06-25-2017, 10:04 AM
you can have my isolation,
you can have the hate that it brings.
you can have the hate that it brings.
He was rigid; a barrier place between he and any he might interact with.
A barrier between the heat stirring within his chest and what might become burnt; singed by the concealed flame that wavers and flickers somewhere within him. He did not like to have many close to him – once, he might have, but he is no longer willing nor able to be so open with anyone at all. While his body has been marred with scar tissue for longer than he can remember, there is deep, insidious wounds dug in deeply where no prying eyes can see – memories that haunt him; visions that stir a wretched nausea in his belly and bloodlust somewhere in his bones. He is torn, between who he has been, and who he will become – alas, what is left of him is left in the middle. Uncertainty had become as much a part of him as the fire itself, it seemed.
He preferred his isolation. The edges of the darkness that have been slowly creeping upon him leave him breathless, and faltering – and the façade of stoicism, and of indifference protect both himself and those his heart (his darkening, blackening heart) cares for. He can feel his eyes boring into him, searching the depths of his startlingly dark, crimson eyes – the hardened lines of his face for any sign of weakness, for any semblance of humanity, but he will find none there.
He is quiet. Rigid.
Apathetic.
Or so it seemed.
His mind drifts away for a moment to a different time, to a different place – to his companionship with Brynmor (a brotherhood he would never share with Nymphetamine; no different than his kinship with Killdare), to his broad, lively kingdom of ice and snow. Still, a pang stirs within his heart, as longing rises to the surface. He longed for days long since passed. Days that were nothing more than memories.
He says nothing upon his affirmation (he knew that he would heed his request), allowing the silence to fill to the stagnant and heavy air, his gaze averted elsewhere to the adjoining island where the volcano stirs and rumbles once more. It is not unlike him – rolling, unpredictable, dangerous. The fire burns brighter, causing the corners of his eyes to flinch – but only slightly.
His gaze searches his then – burning, as his brow line becomes furrowed in thought – in contemplation. He hardly knew Nymphetamine. He had given him a heavy task, knowing that the weight of it would not be too much for him as it might be for anyone else, knowing that he, too, longed for a gentle reminder of what had been lost in the aftermath of the Reckoning. However, it did not mean that he would – or could – trust him.
Not yet.
Not now.
”In time, perhaps we will have a closer relationship. As it stands in present time, my personal life will remain just that. Personal.”
I’m angry, he doesn’t say. I’m hurting. I’m falling apart, he won’t say.
Not yet.
Not now.
”I appreciate your time, Nymphetamine. See to it that what I have asked is done, and you will have my gratitude.”
A barrier between the heat stirring within his chest and what might become burnt; singed by the concealed flame that wavers and flickers somewhere within him. He did not like to have many close to him – once, he might have, but he is no longer willing nor able to be so open with anyone at all. While his body has been marred with scar tissue for longer than he can remember, there is deep, insidious wounds dug in deeply where no prying eyes can see – memories that haunt him; visions that stir a wretched nausea in his belly and bloodlust somewhere in his bones. He is torn, between who he has been, and who he will become – alas, what is left of him is left in the middle. Uncertainty had become as much a part of him as the fire itself, it seemed.
He preferred his isolation. The edges of the darkness that have been slowly creeping upon him leave him breathless, and faltering – and the façade of stoicism, and of indifference protect both himself and those his heart (his darkening, blackening heart) cares for. He can feel his eyes boring into him, searching the depths of his startlingly dark, crimson eyes – the hardened lines of his face for any sign of weakness, for any semblance of humanity, but he will find none there.
He is quiet. Rigid.
Apathetic.
Or so it seemed.
His mind drifts away for a moment to a different time, to a different place – to his companionship with Brynmor (a brotherhood he would never share with Nymphetamine; no different than his kinship with Killdare), to his broad, lively kingdom of ice and snow. Still, a pang stirs within his heart, as longing rises to the surface. He longed for days long since passed. Days that were nothing more than memories.
He says nothing upon his affirmation (he knew that he would heed his request), allowing the silence to fill to the stagnant and heavy air, his gaze averted elsewhere to the adjoining island where the volcano stirs and rumbles once more. It is not unlike him – rolling, unpredictable, dangerous. The fire burns brighter, causing the corners of his eyes to flinch – but only slightly.
His gaze searches his then – burning, as his brow line becomes furrowed in thought – in contemplation. He hardly knew Nymphetamine. He had given him a heavy task, knowing that the weight of it would not be too much for him as it might be for anyone else, knowing that he, too, longed for a gentle reminder of what had been lost in the aftermath of the Reckoning. However, it did not mean that he would – or could – trust him.
Not yet.
Not now.
”In time, perhaps we will have a closer relationship. As it stands in present time, my personal life will remain just that. Personal.”
I’m angry, he doesn’t say. I’m hurting. I’m falling apart, he won’t say.
Not yet.
Not now.
”I appreciate your time, Nymphetamine. See to it that what I have asked is done, and you will have my gratitude.”
you can have my absence of faith,
you can have my everything.
you can have my everything.
OFFSPRING