart was slower in doing so, and when he did, he had one hand against the back of the pew in front of them, as if to steady himself. Micah wanted to reach out and support him, but she knew that wasn’t what he needed. Not now.
Instead she turned to watch the procession, her eyes witnessing the parade, but her mind floating elsewhere.
She could count with both hands the many times Mart fell in and out of love. His first love back in fifth grade, his first kiss in the sixth. His virginity lost to a girl from out of town. His major breakup with that obnoxious girl across the street. His college sweetheart who simply walked out on him when he refused to be ‘tamed’.
Every rule had an exception, and Lisa was it.
Sweet, beautiful Lisa.
Micah watched as Lisa, clad in an explosion of white and baby-pink, started down the aisle, each step measured. She looked like an angel, gliding, sweeping through the room. All eyes were on her, and she basked in the attention. But mostly her eyes were on the dashing groom patiently waiting at the end of the aisle.
Only on her groom, and not on anyone else. Not even Mart.
She could not – would not – dare look at Mart, could not bear to see how much pain this was giving him.
He loved Lisa. From the moment she walked into Mart’s life during that motorcycle accident, nursing him back to health as her profession dictated, she had his heart.
Micah knew it was a disaster waiting to happen. Lisa was hardly at fault; Micah knew that, in some way, she did care for Mart. Only not as deeply as Mart would have wanted to believe.
And he believed, oh, how he believed. Micah was there when he sold his bikes, when he decided to start looking for a proper job, one that did not involve risking his neck for cheap thrills. She was there when he resolved to be the man that Lisa would love.
When Lisa reached her groom, Micah turned to find Mart no longer beside her. Discreetly she left her seat and made her way outside.
Mart stood there, leaning against the brick wall, hands on his pockets, staring off into space.
Micah soundlessly came up beside him and leaned against the wall.
“You’re pathetic,” she said softly.
“I know.” He breathed the admission.
“And hopeless.”
“That I am.”
“You know…at some point, this has got to stop.” Micah no longer knew when she stopped talking about him and started talking about herself.
It took a while before he stirred. When he did, it was to straighten and take one step forward. Micah waited.
“I…can’t stop.” He turned to look at her. In his eyes, his heart was breaking. “I won’t.”
Neither can I, she thought, her heart breaking along with his.
FIN.
...i kinda notice how miserable my stories are. lolz
thebrenljidol) is a community, a Survivor-type of writing community. There is a weekly prompt...everyone submits an entry for that prompt...the entries are posted anonymously and voted on anonymously. People give constructive criticism or "notes" on the entries. As people are voted out it is revealed who wrote what. In the end there will be one writer left standing...will it be you?!
I lasted 14 weeks....and in the Top 8. Not bad, eh, especially for someone as mediocre as me. I got lucky.
* * * * *
Week 1: Prompt - New Beginnings
There were many ways I could have gone about it. Stepped in front of an oncoming vehicle, put a gun to my head and pulled the trigger, or hanged myself with a piece of rope…
If only to bring the end I so longed for.
For what else was there to live for?
What else IS there?
‘Alone’ would not even begin to describe how I felt the moment I stepped out of the train and into the platform this morning. The streets were bustling, and people moved around me with purpose in their strides.
Everyone had direction but me.
I was deluded to even hope things would change and somehow be better by leaving my hometown. Back there, everyone looked at me with either pity or dismissal. Or both. In their eyes, I was that ‘poor girl’, orphaned at such a young age, then jilted at the altar by the one person brave enough to love her.
But he wasn’t brave. At least, not enough.
When do we say we deserve the things coming to us? That was the question that echoed in my brain over and over as I walked the strange streets aimlessly. When do we accept that there are things that we can never control, but controls us?
More importantly, when do we throw in the towel and give up?
As I leaned my elbows on the handrails, I instantly thought nothing looked more inviting than the murky water under the bridge, those tiny ripples luring me to jump into its depths, into oblivion.
I guess that was when I stopped thinking. As I stepped onto the rails, the sound of traffic behind me dissolving into a low hum, I saw only the water. I let go.
Freedom.
The water’s embrace came as a shock. It was cold, so cold, but my body stung with the impact. But I ignored the pain; it would soon pass anyway.
But now, opening my eyes to these white pristine walls, the smell of antiseptic searing through my nostrils, I wondered if this was what Afterlife looked like.
Then doctors and nurses came in and started fussing over me, and I realized.
The pain would never pass.
That kind-looking man who literally fished me out of the water and into his boat…he was standing at the doorway with a look of sincere worry on his face. Our eyes met and there was warmth there, something entirely new to me.
And it felt good.
He came forward and I could see he was about ten years older. Those kind brown eyes looked down on me with an almost fatherly-like tenderness that I wanted to cry. But there was strength in his hands as they touched mine, and I clung on to that strength, keeping the tears at bay.
“How are you doing?”
The voice belonged to someone standing beside the older man, someone I noticed only now. There was no mistaking whose child she was. They had the same coloring.
My eyes went back to the old man, who was now smiling at me. “My daughter saw you floating in the water. She was the one who saved your life. Her name is Anna.”
If not for the concerned look on Anna’s face, I would have laughed at the turn of events. I did not ask to be saved, did I?
He went on speaking in that sing-song voice. “I’m Roger. My wife and I own the fishing boat that took you in. It was a good thing you weren’t hurt too badly. The doctors said in a few days you’ll be as good as new.”
Will I? Will I, really?
Will I be able to start over?
Anna peered at me with those unmistakably brown eyes. “What’s your name?”
I saw the innocence in those eyes, and the kindness in Roger’s. I felt the strength in his hand, the warmth in his smile.
Right there and then, I knew.
“No.” I heard my hoarse voice and wondered if I could change that too, if I could change everything.
“I don’t…remember anything.”
FIN.
Wasn't too happy with this. My first writing attempt in the community. Kinda like my baptism of fire.
* * * * *
Had to use one of two skips for this one because...that was the week I went to Manila to fix my visa for Taiwan.
* * * * *
Week 3 Prompt: Reflection(s)
She felt like a trespasser. Was she even supposed to be here? Was she even welcome?
Sure, they told her they would greatly appreciate her coming, but that did not necessarily mean they'd like the idea of her sudden appearance, did it?
For the nth time since Amy boarded the plane last night she thought about turning back, returning to that basically dull and uneventful life she was leading, way before all those discoveries came to light.
At this very minute, standing across the street from the serene chapel of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, ‘dull’ and ‘uneventful’ seemed miles more comforting.
But she knew this day had to come; putting off the inevitable would only made the waiting worse, a lesson she was learning the hard way right now.
Why did she wait? When they dropped the bomb into her lap months ago, she should have taken the first flight out and confronted the truth head-on. Instead she kept putting it off, saying there’ll be more time for that later.
That ‘later’ came much too, too late.
From where she stood she heard strains of a solemn hymn coming from the chapel. Apart from the cars neatly lined up on the side of the streets, the place was empty of people. Clearly they were all inside the chapel.
Amy didn’t realize how tightly she was clasping her purse until she looked down and didn’t recognize her own white knuckles. Taking one deep breath after another, she willed herself to relax.
It should be all right. She had carefully picked a simple white dress under her brown coat, and she looked presentable enough. She’d just have to go in, pay her respects, perhaps even say hello to the bereaved family, and then leave.
Amy took her time crossing the empty street, her footsteps measured as she walked up to the wide doors of the chapel. She took a deep breath and tentatively reached out to push the door open.
The wide door made a small creaking noise as it swung open. It wasn’t too loud, but it might as well have sounded like an explosion to her ears.
Heads turned at the sound and Amy froze in place as she felt the intensity of the gazes grow heavier and heavier by the second. Murmurs arose from the congregation, some even gasped.
This was a bad idea, Amy thought, contemplating running back down the stairs and away from the chapel.
But then her eyes fell on the casket in front of the altar, the candles’ flames dancing around it.
Just with that, everyone faded into oblivion. It was just her, and that person lying in wait. For her.
Amy took tentative steps through the threshold and as she neared the altar, her treads became firmer, more resolute. She no longer heard the whispers that now grew louder, the glances – some furtive, others openly – thrown her way.
An elderly couple at the front pew got to their feet as Amy moved closer to the altar, but she barely noticed them. She never stopped walking until she came to a stop before the ivory casket.
Then she looked down.
Her heart leapt to her throat. She had known about Lane’s existence for a few months now, even came to terms with the fact that she had a sister separated from her at birth when their single mother died in childbirth. Still, nothing prepared her for the tumultuous emotions that overwhelmed her at the first sight of Lane.
A shaky hand reached out and touched Lane’s cheek. She was so cold. A sob rose through Amy’s throat but she tamped it down. No. Lane wouldn’t want her to cry. Not now.
But she was sorry. She should’ve come sooner. She should have gone to Lane the moment she found out about her.
She should have been braver.
Lane was wearing a white dress, almost the same as the one Amy was wearing now.
Whatever tiny amount of doubt she’d had about their relationship faded as Amy gazed down at her sister’s still form.
Right now, she felt like she was looking into the mirror, at someone who looked exactly like her. The same coloring, same bone structure, same body build...
The only difference was that Lane’s eyes were closed, and never again will they open.
FIN.
...I kinda liked this....KINDA.
* * * * *
Week 4 Prompt: The Golden Rule
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
His voice sounded alien, even to his ears.
“It’s been…seven years…since my last confession.”
The reply came in a soft, calm voice, very much unlike his.
“That’s a long time, son. What took you so long?”
He opted for honesty. “I…forgot.”
“But now you remember.” It was not a question but a statement of fact, and he felt shamed choke him.
“Am I saying the right words?” he inquired, his voice falling below a whisper.
“Words are just words,” said the soothing voice again. “Tell me what you feel, son.”
He wondered if the priest on the other side of the screen could make out his face, see the wretched being that he had become. Up until seven years ago, he had been an altar boy in this parish. This very same confession box had been his refuge whenever the other boys at the orphanage decided to have their fun by bullying him. Many heartfelt prayers have been spoken within this box, and its silence had always been his salve.
Then he had to leave the home he had known since forever. Little had he known just how much he’d lost since. Now, on his knees, on this confession box, an unfamiliar priest waiting for him, he felt the weight of that loss even more.
“I feel…unworthy,” he whispered. “I have done…things. Things I shouldn’t have, things I knew were wrong but…” Even through the screen, he felt the priest’s patience as he waited for him to continue.
“I lost my way, Father. I have stolen, I have cheated on people. I…killed people.”
Suddenly the air seemed to grow thin, closing in on him. He closed his eyes to fight off the dizziness that threatened to swallow him. A few minutes…just a few minutes more… That’s all he needed.
“You…killed people?” This time there was a trace of something else in the priest’s voice. Was it fear? Disgust?
Judgment?
“Yes,” he replied. “I got paid for it, and handsomely, too.” He couldn’t stop. Not now.
“You get paid…to kill people.” There was no judgment in the priest’s voice; he knew that now. Instead it was pity, and it broke his heart.
“They were jobs, Father. Strangers and names, faces I’ve never seen before. But lately they haunt me in my dreams, so I stopped sleeping. Now, even wide awake, I see them. Everywhere.”
There was a short pause. “What did you come here for, son?”
He thought about it. What did he come here for? Forgiveness? That sounded so superficial. Peace? He had shunned it the moment he picked up a gun and made his first kill.
So why did he come here?
He wanted to go back. But there was to be no returning. No, not for him.
He bowed his head. “I don’t know…” Slowly he got to his feet. “I don’t know…”
With heavy footsteps he walked away from the confession box, his face hidden from view of the few parishioners deep in prayer inside the church. He should not have come here.
It was too painful.
He reached the open doors of the church and stepped into the dark street. He didn’t stop walking until he reached the corner and found himself alone. Leaning against a lamp post, his hand gingerly reached inside his jacket.
He looked down as he drew his fingers out, slick and wet with his own blood. What used to be a white shirt was now soaked in red, covered by his black jacket.
He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the post. He recalled the look of pure hatred on his attacker's face when the knife was plunged into him.
The attacker could not have been older than twenty years old. His voice, when he had leaned his face close to his as the knife dug deeper, was that of a boy’s.
What did the boy say again?
“An eye for an eye.”
Who was he? A rival in the killing business? A son of one of his many kills? A random thug on a stabbing spree?
An eye for an eye.
He swallowed, and tasted blood. Sinking slowly to the ground, he was struck with the realization that he would never know who that boy was, or why he did what he did.
Darkness swelled around him. This is the end, he thought. He got what he deserved, that’s what most people would say. He no longer cared.
He was just glad that, in these last few moments, he remembered.
FIN.
...Someone said it would've been better if I shed some light on the pain of the attacker...but I guess I was too lazy, and did not want it to be long. Lolz.
* * * * *
Week 5 Prompt: My Addiction
“I thought you decided not to come.” Micah slid on the seat beside Mart, at the last row, obscured by the many bouquets of flowers adorning the aisles of the Church.
“Well, here I am,” came Mart’s terse reply, his eyes straight ahead, not looking at her.
“What changed your mind?” she asked, and ended up waiting for a reply that wouldn’t come. Finally she sighed. “You could not stay away, could you?”
“Would you?” he asked back, and it was Micah’s turn to be silent. She openly watched his profile, noting the dark smudges under his eyes, the weary lines that weren’t there before. At least he decided to look halfway decent, she relented, noting the nick under his chin, a mishap from shaving. Even his clothes were pressed, albeit shabbily.
Mart had always been the free spirit; not one for appearances, he embraced life like a gift, too precious to waste. Being his childhood friend, Micah had grown up with some of that enthusiasm rubbing off on her.
She had spent most of her life watching him live it up, his exploits, his many adventures. If he were a movie or a play, she had the premium front seats. And backstage passes.
“You look good in that dress,” he said mildly, and under normal circumstances, she would be flattered. He rarely gave compliments so when he does, one knew he meant it.
But this wasn’t a normal circumstance, and she did not feel at all flattered. He never even looked at her for more than ten seconds since he entered the Church and she sat beside him.
Her eyes stinging, Micah blinked rapidly, looking down at her folded hands. “Thanks,” she whispered.
“A new one?” he asked.
“I bought it yesterday.”
“It’s pretty.”
More blinking. “They had it on sale.”
“Of course.”
Micah looked up at the hint of amusement on his voice and, sure enough, the corner of his lips was slightly lifted in a small smile.
“Stingy.” Finally he slid her an amused glance, and Micah found herself beaming back at him, momentarily forgetting where they were, and why they were here.
“Wise spender, you mean,” she corrected him.
The moment disappeared all too soon. The first strains of the wedding march resounded through the now-filled Church, and Micah watched the warmth quickly fade from Mart’s handsome face.
Reluctantly, Micah stood up along with the rest of the congregation. Mart was slower in doing so, and when he did, he had one hand against the back of the pew in front of them, as if to steady himself. Micah wanted to reach out and support him, but she knew that wasn’t what he needed. Not now.
Instead she turned to watch the procession, her eyes witnessing the parade, but her mind floating elsewhere.
She could count with both hands the many times Mart fell in and out of love. His first love back in fifth grade, his first kiss in the sixth. His virginity lost to a girl from out of town. His major breakup with that obnoxious girl across the street. His college sweetheart who simply walked out on him when he refused to be ‘tamed’.
Every rule had an exception, and Lisa was it.
Sweet, beautiful Lisa.
Micah watched as Lisa, clad in an explosion of white and baby-pink, started down the aisle, each step measured. She looked like an angel, gliding, sweeping through the room. All eyes were on her, and she basked in the attention. But mostly her eyes were on the dashing groom patiently waiting at the end of the aisle.
Only on her groom, and not on anyone else. Not even Mart.
She could not – would not – dare look at Mart, could not bear to see how much pain this was giving him.
He loved Lisa. From the moment she walked into Mart’s life during that motorcycle accident, nursing him back to health as her profession dictated, she had his heart.
Micah knew it was a disaster waiting to happen. Lisa was hardly at fault; Micah knew that, in some way, she did care for Mart. Only not as deeply as Mart would have wanted to believe.
And he believed, oh, how he believed. Micah was there when he sold his bikes, when he decided to start looking for a proper job, one that did not involve risking his neck for cheap thrills. She was there when he resolved to be the man that Lisa would love.
When Lisa reached her groom, Micah turned to find Mart no longer beside her. Discreetly she left her seat and made her way outside.
Mart stood there, leaning against the brick wall, hands on his pockets, staring off into space.
Micah soundlessly came up beside him and leaned against the wall.
“You’re pathetic,” she said softly.
“I know.” He breathed the admission.
“And hopeless.”
“That I am.”
“You know…at some point, this has got to stop.” Micah no longer knew when she stopped talking about him and started talking about herself.
It took a while before he stirred. When he did, it was to straighten and take one step forward. Micah waited.
“I…can’t stop.” He turned to look at her. In his eyes, his heart was breaking. “I won’t.”
Neither can I, she thought, her heart breaking along with his.
FIN.
...i kinda notice how miserable my stories are. lolz
