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| come morning L • I • G • H • T •; Active | Closed | Mature | |
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| Topic Started: May 3 2012, 01:34 AM (551 Views) | |
| Vidia | May 3 2012, 01:34 AM Post #1 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 407px; text-align:justify;"> I stare outside the carriage window, watching as the world flurries by. I don't think thoughts. Nothing makes any sense anymore, not even for me. All I see are old memories, ghosts, not the phantoms of nightmares but the familiar faces from dreams. Father coaxing Mother to play the harpsichord, Mother's favorite sun-hats, Father at his desk, their wedding china in the cabinet…it's a scary thing to lose your mind. I think I might be going mad, and I desperately want to hold Grandfather's hand, but he's outside, driving. I'm alone, nothing but Father's old leather portmanteau beside me. <br><br>My chest pulls tight like the ribbons of a corset, and I'm struggling to breathe. I close my eyes and hold onto the sides of the cushioned seat, just to have something to keep me here. But my mind keeps on going back to that day when I was stamping my feet in this carriage, Mother beside me while Father drove, and Grandfather was with him at the front. I was crying because I wanted to go with them. I wanted to go with them in the silver Zeppelin, traversing the sky, floating over the world like a feather, a bubble of foam in the ocean. <br><br>But I couldn't go, because Mother said it was a business venture and that I shouldn't like it anyway. She and Father were summoned by this family, the Slades, I think she said they were called. She said one day I would meet them, but for now, I'm not needed, and that I should feel lucky that I don't have to see the Slades yet--poking me promptly in the stomach as she smiled at me (although it seemed sad, somehow)--telling me that they eat the horrible things like jellied eels, my least favorite dish. I pursed my lips at that, and finally, reluctantly, decided to accept the situation. We arrived at the station, and I let them go after we exchanged good-bye kisses. I remember. Grandfather carried me as I waved to them when they boarded, my mother's buttercup yellow skirts blowing fiercely in the rough winds, with my father's hand on her back to guide her through. <br><br>It was the last time I ever saw them, because the very same winds that were wrinkling Mother's new dress were what tore the Zeppelin down...a great big silverly star falling to the earth, exploding like a fallen vase when it hit the ground. But we didn't find out until three days later. For three days, Grandfather watched over me in the house as I played with my dolls and tried to be good by practicing some of my French. We'd lie outside in the garden together and I'd try to call the things Grandfather saw in the clouds by their French names. We had so much fun--and I didn't even know Mother and Father's souls were wandering space at the time. <br><br>Then one night, the taper-o-graph started to sing the saddest song. At least, that's how it sounded in my mind. Grandfather said it rang all the same, but I know what I heard. Something just seemed different that night. He was busy working on something, however, so I ran to pick it up, eager to use my grown-up skills in conversation by electric line. But whoever was on the phone didn't wish to speak to me, which made me very upset when I told Grandfather that he was needed instead. He told me it as most likely boring business, and to prove it, allowed me to listen along with the conversation. He picked up the bell of the device and held it between our ears, and I listened on excitedly, elated to be part of the mature world where the door was so frequently shut in front of me. <br><br>I wish that door had been closed. <br><br>"Hello? Is thi--" <br><br>"Yes, this is Quincy Ingram speaking. How may I help you?" <br><br>"I'm so sorry, sir, the exoskeleton ripped and the captain couldn't keep it stable. No one should've been flying at at all that day, really, if you ask me, I think it--" <br><br>"What?…What?" <br><br>The man on the other side's voice sounded like it was squeaking. <br><br>"Your daughter…and her husband. They're dead." <br><br>The hand holding the bell started to shake. <br><br>"…my god." <br><br>"I wasn't aware the officials hadn't told you until now. Your daughter made arrangements in case something happened--I'm your barrister, Mr. Ingram. We can go over the documents whenever you have time, but for now, the most important thing is that Lavinia Trumeter will go to your care-taking, as well as the house and the vehicles Mr. and Mrs. Trumeter once owned. Everything in--" <br><br>"IS THIS YOUR IDEA OF SOME SORT OF SICK JOKE?!" Grandfather suddenly bellowed into the brass cup, frightening me as I lurched backwards. <br><br>"…Mr. Ingram, I understand this must be a very tough time for you, but I would never--" <br><br>"HOW DARE YOU CALL THIS HOUSE!!! WHO GAVE YOU THIS NUMBER?!" <br><br>I felt as if I was standing in the middle of a hurricane, Grandfather's voice coming like thunder. But it was thunder in a box, because suddenly, it was quiet, and very, very still. I stared at the bell as if it was something I had never seen before, the sight substituting for words that I just couldn't wrap my head around. <br><br>Finally, just when Grandfather was going to hang it back up and end the call, the voice came. <br><br>"I'm sorry, Mr. Ingram." <br><br>"We'll talk some other time." <br><br>The line was cut off from the other end. <br><br>Grandfather began to tremble, and he dropped the copper corolla. It fell to the hardwood floor with a clang, leaving a scratch, and I instantly bent down to examine it. "Mother's going to be furious…hurry, let's move the rug to cover it, Grandfather!" I told him, moving over to grab the edge of the carpet to tug it and hide the mark. Grandfather didn't even look at me, and I had to do it by myself. I thought that the man's words were crazy--Mother and Father were fine, eating jellied eels with the Slades. There was nothing to worry about. It couldn't be true. <br><br>It couldn't be true. <br><br>It couldn't be true, not even when the newspaper arrived, and I recognized the Zeppelin in the picture. <br><br>It couldn't be true, not even when they didn't come home. <br><br>No, it couldn't be, it couldn't be, it couldn't be, IT COULDN'T BE! <br><br>I waited day in and day out for the door to open and to see them again...Father apologizing sheepishly, Mother instantly wanting to change into fresh clothes. But it never happened. And a month and a half after that man's call, Grandfather made me put on a black frock and go to the cemetery, where shining white headstones with the names Adam and Isobel Trumeter on them. I was furious that he did that, so, so angry…I couldn't speak to him for four days. I didn't speak at all--a task that would've been so hard for me three months ago, but came as easily as sleep now. <br><br>I only spoke up when I heard that Grandfather was selling the house, another unforgivable thing. It's been in the family for years, and I know my parents would hate to have to live somewhere else. But Grandfather said it was needed to pay off a debt…debt, debt DEBT, that's all any adult seemed to talk about around here! Some stupid old debt from ages ago! It's why Grandfather doesn't have a house of his own anymore, and had to move in with some friend of his instead! He said it was better because they need to work on something together, but that was the house he and Grandmother lived in and I KNOW it's not the same! He didn't WANT to, but he had to because we needed money! <br><br>And now, I lost most of Mother and Father's possessions because we STILL need money! Money, MONEY! Doesn't it just make you sick!?!? Doesn't it just make you want to cry?! Doesn't it?! Doesn't it!? <br><br>My chest pulls together even tighter, and I bite down on my lip as if it's a lever that would stop these memories and feelings. I say I didn't speak at all at that time, but I barely speak now. I don't know what to say. I'm so angry with Grandfather all the time. I hate this. I hate this. I just want to see my mother and father. It isn't fair. I hate him for the graves. I hate him for the house. I hate him for saying I have to move in with him and his friend now. I hate him for making me leave, for making me choose what I want to keep from the house. None of it is mine! This is Father's, and this is Mother's, and this is Father's too, and I don't want to take them because they don't belong to me, but I do so anyway because I don't want him to sell everything! I HATE HIM! <br><br>My foot kicks the wall in front of me and an unbearable cry bursts from me like a whine, hand thumping against the door but not opening it. I hate all these lies, all this fakeness. I want to go home to my own bed and toys. I want to go home to my treehouse. I want to go home. I can't take it. I'm going to run away if he makes me live here for too long. Mother and Father will be expecting us back at the house! What will they do when they come back from their trip with their house sold, and Grandfather and I in some other house?! It doesn't make any sense! It doesn't make any sense! Just like how I keep on REMEMBERING things, like thinking back, as if my mind is afraid of losing these memories. It's silly! It's all so silly, and yet I don't know why I do it. <br><br>The carriage eventually slows, and I hear Grandfather hopping down from the chair, his boots hitting the floor. He immediately pulls the door open. "C'mon down, princess," he says, holding his hands out to me, but I still haven't forgiven him, and I jump to the ground without his assistance. I've forgiven him easily for so many things before, but for these things, I just can't. He understands this somehow though, and that just makes me angrier for some reason. I HATE being so mad all the time, but I know…I just know, if my parents came home, everything would be better. <br><br>Grandfather takes the luggage and leads me over to the front door of the house. To my surprise (but muted under all this sourness), he just opens it, instead of knocking. I suppose he's been living here, but I still find it strange. I follow him inside anyway, and I hate that I'm here, I just want to-- <br><br>Against my will, I step into the new house, with my lips grimly pressed together. But then my eyes are hit with everything I've never seen before, and I feel something rush through my bones--it's sharp. I know its name, both in English and in French, I've read it in books but never felt it burn this way before, in the back of my eyes, in the middle of my throat…the truth. It's the truth, I know it, I've known it all along but I was trying to avoid it and now I know that they're never coming back, and I'll never have a real home again, and for the rest of my life, I'll be here, without my mother and father's good night kisses, cold cheeks and no more picnics. Without warning, I fall to my knees, hands pressed to my face as I lean over, whole body shuddering with sobs that now echo through this unknown house. I weep without stopping, having shed no tears except those of irritation and exasperation before. These are pure, untouched woe, and I don't know what to do. <br><br> They're gone, they're really gone. <br><br>I could go to the ends of the earth, I could live a million years, and I'd still never find them again. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
| icon by appleindecay | |
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| Gipity | May 3 2012, 10:01 AM Post #2 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>I had a good life. I had the people I needed. I had my father and my grandfather. I had Mr. Ingram, who felt like part of our askew family, and I had Vinnie. She had come to live with us awhile back when her parents were killed in a treacherous accident. It was rough at first, but eventually we became inseparable friends. We would play, have adventures, talk about where we would go and what we would see, and promise each other we'd see the world someday together. <br><br>Meanwhile, with my assistance, the older men created all the parts required for a proper time machine. For many it was an impossible idea, but we believed it could be done. Wentworth, my grandfather, and Mr. Ingram had not been working on the science of it their entire lives for nothing. My father Reginald followed in their footsteps, assisting them at a young age, and I was no different. I had an eccentric mind, even for a child, but it seemed I was intelligent. They allowed me to build with them, and by the time I was thirteen years of age, the machine was finished. <br><br>It worked. Of course it worked. It was a miracle, a miracle that made me more proud of myself than I'd ever been. We were all extremely proud. I wanted to use it. I wanted to use it badly. I wanted to take Vinnie's hand and take her all across time, to see things we could have never dreamed of seeing before. I wasn't allowed to though. The machine caused some conflict. My father wanted to see my mother again, but Mr. Ingram and my grandfather had to convince him that any changes could lead to me not being born at all. They managed to settle him down. My dear Vinnie wanted to rescue her parents. No such thing could be done. It was not possible to save those who were already gone to us, for it meant a soul that wasn't meant to be traipsing the world was present, and that could send all of time and space off kilter. <br><br>So, it wasn't touched. We decided to put it away. Using it for recreational purposes wasn't particularly an option, not with the war raging on as it was. Things were getting worse out there, and we all had to stick together. Leaving to another time wasn't going to help matters, especially not when the government had a watchful eye on my father, grandfather, and Mr. Ingram. They did work for them after all, and to be withholding such a powerful weapon would surely be punishable. We couldn't let them have it. We didn't want to imagine the things they would do with it. We couldn't all leave either for it was far too dangerous to time travel with more than three. Things would be simple. The time machine existed, but it's use would have to wait for now. <br><br>So, we lived a fine and simplistic life. We were unaffected by the war so far. Me and Vinnie could continue to play and thrive while our family worked and made a sufficient living. <br><br>That was until the War of Agua Pura crept into our part of the country a year later. <br><br>The worst part was that my draft came with no warning. Two men from the army had come to our door. They didn't even have to ask if any boys of fourteen years of age lived in the house for there I stood, looking at them with wide eyes. They showed my father the warrant to take me, to force me into the war, but my father argued. I had never seen him through such a fit before. "You can't do that! He's a child! A boy! He's my son!" All I could do was stare as I watched the tears grow in his eyes, easily slipping out without effort. "Please, gentlemen, please. He's really all I have. Don't take him away from me! He's hardly suitable for war!" <br><br>Those last words made it sink in to me. They were going to drag me off into the war. A war filled with violence, explosions, and battles. It was littered with dead or dying men. There were screams and blood. It was a nightmare. It was not for me. Some men, some boys, they craved fighting and being some sort of warrior, of saving their country, no matter the cost. I remember when a few boys in the market had picked a fight with me. I didn't care to fight back. Vinnie had attempted to help me out, and things had only become different to me when they had hit her, and I had to keep her safe. That was the only time I had hit anyone, and I had hit them hard. <br><br>That was all. I never desired to do it again. I felt horrible afterward even if he might have deserved it. I... I was a protector. I wasn't a fighter. <br><br>I could feel fear planting a seed into the pit of my soul, each insisting word the men said watering it and causing it grow bigger and bigger. There was nothing that Father could do. No matter how much he pleaded. Grandfather, Mr. Ingram and Vinnie were away, out buying groceries. It was only me and my father. Finally, the men grew loud, telling my father they were going to have to take me by force right in that moment if I did not pack and say my goodbyes now. That managed to still my father and slowly he turned to me. I was like a statue as he walked over, standing in front of me, gazing down at me with glossy eyes. <br><br>"August, listen to me. You're going to be okay. You will be. You're a smart boy. You will come back to us and everything will be like it was." I feel him brush back my hair as I take in his words. Nothing feels okay right now. I feel so ill. "I'm not going to lose you too, okay?" He asked me, his throat betraying him as he lets out a sob. He gives my arms a squeeze and hugs me tight to him. I hesitate a moment before I hug him back, my eyes growing teary as the reality of this grows heavier and heavier. I clasp at the fabric of his jacket but he pulls me away as he lets me go. "I'm going to pack your things. Stay right here." I see how shaky my father's hands are as he leaves me alone with the men. They wouldn't dare to leave, in case I had the idea of running away. It was the first thing to cross my mind, but that's not possible. They would catch me. I have no doubt. <br><br>I feel like I can do nothing but stand there, staring at them with large eyes, wondering how this could be happening. It's all occurring so fast. I won't even get the chance to say goodbye to Grandfather, or dear Mr. Ingram, or Vinnie! I have to say goodbye to Vinnie! This causes me to move. I turn and go over to the table where I had been repairing the music box I had made for her on her tenth birthday. It had fallen off of her side table during the first bombing. I had only just fixed it when the men had come to the door. With determination, I wound up the music box until it could be wound no more, and I set it back on the table. I stood watching it a moment as it played the tune that helped her to sleep at night. I knew it would last until she got home, for it was mere minutes before they were back. It wouldn't be soon enough to say goodbye properly, but it would be enough for this. <br><br>I drag myself away and back into the foyer, right when my father has come back with a small bag of my things. I knew he was better off packing such things than me. I would only end up taking things that were unnecessary and forget the important stuff. He comes over to me with a somber face, handing me the bag before he comes in front of me once more. His hands find my shoulders and he swallows, "I love you, August. We all do, and we'll be awaiting your return, alright? You'll be back with us soon." He gives my shoulders a squeeze, and all of a sudden the tears are streaming down my cheeks as I look up at him. <br><br>"I-I-I love you too, Father." I get out, my bottom lip trembling. "Will everyone know I miss them? Grandfather and Mr. Ingram and Vinnie have to know! I don't want to go." The sides of my mouth pull down without my permission, my nose burning as the tears grew thicker and thicker in front of my irises. "I'll miss everyone." I suck in a breath as I fight back my tears, but it's useless. They are coming full force. The men look indifferent. They've seen too many crying boys to be phased anymore. <br><br>"I know, Auggie. I know. You have to go though. Do you understand? You have to go. You can't stay here. You can't try to escape where you're going. You have to do what they say. You have to listen to them. I don't want you giving up either. That's the only way you're going to get back home to me, to us. Understand?" My father is trying to be strong now. His face is melancholy and his eyes are damp, but that is all. He's trying not to upset me further. I have to be strong now. I have to be a soldier. I sniff and give him a firm nod before we hug one more time, good and tight. Finally, we part from each other, and he guides me over to the men, knowing that I won't move on my own. I see my father's fists clench once the other men have my shoulders and lead me out of my own home. I'm shoved into a long carriage already half filled with boys consisting of my age or just a little older, and I don't hesitate to rush to the back window, pushing some other kids out of the way. <br><br>There my father stands. I see his face fall. I see how devastated he is. He collapses to his knees, his face burrowing into his hands. I hear him faintly cry out, just as the other members of my family come running. Grandfather and Mr. Ingram surround my father, but Vinnie stares after my carriage, despair darkening her face. She runs after me, shouting, but the carriage is too far away and it's just going too fast. I press the palm of my hand against the glass, letting it drop once we turn a corner and she's gone. They're all gone. I slowly move to curl up in my seat, ignoring the other children who poke at me and blocking out the sound of their voices as they attempt to speak to me and mock me. They eventually stop, and I eventually accept the fact that I'm not going home for a long time, if at all. <br><br>With a group of other teenagers, I was trained. I trained day in and day out without much rest. I was taught how to fight, how to use knives, swords, and several different types of guns. I was taught how to kill. At first, the only thing I was good at were the obstacle courses. I could run pretty fast. In due time, that speed came in handy as I grew in my fighting training. I was not huge, so I had to play upon my assets. I was quick and I was smart, and that was what was going to keep me alive. <br><br>The training was almost okay. The theme of it, what I was doing it for, was something I pushed to the back of my mind. The life was lackluster, as it was filled with white walls and bland meals when we weren't running our bodies ragged. Due to my askew way of looking at the things, the other boys did not treat me well, so I kept my distance. I wanted to write to my family, but it was not allowed. They believed it to be too upsetting for us. Usually I was so exhausted that when I went to bed, I would immediately go to sleep, but sometimes I managed to be wide awake, staring up at the bunk above me, building up my hope that I would get back to my family, to Mr. Ingram, and to my best friend, my only friend. It was all I had. <br><br>Well, besides the time machine. I supposed my father had put it into my pack for safe keeping. It was useless to me, for it didn't have the key, so it was simply a tricket I had to keep with me at all times that had no purpose. It was a little piece of home though. It was something I could hold onto before I went to sleep and allowed me to dream of good memories, of invention and playtime. <br><br>That only lasted for three months. <br><br>The next two years ahead of me would cause me to never have a pleasant dream again. <br><br>It was the worst nightmare you could imagine. The first day at base, we were thrown into battle. All it took was an explosion taking down three of the boys in my group right in front of my eyes and blowing me onto my back, temporarily killing my hearing and knocking out my breath, to realize the severity of the situation. I would not survive this with my current mentality, no matter how skilled I was. <br><br>It was on that day that I had snapped. I pushed back who I was, enough so that I could become more than just a soldier. I had to have no cares for our enemy. They had to die. I had to keep them away from our country and the people inside it. I had to keep them from hurting my family. Something darker had to be conjured up inside of me, something, no, someone who could injure and kill with no qualms, who could lead without getting sidetracked, who could get through this war without his obscurities getting in the way. <br><br>A moment after I had stood myself up, I had turned around to find myself face to face with an enemy. With once clear and innocent eyes now brewing a storm, I did not hesitate to grab my knife and slice open the man's neck. The blood gushed down like a waterfall, seeping into his shirt and ruining the picture of who I assumed was his loved one that was pinned to his front pocket. He crumpled to the ground like a rag doll at my feet, and I simply stepped over him, moving on to the next man, and the next man. I was ruthless. I was merciless. <br><br>We won that day. <br><br>After that, the war was all I was. My life was filled with sticky blood, wretched screams, shrieking explosions, and rotten death. There was death everywhere. I could not escape it. I couldn't escape any of it. It penetrated the core of my dreams. I battled twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. I always woke up in the middle of the night in a cold and yet burning sweat nearly every single time I fell into a slumber. My comrades feared me, even though I had no intention of harming them obviously. The only thing that allowed the old me to come through was looking at that time machine. It stayed tucked under my shirt at all times, right over my heart. Before bed I would look at it, wondering what life was like for my family back home, and then I would remember that I couldn't let these sort of things disrupt my thoughts, and I would tuck the machine away for another time before I went to sleep and succumbed to the horrors of my subconscious. <br><br>I lost so many people. I couldn't save them all. Eventually, I became the only one left of my original team. They were replaced, and by that time, the boys were nearly all younger than myself. I was growing stronger with age, more bitter with each dawn, and the blood on my hands, the red that pooled my brain was drowning me with each passing second. <br><br>I was being driven absolutely mad. <br><br>The two years I was there, the lifetime that it felt like, was all becoming far too much for my fragile mind to handle anymore. It all came to full bloom when on a mission. I had been injured before. I had acquired a couple non-scarring burns, some cuts, though nothing awful and surely nothing that could send me home. However, this time, I was shot by a powerful ray gun, right into my shoulder. I had never felt such pain before. It was as if the white hot burn of lightening had run it's way down my arm. It grabbed me like the talons of a hawk, shredding into my nerves and ligaments, wanting to expel agony on me. The ache ran across my whole body, and the shock and pain of it rendered my arm useless for now. <br><br>Suddenly, it was as if crimson and flashes of midnight had taken over my eyes, flashing before me. I was overcome with a blind rage. I could no longer tell the difference between my fellow soldiers and my enemies. I had lost the last piece of me in those moments, my teeth bared and my mind screaming, causing it to pound. It was as if devils surrounded me, taunting me. I drew my knife to each and every one of them, brutally, and fortunately, I could only injure a few of my ally before they managed to pull me away. I thrashed, shouting, the rest of our opponents dead because of me. I kicked out, I cried out, but they were not about to let me go. I didn't give up, and so they shot me in my uninjured arm with a tranquilizer, sedating me for the time being. <br><br>When I awoke, I was in some place strange. My mind had cleared, but only slightly, enough so that I wasn't a deranged monster trying to escape everything and taking out all that was in my path. Men I had never met before approached me cautiously, and attempted to tell me that I would be taken home now, because I was sick and a danger to my compatriots. I was a hazard. They told me they would suggest help for me, tell my caretakers to send me off somewhere where I wouldn't endanger anyone, where I could be fixed. Afterward, they got me into a carriage and drove off. <br><br>I stared at the window, my head pressed up against the glass. I felt like I was dead. I couldn't believe I wasn't in the war anymore. It was my life. At this point, it had been ages since I considered making it home. It had become an impossible notion. I was sure I was going to die there, my luck running out and a man sending a blade through my heart. Had that not happened? Was I really here? Yes. Yes. I was truly here. I knew this by the searing pain that throbbed in my arm, which was bandaged all the way from the top of my shoulder to the middle of my forearm. Ghosts didn't feel physical pain. I had to be alive. I was so utterly numb on the inside however. All that laid there was a twinge of fear that this was all just a dream. I would wake up and be right back in the middle of the battlefield, back to the savage and destructive life that I had there. <br><br>I wasn't sure if anything was real. <br><br>I did not have a clue we were in my town until we had reached my home. The city had been decimated, ravaged and made into a shell of what it was. It was no longer quiet and quaint. My old home seemed like a pale and ill version of itself, but it was my home. The carriage came to a stop, and all I did was stare out the window as the driver came down and opened my door. He didn't touch me fortunately, merely telling me I had arrived home and patiently waiting for me to exit the vessel. After a complete minute of silence and stillness, I turned and stepped out, my feet hitting the dirt ground. He led me over to the door, and I followed, stopping just a foot in front of the threshold. The man stood beside me and gently rapped his knuckles upon the wooden door. We waited, and in no time at all, a woman pulled it open. <br><br>I lift my bloodshot eyes to look open her, and I don't recognize her at first. I take in the creamy skin, the frail yet sturdy frame, the mess of dark hair, and finally her shockingly blue eyes. Who was this girl? Who was suppose to be here? I could not hear or see my father, my grandfather, or Mr. Ingram... This... This was Vinnie. No. Vinnie was a child. She was a little girl. All of a sudden I felt incredibly old for sixteen. This was Vinnie. She had grown in the two years I had been gone. She was fourteen, but she looked so much older. Had it only been two years? Were we still only teenagers? I had no doubts though. Recollection fills my mind but it does not reach my eyes. This was my dear Vinnie, and yet I had no desire to smile, to touch her. My heart does not swell with happiness. I am numb. I only know the facts, and not the feelings. <br><br>All I do is stare at her as the man beside me explains to her what happened and that I should be sent to the institution before he goes on his way, leaving us alone with the rest of the world. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | May 6 2012, 02:11 AM Post #3 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 407px; text-align:justify;"> <br>August and I didn't agree on many things at first--and to his credit, most of it was my fault. I was a bit of a…short-tempered child. But eventually, things fell together, and we got along as well as anyone ever could. Our personalities complimented each other--he helped me fly, but I helped keep him grounded. The years passed by so quickly, it seemed. They raised me, all of them, together--yes, even August! They helped me heal, and they helped me grow, and eventually, I learned to cope with my parents' deaths. I took on the responsibilities of any other girl my age, doing the cooking and cleaning and mending, but I really didn't mind it. I liked keeping everything together, amidst the men's madness, I guess you could say. I liked taking care of them…working hard to make good meals and such. It always felt so nice when everyone was huddled around the dinner table together, eating and laughing. <br><br>But I especially remember those long nights when the four of them would be working on the amazing time machine contraption together and I would bring them tea and biscuits. I could do other little things to help, but mostly I just liked to watch them put all the pieces together…listen to pieces of brass clicking against each other, and see the wires ignite for that split second when they first touched. It was incredible what they could accomplish together, and all of us lived in the strong belief that one day, it would work, and our families would be able to do what no other had done before, and travel through time. <br><br>When I was eleven, it was finished, and our hope didn't betray us. It was completely functional! The possibilities seemed endless. I, of course, instantly wanted to go back and warn my parents of their deadly travel…but it wasn't allowed. None of our ideas were truly allowed. We couldn't interfere with the past. And for a while, this question of what we could and couldn't do with the machine caused a great amount of stress on us all. There was some arguing involved, for August's father also wanted to go back to save his wife. Eventually, we decided to just put it away for safekeeping. It was dangerous, and we didn't really know the risks. And even worse, if anyone ever discovered it, it could fall into the wrong hands and be used for horrible purposes. So we resolved to keep it quiet for now during the war, and life went on. <br><br>Then, the draft came. Every able-bodied boy had to go aid his mother country, but I knew that…I knew that this wasn't the right path for August. I was scared they would come for him, and there would be days when we were playing together in the house and I'd hear an automobile pull up to the front, and there'd be that quiver of terror scratching at my spine, that they'd finally come. But life went on, and it seemed as if August was safe. Our house was further away from the others, and he never received a letter that told him he would be taken. <br><br>But then, one day, Grandfather, Mr. Proctor and I went out to retrieve groceries. <br><br>And when we came back, I saw August in the back of an automobile and I…I just knew, and without even thinking, I dropped everything, started running after it, screaming his name. I kept on running, and running, boots tearing through the terrain, but then the car turned the corner…and it vanished amongst the others. I couldn't tell one apart from the other. I stood there, unable to believe it had all just happened. Then some man's shoulder bumped into me, knocking me to the ground. I heard him murmur something about lollygagging and I picked myself up quickly, turned tail, turned back home, just as fast as I left. I was never one to just sit around. <br><br>Once home, I threw the door open and started shouting about how August was taken, and how we had to find some way to get him back. My grandfather knew there was little that anyone could do--this law, this call to duty, was absolute. Furious that he had already given up, I ran back to my room to be alone. Just in time to hear the last few bars of my music box playing….August's good-bye. No…no, it couldn't…no. I wasn't going to let this happen. Those few tinkling notes only made me more impassioned to rescue him from this. I refused to give up, and right then and there, I readied my quill and parchment. I wrote letters, countless letters to the office on how important August was to our family, how he was unsuited for this, that I was scared it would break him…but I never received one reply. I didn't stop, or cry, so driven by my own holy grail to have him back. <br><br>But I kept hitting a wall. It was impossible. An officer came to the door one day to personally threaten me to stop sending them letters, and to stop trying because he was gone. And it made me think of my parents, and how I had felt when I learned they were gone…but August had been there for me then, and he wasn't here now. But the thing was, it wasn't the same. I believed he could still come back. If they could make a time machine…he could make it back. He could survive this. I couldn't cry. I had to believe. <br><br>Of course, I wasn't superhuman. I did cry, mostly at night when I would play the music box over and over again. I missed him so much. I just…wanted my friend back. But Grandfather told me we had to be strong for Reginald and Wentworth. We had to support them in this difficult time. So in the morning I would stand in front of my mirror, telling myself I wouldn't cry or break down in front of them, that'd I'd be good. Sometimes it didn't always work, but it did on most days, and that's what counted. We got through it together, or at least, on the outside we did. There would be tough days where we'd find something that belonged to August that would trigger some memory…but we got through it, we got through it, just hoping for the day he would come back. <br><br> I couldn't write to August himself…though most nights, I'd find myself writing anyway, but in my diary. Sometimes I'd open my window and stand there in the moonlight, reading my letter aloud, wondering if the words could reach across the distance between us. Maybe somehow, they would reach him…some way. It didn't have to be visually, or verbally. I just wanted it to be felt. I did whatever I could. I would pray in the morning, on a hill where we once would sit together. I'd just…beg whoever was listening to bring August back to us, safe, and sound. <br><br>And then they came. <br><br>The government had found out about the time machine. To this day, I still don't know how they discovered it. But it doesn't make a difference. They came. Their automobile arrived in front of the door, and Grandfather ran to me quickly, and told me to hide. I wanted to stay with them, refusing to leave them, but then…he told me something he had been keeping from me for years. That I didn't exist, legally. That when my parents died, I was listed among the dead as well, another traveler in that aircraft…because my father had sold me to marriage to someone else, and unless I had died, I would be with that family now. Grandfather didn't want to lose me, so he made a fake grave with my name on it, and as far as the rest of the world knew, I was dead. There was no more Lavinia Trumeter. And that was why I had to hide before the government came. <br><br>Grandfather hid me in the secret door beyond the pantry, a narrow space that could fit one. He told me not to make a sound, no matter what happened. He made me swear, and then he took the necklace with the ring he wore around his neck and handed it to me, right before he shut me in. All I could see was the thinnest line of light coming out from the bottom as the darkness squeezed me. I heard the front door being kicked open…a table being turned over, things breaking. I hear them demand the time machine…and then there was muffled screaming that I just couldn't endure. So I reached for the knob, about to break my promise, when I heard a distinct shout. <br><br>"YOU CAN'T DO THIS!" <br><br>"We already have." <br><br>Three gunshots. <br><br>Silence. <br><br>It was all so fast. I didn't…couldn't stay in my hiding place after that, and I rushed outside, but I didn't run far. I stooped immediately for there, in the front room, lay my father, August's, and his grandfather, bleeding…unmoving. I would've screamed if my voice worked, and I hurriedly ran to the bodies, kneeling by them, shaking. As my trembling hand reached out to my grandfather, I heard a voice. <br><br>"Draven, for bloody sakes, hurry up! The deed's done, let's hit a pub!" <br><br>I looked up, only to see that I wasn't alone. There was one officer who hadn't left the room yet, lingering in the doorway, and he was looking back…staring straight at me. <br><br>I don't know what my expression was at that moment when I had lost everyone I loved, save for one, who was far, far away. <br><br>All I know is that it saved me. <br><br>"All right, hold your horses, I'm coming!" <br><br>He left, closing the door behind him. <br><br>And I was truly, completely, alone. <br><br>I had to add three more names to my prayer. <br><br>And I had to do everything on my own. A girl thirteen years old, having to bury three men so close to her. I couldn't tell anyone, or I'd be at risk of being discovered. I can't say much on that time. I barely remember it myself. I know that for a week, I was completely lost. I, who once made sure the house was always running properly while all the men did their work, could no longer be bothered to clean or cook. I couldn't do anything but cry and lie in my bed and listen to the music box, that music box, always the music box. <br><br>I don't know how I did any of those things but…the thought of August kept me going. There was still one person left that I loved. I couldn't just…give up, not now. Not when my eyes were so swollen from crying that I could hardly see, or when I ran out of food and had to go out on my own and find work. I couldn't surrender to my circumstances, or be a prisoner of this fate. I couldn't let myself be hurt by my own visions, grey tinged with ghosts of death and remembrances. I couldn't care that life became filmy and dull. For months I would wake up with a salty crescent of dried tears lining underneath my eyes, my sorrow always coming to fruition when I was asleep and defenseless. But in the day time, I made myself cold, muted to the world. I had to do it this way, for I knew that if I faced all of it at once, all of the truth, I would die. <br><br>It wasn't easy. The whole house was a trigger. Everywhere I looked reminded me of something. I would find comfort, but much more pain when I went through their tools, hearing that soft familiar clink of metal. There was so much history here…so many memories. It got to the point that I wanted to leave, because I simply couldn't bear the pain of seeing the table with four empty chairs, much less sitting there. But I couldn't do that. Because I knew there was still that hope that one day, August would be back here with me. And I wanted him to have his home to welcome him back, even if there were people missing. I kept it as clean as I could, and didn't move a single thing. If we were ever to move, it would be August's decision, not mine. <br><br>I tried to get used to it, till the memories disintegrated and collapsed, fell and peeled away like old paint. But I didn't have a choice.To make a living, I ran errands for others in town and did laundry. Loads and loads of laundry. I met people, but kept a distance, not wanting to talk about myself. I submerged myself in waiting, and work. My hands worked hard to wrangle stains out, wringing the excess water out of thick hanks of fabric. I would think about each task, the cakes of soap and the temperature of the water. I would concentrate on this work. For while I once did these tasks mindlessly in my childhood, my mind was no longer a safe place to rest. I didn't want to think about those I lost, and those who still wandered. Better to work this way, without pain. At night it was the worst, when there was nothing to do but wind up my old music box and let my exhaustion over take me. After a while, I had simply run out of tears, it seemed, and there was only that pain, hanging in the background all the time, reminding me of all that had happened. But still, I clung to that one hope like a lifeline, that August would return to me one day, and until then, I had to survive. We both had to for each other, for now we're all we have left. <br><br>It was another day when I heard the knock at the door. I had just finished hanging the damp laundry indoors over steel basins to catch the dripping. I was about to dump the giant tub full of dirty water and suds when I heard someone at the front. Hoping it wasn't Mrs. Vanlandingham's servant here to pick up the laundry (she has the habit of always coming too early), I set the basin down to the side, wiped my forehead with the back of my arm, and opened the door with my water-wrinkled hands. <br><br>"Hello, miss, I'm here from th--" <br><br>Was all I heard, for in a moment, I saw the boy next to him, and could not hear a sound after that. No, he wasn't a boy, he was a man now, but it made no difference to me, because it was August, back home again, on the doorstep, as if he was just a child who had gotten trouble again, and the coppers had to drop him off and have his father sign papers and pay a fee. But this time was a different trouble. "Oh, my God," are the only words that leave me as my hands go to cover my mouth, biting down to stifle any rising cries from within. "What have they done to you, Auggie?" I whisper as he looks without seeing, and the man continues to talk as if nothing had happened. He mentions disorder, dementia, that August had to be sent home because he was now a danger to his comrades. I'm barely able to grasp the situation before I hear the man suggest that I drop him off at an institution as soon as possible, because even if he can't go back to "normal", I would still be safer off. This insinuation immediately puts the tears at bay and infuriates me. <br><br>"I'm not going to--" I begin to tell the man through clenched teeth that there is absolutely no possibility that I would abandon August to any of those sort of "fixing" establishments, knowing fully well what those involve, when I remind myself that this is a delicate situation, and it would be best not raise any suspicions. I don't want him sending any men to take August away by force. I won't let him slip through my fingers again. I won't be chasing any carriages anymore. I refuse to. "…of course. Thank you, sir. Have a safe journey back," I put on a smile, nodding my head as he tips his hat and leaves. I watch him enter the carriage again before I gently guide August back into the house, closing the door behind me…the tip of my nose touching the wood as I lock the door firmly, not wanting any more interference from this outside world. Once that is done, I turn around to face August where he stands, and I don't hesitate to rush over to him, arms immediately wrapping around him as I hug him tightly, finally allowing my tears to come. I can't even think of all the things I have to tell him…all the horrible things. For now, I just want to…I want to relish in the fact that he has returned, as Mr. Proctor had always promised he would. <br><br>"You're here," my voice cracks through my cries as one hand goes to grasp at the short hairs by his neck. "You're really here…returned home again." I sob, unable to bear the happiness and tragedy all at once as I breathe in his familiar scent, still there beneath all the layers of the grime and soot of war. I pull back from him for a second to look at him in the eyes, more grey in the green than I remember, and I suddenly feel buoyed by the foreignness of the color. "Oh, August…" I murmur, tears starting to flow harder as I think of all he must have endured. His eyes…they tell me, he's not truly here. In his mind, he's still miles away, at war, in a nightmare. I can't bear it. My hand raises, going to rest on the side of his jaw. "Come back to me." Oh, God. I pull close to him once more. "Please, please, come back to me, August," I cry, burying myself in him. "Don't leave me here again." </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Gipity | Jul 28 2012, 01:27 PM Post #4 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>I walk into the house silently, my footsteps as if I'm walking on air. I stop in the middle of the room and my eyes only shift slightly, hardly bothering to look around. I feel frozen. I don't even recall moving my limbs to walk in here. I turn rigid as Vinnie comes up and wraps her arms around me, my eyes closing as I flinch. I do not like to be touched, because being touched means being hurt, or being dragged away to darkness. I realize that obviously she's not going to do either of those things to me, and I cautiously open my glazed eyes, looking down at her tiny tiny frame. <br><br>She's talking to me, I know that, but it's as if I don't hear her words. All I hear in my ears is bombs going off, and this horrible ticking. I made a lot of bombs during my time there. They trusted me with that. I was good with machinery. I could make things. I made a lot of screeching bombs that killed hundreds of thousands. I look up towards the wall across from me, over her head, as if she's not even there. I feel something on my jaw and I turn my face away a bit, attempting to get away from it. I'm okay, until I feel some sort of pressure against my chest, and something snaps inside of me. Flashes of hand to hand combat, of no more weapons, of men breaking each other's bones and clawing at each other's face. Suddenly, the close proximity is too much for me, and Vinnie is no longer my childhood friend. <br><br>I let out a growl as my dirty hands find her shoulders, gripping them as I push her towards the wall, my hands never leaving her. Once she makes contact, my forearm finds her neck, and I choke her, my stance strong so that she may not push me away. I say no words, my eyes far from green or any shade of daylight as I glare into her azure irises as if she were a stranger to me, as if she were some enemy of the country, a man with some sort of chance and not a little girl. Before I can cause her to pass out or worse, my delusions dilute enough for me to realize that this is not the bad guy, that I'm in a quiet home and not a deafening battlefield. I abruptly grip her shoulders again, turning her away from the wall and shoving her away as I stumble backwards, my breath labored. <br><br>My head feels as if it is being pounded in by axes as visions of the fight come over my eyes like sunspots, blocking out what's real. My hands find my hair, and it squeezes it, nearly pulling it out, as my abdomen contracts whilst I bend over, my inhaling and exhaling growing rougher and rougher before I suddenly let out a scream, a quick twist of my ankle sending my back into the hard wall, and I gasp as I slide to the floor, my hands trembling as they hover around my head as I start to cry. As I shut my eyes, the visions grow worse, but I don't open them, fighting with myself on the inside. My legs accordion back and forth against the floor, my heels scraping against the hard wood as my fingertips dig into my head. Blood. Cries. Gunshots. Explosions. Organs. Bones. Fire. Death. It's followed me, or has it? Am I still there and I've just given up? Can I not handle it anymore? Am I going to die at any moment? <br><br>Is it a dream like I thought? Will I wake up and be back in my bunker, awaiting my next order and being a malicious shell of myself? I couldn't be home. Home doesn't have these things. It has laughter and the sort of warmth not associated with flame and chemical rays. It as my family, and Vinnie, all there for me. Vinnie. I saw her. She was in this dream. It's a dream. A dream. No, there are never dreams. I only have nightmares. I open my eyes and turn my head, to see if she is still there. Though I see her, I don't see her emotions, or her body language. I just know she's there. <br><br>I find myself turning so that the side of my head is against the wall, and soon my shoulder and hip follow, curling up to it. My hand spreads against the peeling paint, fingernails scratching at it. I struggle there, moderately silent, with a whimper here and there. I hardly blink. I stare down at the dark floor, looking at it as if a thousand maggots crawl upon it, when in my mind I hardly see the floor at all. My visions are more subtle at this point. Calmer. It's the quieter disturbances that haunt me, and when they do escalate, they don't translate to my body. I suffer silently. <br><br>This is what I'm like for hours on end. If I am spoken to, I do not respond. If I am touched, I wince and attempt to get closer to wall, clinging to it. I eventually scoot to a doorway, and I hang on the trim, my face tucked behind my arm as I press my forehead to the cool trim of the wall. I battle with myself, attempting to discover if this is a dream or not, if anything is real. Sometimes I see that I'm in a house, but I don't recognize it as my own. I will myself to see my bedroom, or my backyard, but it never appears, and it only upsets me further. Layers of dried tears topped with wet ones cover my cheeks and chin, streaking my dirty face. My arm aches, a constant agony in the background that never relieves, and I clench at the wall whenever a more severe string of pain runs through it. <br><br>I can't take it anymore. There is no relief. I'm so tired. I'm famished. I'm in pain. I'm tired of seeing these awful things that I can do nothing about. I need to move. I need to cling to something real. <br><br>Vinnie. <br><br>Throughout all this time, Vinnie has never left this dream. She's always there. Near. Far. Quiet. Speaking. She's there. Even though I don't acknowledge her, she's there. I debate on reaching out to her, of touching her, but I know what happens when I do that. Whenever a loved one occurs in my dreams, an embrace or simple touch causes them to disappear. I'm not allowed such a pleasure. Twice, I watch her with just my eyes, going over whether I should bother, even if it's only for a split second of relief. Finally, on the third time of her passing by me, I lurch out, leaving all of my doubts behind, and soon I am on my knees, attached to her hips. My head presses against her stomach, and she doesn't go anywhere. She's still standing there. I still have my arms around her. <br><br>This isn't a dream. This is Vinnie. This is my best friend. <br><br>I start to sob as I bury myself into her as she had tried to do to me earlier, my hands gently grabbing at the back of her clothes. "V-Vinnie. I want to go home. I want it to go away. Vinnie. Vinnie." I repeat her name, the name I haven't spoken in two years, the letters dusting off their place upon my lips and tongue and making a home there again. "Take me home." I plead, not realizing that this is my house, my childhood home. "Don't go. Please don't go." I start to cry harder, my tears staining her garments, along with my grime. Suddenly, I fall back into a seated position, pulling her down with me, and I hold her straddled in my lap like a doll as I press my face into the crook of her neck and shoulder, clinging to her like a lifeline, because I have nothing else. She is all I have. She is all that is real to me. "Vinnie." I whisper once more, sniffling, a boy broken into a million little pieces. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | Jul 30 2012, 12:57 AM Post #5 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 407px; text-align:justify;"><br>He doesn't react to me at all, causing me to pull back just slightly, looking at his face. "…August?" I start, scared of what I might hear, or see next, but before I can say anything else, August roughly seizes my shoulders and pushes me away, as if I'm the carrier of some deathly plague. And suddenly, to my horror, my best friend…the only person I have left in this world…starts to strangle me, giving me no time to even scream. He stares right back at me as he does, his eyes not his own anymore. August's become someone else, or maybe he already was someone else when he walked through the doors, I don't know. I can't even think anymore--it's as if someone's blowing up a balloon inside my head, the pressure becoming too much to handle…my whole body beginning to tense up as he's slowly cutting off my air supply until I can barely siphon the smallest breath. I feel a sharp twinge in my chest, lungs jolting inside, blood's rushing to my ears. My arms feel rigid as they twitch upwards in a vain attempt to pry his arm off, fingers curling around his sleeve. But it's no use, I feel entirely too weak, eyes growing watery, vision blurred. The world looks and sounds so far away and distant…my mind, enveloped by a cloud. <br><br>What a cruel death, what a kind death. <br><br>The last person you see is the one you care the most about. No one would wish for otherwise. And yet, he's the one causing the pain. I don't know what I should think or feel anymore though, my mind making it impossible to think straight. I just feel myself slipping into the darkness, but right before I fall completely, something happens, and August releases me…gripping my shoulders as my ribs expand, grabbing as much air as they can. But the triumph feels short-lived, as August pushes me away and I'm so dizzy as the blood comes rushing back that I can't regain my footing quick enough, and I end up crashing into the china cabinet. The glass, so old and already cracked, shatters immediately, bits of it easily nicking through my thin linen blouse and pricking into my skin…and one large piece going further. I feel it stab into me, sticking into me like the times when I accidentally pierced myself with a sewing needle, but this is much, much worse. I fall to the ground, and the bend of my back pushes the glass out of me as I wheeze, chest concaving. <br><br>My hands slap across the dusty floorboards as I turn over, looking back at August, just in time to hear him scream. It's so loud and so thick that it blocks out my own searing pain in my back. I've never, ever heard him scream like that….like hooks ripping out his vocal cords. No, never. The August from my childhood hardly ever screamed at all, no matter how bad things got. He'd skin his knees and act as if a patch on his trousers had ripped, not his own skin. I'll admit that now and then my eight year old self would lose her temper and bop him on the nose, enough to make it bleed, but with August, it was as if it never happened at all, and he'd continue on his irksome business while the blood dripped down from his nose until we had to stop him and clean him up. The only time I could remember him screaming was when a boy in town pushed me to the ground and August screamed and came to my defense….my protector. August Proctor, my protector. What had happened to him? <br><br>Frozen like a statue in time, I watch as his legs move in a welter, kicking up dirt as his fingers search through his hair tirelessly. Crying and whimpering and then attaching himself to the wall. I will myself to move, and pick my body off the floor, choosing to ignore the blood-spattered glass around me and the warm trickle down my spine. I crawl across the floor to him, and I gently place my hand on his, trying to forget my own fear all the while. I can't be afraid. I know who this is, I can't even…I can't forsake him for a second. But August only flinches away from me, gripping the wall harder. "August…please, please," I beg again, feeling the tears rise again. "Don't you know me anymore?" I try to smile at him, but it only forces the tears out, causing them to course down my cheeks. "It's me, Vinnie…oh god, please. I waited for you these past two years in this house…your house. Our house." I look up at the ceiling and around us for a moment, but August doesn't budge, barely even looks at me. "August, please, try to remember. The train sets, the swings, the trips to the marketplace…" He's still not looking at me. "…the time machine." Even with that, there's no response, and I can feel myself breaking. "--ANYTHING!" I scream, the tears rushing faster than ever, my tone almost guttural. "PLEASE!" <br><br>He gives me nothing, staying there like stone, as if he never came back at all, and I press myself against the wall. "…please, please…" I sob. But there's no reply. <br><br>And I don't know if there ever will be. <br><br>I don't know how long I stay there beside him, just weeping, but eventually, the pain in my back becomes too much to bear. I have to pull myself together. I've done it for this long. I have to have faith[, that just as Mr. Proctor said, all those years ago--August will come back. Not just his body, but his mind, too. I have to have faith. Whether it'll happen tomorrow, or ten years from now. I have to have faith, for them, and myself, and for him. I'm not going to give up now. <br><br>I slowly pull myself to my feet and leave him there for the time being, knowing there's nothing more I can do at the moment. I stagger to my own room, and there, in my privacy, I strip into my underclothes. I stand with my back to the mirror, head turned so I can see the damage. The gash isn't too deep, but it's longer and wider than I had thought. But like everyone else during the war time, I carry on. I clean up, I sew it up, biting through the handle of a wooden spoon to still the pain as the bones in my wrist ache to twist and slowly pull the needle behind my back, face red, eyes red. But I do it, I make it through, and I change into clean clothes and I wash my face and hands and I keep that faith, gripping it tightly inside of me. <br><br>And I go right back outside again, trying to stay by August as much as I can. I finish up the laundry, and I start making preparations for dinner. I hum, and sometimes I try to talk to him, telling stories of our childhood. He's still quiet, but I know he can hear me, somewhere in there, and that's good enough. It has to be. When I'm about to pass him again, to finish peeling the potatoes for our meals (even in all the distress, there is some comfort in the fact that for the first time in a long time, I'm not just cooking for one), August suddenly moves, causing me to recoil for a second. But this time, he doesn't try to choke me or anything, his arms going to wrap around me, embracing me. <br><br>Saying my name. <br><br>I feel my tears springing up once more as he talks, his voice the same and yet so different at the same time. Telling me to take him home, and not to go. I kneel as he settles down, slowly turning towards him…my fingers going to brush away his tears, ignoring my own. Then my arms wrap around him again, snugger than before, this time, knowing he'll accept them, one hand finding the back of his head. "Shhhhh, now, it's all right," I whisper despite my own crying, holding onto him. "I have you now, August. You're home…you're safe. I won't go. I won't let go." I move closer to him, so close that I can feel his heartbeat pounding against me, making my own skin shiver. "And you're never going back." And I just stay there for a while, continuing to embrace him, hands continuously going to soothe him, preening his hair until a thought comes to me, and I slowly pull back, moving till we're at eye-level, only a few inches apart. I smile at him, remembering the importance of having a positive emotion for someone to mirror and hold on to. <br><br>"Come on. Let me show you," I tell him softly, taking his hand. We stand up together, me, forcing the burning agony near my spine to the back of my subconscious. I lead him into his room, but we don't stop in the doorway, or even i the middle. I take him over to his dresser, where the pitcher and washbowl sits, clean as ever, as if he had never left. I lift the pitcher out of the bowl and pour some of the cool water into it, and then pick up the soap, holding it in front of August. It's been crudely carved into the shape of a turtle with a knife. "Remember the soap, August?" I ask, small smile on my lips as I take one of his hands, opening it and placing the sculpture on his palm as I speak. "You could never sit still long enough for washing…so your father, or grandfather…or even my grandfather…would try to make it fun, and they'd carve these little soap animals for you." My voice turns softer, even tender as I think back. "I'm nowhere near as good, but…try, please, August." <br><br>I help him scrape at the turtle's shell, till little flakes of soap fall into the water, and then I have him lather his hands and face with the soapy water, chasing away the dirt and grime of war they brought him home in. I wipe his hands and face dry with my apron afterwards, and then have him turn to the mirror on the wall, look at his clean self, and me, and where he is, but through another window. This window that so clearly shows our present selves, and yet, I feel as if we're children again and just looking into some doorway to the future. It's so hard to believe that things could have come to this. But I'm not allowed to pretend anymore. I can't have that luxury, not when August is relying on me. I have to be grounded in the truth if I'm ever going to get us anywhere. "Look at it, August. You're still you, and I'm me, and you've come home. You are home." I look at him, but through the reflection, and I take his hand in mine. "And I've been waiting for you, for so, so long." I squeeze his hand gently, and then finally face him, shifting away from the mirror. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Gipity | Aug 27 2012, 11:51 PM Post #6 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>I fall apart against her frail frame, feeling the safest that I have felt in two years of running and fighting. I press myself against her, feeling her heart beat against mine, further reminding me that she's really there. She's not a part of my delusions. She's flesh, blood, and soul. She's my Vinnie, my best friend. She's my partner in crime. She was the captain and I was her crew. Together, in our backyard, in the forest, near the river, we had grand adventures, just the two of us. If anyone dared to hurt her or say bad things to her, I was there to protect her. Now, she's the one protecting me, when I need it the most. She assures me that she's not going anywhere, and it causes me to let out a wretched sob and cling gently to her, gripping her clothes faintly. She tells me I'm never going back, and I shudder, nodding, believing her because I know I can trust her. I could always trust her. "Never going back." I shake my head. "Keep me with you, Vinnie." I sniff, my tears soaking into her dress, comforted by her fingers gingerly stroking at my dirty hair, but then she pulls away. Fortunately, it's only slightly, and she looks at me, and she smiles, and my eyes faintly reflect the notion. I don't remember the last time I truly smiled. <br><br>She wants me to come with her and show me something, so I grab onto her hand and stand up with her, allowing her to lead me. As we walk, I flinch at the slightest shadows, my grip on her hand growing more secure as we go on, but I keep it together, staying close to her. She ends up leading me into a bedroom, and I don't recognize that's it mine until she's led her over to the dresser. It's been so long. I've been sharing a room with dozens of other men for ages. I have a hard time remembering what it's like to have your own room. It hasn't changed though, besides the fact that the bed wasn't made and there were a few scattered bits on the floor when I had left it. I'm busy looking around when she speaks to me again, and I don't realize what she said until I look down at what she's holding. She places the soap into my hands, and I examine it closely, bringing it right up my face while the fingers of my other hand trace along it's rough edges. I listen only faintly as she explains it to me, because it comes back to me as I see it. Me, at only seven years old, playing with soap carved into bunnies and turtles and sparrows, while my father helped to wash me up. I was always all over the place, which meant I got even dirtier. It's a fond memory, one that takes me to a pleasant place, and I nod, "Father was the best at it." I whisper hoarsely, not meaning to insult her, but it's the truth. Along with being an inventor and mechanic, my father could do wonders when it came to carving. <br><br>I go through the motions, staring at the wall passed her head as she helps me to wash up, my thoughts distant. Something seems amiss, but I can't seem to place what it is. It occurred after thinking of my father and grandfather. I remember them, which is a good sign, but why do I feel off about that? Something's wrong. I can't think of why though, and put it behind me for now, attempting to focus on Vinnie as we finish washing myself up. She turns me around to face the mirror, and I'm taken back by what I see. It's suppose to be me, but it hardly looks like me. I'm so much older. It might have only been two years, but after everything I've been through, it seems more like ten. I lean forward slightly, as if to get a better look at myself, and I see the horror I've witnessed splashed all over my exhausted face, the sort of exhaustion you can't rid of with sleep. I remind myself of someone else, but I can't place who. On top of that, while my face, hair, and hands are clean, my uniform is drenched in blood and soot. I find myself aware of it now, clinging to me, and I loathe it. <br><br>"I can barely see myself anymore. I don't know who that is." I whisper as she turns to me, tears sprouting and spilling over my eyelids at record speed. I rotate towards her, looking down at her fair face, blurred by my tears. "You should go." I make a pained face as I pull my hand away from her, reaching up to pull at my blood and mud stained half of a uniform, my jacket somewhere back at my last post. I need to get it off. It's death. I have death and nightmares covering every inch of my skin. I whimper as I look around, as if something in this room is going to help me, but it's not. Darkness hazes around my eyes as I feel myself starting to lose it. "Go, Vinnie." I plead, having enough sense to get her away from me before I upset her further. She lingers though, and I can't have that, so I let my madness cross my face, mixing with a forced anger. "GO!" I growl, pointing towards the door before I falter and I'm just a scared creature, backing myself against the wall as I rip at my clothes, my hands shaking as I cry desperately to myself. <br><br>She leaves, finally, and I don't hesitate to slam the door behind her, scrambling to lock it before I let out an anguished cry and rip off my shirt, tossing it across the room, and my cruddy boots and pants soon follow, leaving me in just my underclothes. I pace back and forth across the room, my stomach twisting and my core clenching as I violently sob, hands ripping at my damp hair as horrifying visions surround me. There are monsters in gas masks and men torn to pieces. There's the nauseating smell of burnt human flesh. I sweat as I fret over what's not there, unable to escape the horror, my fresh wound burning across my arm. I fight the need to rip off the bandages, through I fray them at the edge that meets my wrist, wishing I could peel it off and get cool air to it. I eventually crawl into the bed, curling up as small as I can, closing my eyes tight and enduring the agony of the episode until I fall asleep. <br><br>It doesn't stop though. It gets worse, my subconscious cruel to me as it pulls out creatures and demons that could only exist in true nightmares, all of it made up of what I saw back in the war, all coming back to the source of my turmoil. It seems to go on for ages, raging through my mind, and it lingers there even when I wake up, my breath grasping for air that doesn't smell of death and twisting and contorting my way out of my bed as I try to avoid what I believe is there, crawling across the ground, grunting in effort and gasping in terror, only for it to fade away as I make it over to the window, the gleaming stars above seeming to knock me out of it, bringing me back down. I freeze, and a bitter cold runs through me, while at the same time, I get soaked with sweat. I feel stuck, unsure of where I am or who I am, until it all settles into place. <br><br>I bolt upright, onto my knees, my breaths sharp and clear. I am August Raith Proctor. I'm sixteen years old. I fought in the war. I live in Greyhaven. I am home in Greyhaven. This is my house. This is my room. Everything with Vinnie and the soap was real. The rest of it wasn't. I am safe here. I have a best friend, Vinnie Trumeter. My mother was Gwen. She died when I was four. My father is Reginald Proctor. My grandfather is Wentworth Proctor. They are... They are not here. <br><br>There is only one reason why. <br><br>I am overcome with severe nausea, and I am barely able to stumble over to the window and get it open before I vomit over the sill. My father and grandfather are dead, gone from my life forever, my only blood family. Vinnie's grandfather must be gone too. They are all gone. They will never be coming back. I will never see them again. These further thoughts cause me to gag more, stinging bile coming up for I haven't eaten in hours upon hours. Finally, I can only dry heave, nothing left in me, my muscles too tired to continue on, and I slink away from the window, keeping it open in order to let the cool breeze in. <br><br>I stand up slowly and sniff before I wipe the sweat and tears from my eyes, but it's no use for the latter. They spill over again in no time at all. They are quiet tears of remembrance and sorrow, and I can manage to go on as they travel down my cheeks. In my clarity, I take the time to care for myself. I go back over to my washbowl, dumping out the old water and filling it with new before I scrap from the rest of the turtle and wash myself up. I wash everything in my privacy, getting every bit of grime and blood off of me, before I dump the water out again. I look towards the trunk where my old clothes are held, and decide there's no use in putting those on. I've grown seven inches in the past couple years, and they'd all be too small for me. <br><br>I grab a shirt from the trunk though, and with it I grab my war clothes, taking them with me as I venture into my father's bedroom. I am stopped by a sudden wall of pain, but I push through it because I have to, and I go over to his dresser. If I remember correctly, I'd only be an inch taller than him now, so his clothes should fit fine enough. I strip myself of my underclothes before putting on fresh ones from his assortment, followed by a pair of his deep brown slacks, a white blouse, and forest green vest trimmed in gold thread. I put on a pair of his worn in boots, not liking to be barefoot unless I'm sleeping or swimming, and I brush my hair back, getting it out of my face. I take his pocket watch and clip it on, slipping it into one of the front pockets, and finally, I turn to the mirror. <br><br>That's who I reminded myself of in the mirror earlier. My father. <br><br>I always resembled him, something I think he resented for he wanted to look upon me and be reminded more of my mother, and now that I'm more of a man, I take after him even more physically. He always looked so tired, and while I'm fresher than I was before, it's easy to see the inner fatigue along my face. Now, in his clothes, the vision before me almost makes the tears grow heavier. I wish he was here. I wish I could hug him, and have him tell me that I'd be okay because he and my mother would always make sure I'd turn out all right. He was right. I am okay. I'm not entirely gone. I'm still here. "Thank you. Both of you." I whisper to the skies above, to the stars, because I know both of them are watching over me now. <br><br>I grab hold of the soiled clothes and head to the sitting room, where I toss them into the fading fireplace to be burned later, and that's where I notice the broken china cabinet. What's that like that earlier? I can't remember, so I decide to merely ask Vinnie about it. I head back on upstairs, and instead of returning to my room, I bring myself to hers. Fortunately, the door is unlocked, and quietly, I push it open, my eyes falling upon a small figure curled up in the bed, the moonlight bathing her in a cool blue light. I push myself forward, pausing a moment to wipe away my lingering tears, before I continue on and carefully sit down beside her. I look at her with adoring eyes, for she just looks so peaceful, but it just wouldn't truly be me if I didn't disturb her. <br><br>I am far too impatient to wait for her to wake up. <br><br>I reach over and turn up her lantern, the warm glow mixing with the natural light from the window, and I lace my fingers through her own, enjoying the feeling of her skin against mine. "You've grown a lot, Vinnie." I nod to myself, not directly waking her up. Instead, I talk. I need to talk. I feel like I haven't spoken in so long. "In a good way. You look more like a real lady. I like that you didn't grow very tall, you know. You always have to be tiny little Vin." My thumb absentmindedly strokes her palm as I speak, "I grew though. I'm much taller than you now. I bet I can protect you even better now." My voice grows softer as I precede, my eyes trained on our hands. "Just like you've been protecting me. I'm so glad you're here, Vinnie. I didn't lose everybody." I murmur as I look away towards the window, glimpsing at the beautiful night sky, the light shining against my eyes, showcasing the blue and vanquishing the gray. "I couldn't lose my best friend too." I squeeze her hand, not even sure if she's awake or not, but if she's not, that's okay. She's here. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | Aug 30 2012, 11:49 PM Post #7 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 407px; text-align:justify;"><br> I immediately smile when August mentions his father's carvings. Maybe this is the best way to go about it…remembering things from the past, happy things, before our worlds were thrown into fire and ash and blood. "And I was always asking him to make his dragons, with those scaly outstretched wings," I respond just as quietly, but I keep my smile there. Thinking about those moments is painful, too, but…I'd rather have August remembering the day our arms were sore from carrying pails filled to the brim with cherries, instead of a day when shells rained down on him as he scurried past the dead. <br><br>After we finish cleaning him up a bit and I lead August to the mirror…he looks at himself as if it's a door, and not a mirror…showing him someone else entirely. And I don't think this was such a good plan after all. Dismay crosses my features upon hearing his words…dismay, braided with a thin thread of fear, my throat suddenly feeling raw, as if his arm's pressed against it again. The wound in my back burns. "August, it's all right," I urge him anyway, making my voice strong, wishing I could control my feelings half as well. I have to let him know it's okay. I have to make it okay, after those hard years. Please, please, you've only just come back, please don't do this to me again, I think senselessly, knowing it's no use. It's not his fault, and it's not in his control. <br><br>August tells me I should go, but still…it's so soon…he's only just started talking to me again, and I don't want to leave his side already. I falter slightly, but press on. "I-It'll take some time, but you--" I attempt to reassure him, when August snaps at me. His face, so twisted with fury and rank with mania, lips curling with danger. He's gone again, he's left me…taking a sliver of my courage away with him. The real August has been unrooted once more, and I know it won't do either of us any good if I stay. He would feel so ashamed if he knew he ever hurt me so I run off...feet heavy as lead, and he doesn't waste a second in bolting the door after me. <br><br>But I linger there, beyond the safety of this wooden wall, listening to his cries that would rip through men made of iron. My hand presses tightly against my mouth, as my other stays on the cold brass doorknob, eyes squeezed shut. They gave him back to me, but broken and wounded. I've always been a stubborn sort of girl. While other women helped with the war effort, I was horrible and did nothing but hate it. All the war ever was to me was a pair of claws that tore away the people I loved from my life. War's just a problem with power, and people's thirst for it. And it was that thirst that wanted that time machine, whatever the cost. War stole almost everything from me, and now it was trying to steal the best of August, but I refuse to let that go. I won't. <br><br>Tears begin roll down my cheeks, tracing over my fingers. <br><br>And that's when I realize it's quiet. <br><br>Terror and hysteria spreads throughs me like oil and wildfire, and my mind grasps straws, grasps the worst. What if he…? Would he ever be so lost to do it? I'm about to fling myself against the door and smash my fist in a frenzied knock, when I hear rustling again. It soothes me, but only barely. I can't see. I don't know what's going on in there, but I know August won't let me inside again. Not till he's better. I just have to trust in him…trust in the boy who used to not even realize he'd been struck bloody by an angry girl for taking her toy. That boy would survive this, he will. After everything I've lived through, he has to. There has to be something I was holding for all this time. <br><br>Knowing I can't do anything more for August right now, I go back downstairs, each step a sad creak farther away from him. I return to the kitchen, and resume cooking dinner…potato rosemary soup. I only ladle out my own bowl, leaving the rest in the pot to be reheated when August lets me back inside. I'm sure he'll be hungry after all of that. So I sit at the table, alone, a stab of irony hitting me in the stomach, for this supper's no less lonely than yesterday's. How long will this last? With August sending me away…keeping me in the dark, until he heals himself? I'd rather be there, in the thicket of his self-war. I want to be there, and try to help, but I can't put myself in danger because it would hurt him more than it hurts me. I bite my bottom lip until I break the skin, and taste blood with the stew…but other than that, I feel nothing. I put away my dishes and almost leave, when a tarrying burn in my back tells me I best take something for my pain now, so I take my tea with a bit of powder from the poppy before I head back upstairs. <br><br>Having nothing left to do but wait, I return to my own room, only a few footsteps away from August's. I don't know if I should sleep or not…if August will be better in an hour, or after the sun rises. I decide not to change into my nightgown just yet, but I make myself more comfortable, loosening my bodice. I untie my hair and brush it out, continuously listening for any sounds of reconciliation, but there's only a bit of shuffling now. I wander listlessly, open my window, straighten the curtains, wash my face. Eventually feeling drained from the events of the day, I decide to lie down--just for a moment. <br><br>But my body betrays me, and I soon find myself slipping into the silvery temptations of quiet, sweet slumber. <br><br>I sleep and dream of childhood…of climbing trees, nicked cups, card tricks in attics and kicking tin cans around. I dream of my parents…my mother brushing my hair, my father cleaning his glasses. I dream of a bright sun rising up into the skies, past a lacy window. Then I dream of Mr. Proctor, but he's different in some way I can't pick out. He holds my hand though, his feeling rough and warm. He thanks me for being strong, and waiting. He says he knows I can help with August. Then he tells me how big I've grown…but still not so big. It makes me think of how I wanted to be a giant when I was younger, but when time passed and I lost those around me, I wasn't so sure. Giants were powerful, but I could handle things by myself, and being smaller meant I went unnoticed most of the time by unfriendly eyes who would ask too many questions. Before I can tell him this, however, I come to realize something odd--he's telling me he's grown too, and now he can protect me. But how can you protect me when you're gone, I want to ask. You're all gone…so far away, clouds away, worlds away. <br><br>I feel myself slipping back into reality with that thought, but he doesn't disappear. I hold his hand tighter, and when my vision clears, I see it's not Mr. Proctor beside me, but August, in his father's garb. Returned…and not only from his room, but the confines of his tortured memories. A sleepy, soft but sad smile touches my lips as August tells me he's glad that he hasn't lost everyone. I see he's discovered the truth of it, and I feel relief, empathy, and shame all at once. Relief that there is no secret to keep, empathy that this is what he returns home to and he will now to live with the same way I have, and shame over my relief. I should've been the one to tell him. But it's finished now, and I have to keep moving forward or I'll be swallowed by those ghosts of pain again. And it's not like before, when I could just lie in bed undisturbed for hours, soaked in grief like grey rain. Someone needs me now. I can't be selfish, ever again. <br><br>August peers outside my open window, his eyes making it look as if he's staring at a translucent sapphire with a light flaming behind it instead…so blue, so blue. He squeezes my hand, glad I haven't left while I'm glad he's returned, but the bittersweetness of his homecoming throbs in my heart like a finger pressed to a bruise. "And you won't, August," I murmur, voice naturally gentle from the milk of drowsiness, but I pull myself up to sit up a little. "Not ever." I smile, free fingers going to touch his shoulder, before I go to prop my goosefeather pillows up against the wooden headboard. I lightly tug August down to half-lie beside me, the way we did when we were naughty children refusing to sleep yet. He smells like soap. "How are you?" I say, almost in a whisper. It's so quiet that it's all that's needed. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Gipity | Sep 1 2012, 12:44 AM Post #8 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>My eyes flicker down to Vinnie's sweet face as she speaks back to me, and finally, for the first time in two years, a smile lights up my face. "Never, ever, ever?" I murmur as my smile reaches my eyes, my heart beginning to beat a little faster as I watch her. I'm here, really here, sitting before my best friend. I'm not in the war. I'm home. I fight to keep tears from creeping up all over again, even if they would be tears of relief, of happiness. My eyes do grow a sheen however as I watch her until she faintly pulls me down, and I let out a quiet chuckle as I position myself beside her, our shoulders touching, and I rest my head back against the headboard, my eyes shifting towards her. She asks me how I am, and I inhale deeply through my nose, huffing it out before I feel a sudden draft. I lift my arm like an instinct, slipping it around her frail shoulders and rubbing her opposite arm to keep her warm. This old house is probably in need of some repairs. I'll have to get on that. <br><br>"I'm here." My smile is weak as I look down at my lap, "I'm alive. I have you." I glance back at her and my smile grows. "I suppose that means I'm wondrous." My smile moves over to one side, showing off a bit of teeth, before I look down in a timid manner, knowing that she knows that's far from true. "I broke, Vinnie, you see." I whisper in an ashamed voice. "I became a man of brutality to get myself back here, and in the process, I lost myself. The things I saw." A shudder runs through me, and the tears break through, dripping down to my father's trousers. "The things I heard." I grit my jaw as I tilt my head to the side, my eyes moving up towards the opposite wall, glaring at it. "And now I'm... And now I'm..." I pause, my nose burning as my emotions get to me. What am I now? <br><br>"I'm sorry, Vinnie." My voice is thick with tears as I turn to look at her, eyes bloodshot, but then I laugh, not wanting to ruin this time together. I have already soiled so much. "I'm going to be okay. Yes? Yes. You shall see, my dearest Vinnie." I put on a genuinely bright smile, putting my dark thoughts behind me. "I just need time." At that word, I reach into the collar of my father's shirt and pull out the time machine, where it's rested all this time. I stroke my thumb over the dials, the poor contraption useless without it's key. "You know, this is the only thing that brought me home at the end of the day, that made me remember who I was. Silly Auggie with his tinkering and his rambles and-and with his little partner in crime." I squeeze her shoulder, pulling her against my frame in a playful manner, and I'm amazed at how much bigger I am than her now. I'm not a particularly large man, not in the least (Though I put on a decent amount of muscle being in the war), but my best friend is so tiny she makes me feel a lot bigger, a lot older, than I am. Considering that and all that I've been through, I hardly feel sixteen mentally or physically. <br><br>"But why would we want to talk about me?" I shake her back and forth slightly with a grin, "I want to know about you." I allow my grin to fade, my mouth to forming into a relaxed line as my eyes take on a gentle and curious look. "How are you, Vinnie?" I fiddle with the tips of her hair while I watch her face, concern growing on my own. "How long ago did it happen?" I speak of my father, grandfather, and Mr. Ingram, pain flashing in my gaze. I swallow, "How long have you been all alone here?" My lips flicker into a small smile, "I mean, you know, you are the grandest sky pirate captain on this earth, Miss Trumeter." I give her a swift wink, "But there are vast dangers out there. You shouldn't be running a ship all on your own now." My mouth turns up into a confident smile. "So, it's a good thing you've got me along for the ride again, isn't it?" I'm probably not the best first mate candidate right now, not in my current state, but I know it's better than being alone. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | Sep 25 2012, 09:32 PM Post #9 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 407px; text-align:justify;"><br> I see his smile return, and it feels like rain after years of drought. Sweet, sweet rain, warm rain, rain that brings even the dust back to life. And when August is so very August and insists on emphasizing my words, I laugh, a childish, soft peal of a giggle, like the lilting trills of a small flute. It's been so long since there's been…lightness in my life. The clock and calendars would tell you it has only been about a year, but when you've seen the moon melt and and flowers turn to stone and water fall upwards, time cannot be labeled with a number. And it was all in my mind, of course, but that didn't make it any less true to me. I slept through life and lived through nightmares. But for August, there was never the slightest reprieve. I wait for his answer, and his arm wraps around me. Unlike before, it's not from his need to touch reality, or missing me, really. It's a habit. I can remember him doing a couple of times before…when I was being bad and made him hide away with me, or when we were lying in tall grass at night to watch stars light the sky…he would do it, always to keep me warm. It tells me he's really coming back now, and I press my lips together, pushing back tears. <br><br>August recounts the facts and ends it by saying he's wondrous, and the smile that grew with his, falls with his. If only happiness was something so simple. If only you could just be sad, and then cheery, and forget that you were ever sad at all--forget the reasons behind it. But you can't, August can't, especially with what he's been through. He tells me the truth of it…that it changed him. I saw that the moment I opened the door, but the war wasn't merely something August experienced, as I did. I know the boy that left our family two summers ago, and he was more gentle than any other person I knew. He couldn't have survived a war, not unless he bored a hole in his chest and carved out everything that made him sweet-tempered and wonderful. He didn't experience war--he became war. And it makes sense to me, now. August had set it all aside for so long that returning to his old self is like stumbling down a road from a dream in childhood. Everything jumps between being hazy and crystal-clear, shifting in and out of focus. <br><br>I saw the man of brutality that August mentions earlier today when he barked at me to get out of his room. He scared me, but…that ferocity was one of a soldier's. I understand. I can see how tired he is, not only from the events of the day, but from the events of his life these past two years. He's been brought back down to earth, and now the burden of the past has come rushing up to consume him like unstoppable waves. I'm about to tell August that he doesn't have to apologize for any of it. It was never his choice, and even if it had been, what he had to become isn't his fault. But before I can reassure him, he laughs and smiles brightly and says he'll be okay, and I see he's just trying to take care of me, the way I'm trying to do for him. "I believe you," I murmur, smiling back at him, knowing there's no room for worrying. "And you won't be alone for a second," I swear, elbowing him playfully. <br><br>August shows me the time machine then, and I remember how his father told us he had given it to him, believing it would be safest with his son and that would be the last place the government would look for it. And he believed it would bring us back together…and it did, just not…all of us. August tells me how it helped keep him grounded, but it saddens me how he refers to himself in a past tense, saying was. But I laugh when he tugs me closer, because I can already see his old self slipping back to the surface. Step by step, he's falling back. "You'll be him again, you'll see," I grin as I roll over slightly, so I'm resting a bit on him, my hands on his chest as I give it a confident pat. <br><br>When August says he wants to hear my story, I feel a sharp stab of fear dig into me, my smile dissolving the second I'm shot into remembering that moment when I was standing behind the pantry…pressed between two slats of wood with nothing but that thread of light from the bottom, and the sounds of shouting from outside. My eyes grow wide as August asks how long ago it happened. No, no, please, I don't want to talk about it, it's terrible, it's the worst, you don't want to hear, and I don't want to tell you. I don't want to be the one to tell you, I don't want you to hurt anymore. <br><br>But then he smiles at me, just a bit, and comforts me with a memory. I can almost see that little girl plonking a cap on a little boy's head and immediately declaring him the first mate, before he could call himself captain. I was horribly overbearing in those days, bordering on detestable, but August always stayed by my side, just as he is now. Thinking back on that warm autumn day, with my arm looped through that old ship wheel and my hand holding August's while the other clutched the thick handle of a basket of berry tarts as we ran to the treehouse…I find myself smiling again, too. "Yes," I say very decidedly, grinning up at him as I roll to rest on my side, facing him entirely now as one shoulder delves into the pillow. "You have the entire truth of it, Auggie." My hand goes to firmly grasp his collar with my declarations. "You are my first mate, my protector, but first and foremost, my best friend, August Proctor…always." I proclaim before releasing him, my hand drawing back. "And always and always," I chuckle, doing the emphasis for him. <br><br>But my face eventually loses those upcurved lines, my eyes turning grave. I take a deep breath then, knowing that I will have to tell him at some point anyway. I say only what's needed. "I've…been on my own for about a year," I begin, turning to lie on my back again. My hands fold across my stomach, one finger idly scratching at a knuckle as I chew the past over. "Some officers came one day, and they wanted the machine." I stop scratching, and stare down at my hands, counting the times they've been used in the last year…cutting skinny vegetables or cranking the mangle or…wielding a shovel. "Our valiant elders wouldn't give in, of course." I look at August with a small, trembling smile, that pride showing through because we both know how moral and good our family was. But then the sharp bitterness of injustice of what happened to them makes me bite the inside of my lip, and I try to focus on that physical pain as I continue on. I haven't cried in three months…not completely, at least, and I don't intend on doing it now. I don't want to make things worse…my father used to talk about how emotions are contagious. <br><br>"Then they wanted to take our grandfathers and your father with them for questioning, but they protested, and…." I swallow the lump in my throat and pause, not knowing how to go on for a moment. But I don't think it needs to be said. Eventually, I find myself reaching for the chain around my neck, tugging at it till the ring tumbles out from the inside of my blouse. "…Grandfather gave me his ring before he hid me," I whisper, the tip of my finger tracing one of its gears. He always knew how much I admired the ring. It was the one thing he would never give me, no matter how much I begged. Eventually, my mother told me that he wore it all the time because it once belong to my grandmother, his wife, and that I shouldn't ask about it anymore (though she was never fond of me spending too much time with him to begin with). This ring, like the time machine for August, helped me keep a hold of my senses. It was like an iron corset, lacing me tight and keeping me upright and in place. <br><br>I look back at August then, the only person I have left in this world, and I to him. I shift onto my side again, my hand reaching for his much larger one as I squeeze it gently. "I'm glad to have you back, August," I say softly, my lips pulling into a tender smile. "For the first time in weeks…this place finally feels like home again." </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Gipity | Sep 27 2012, 12:03 AM Post #10 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>Vinnie makes sure to assure me that I will be my old self again, all in good time, but I know he's gone. Yes, fractions of who I was still exist, especially now, when I am able to push away all the turmoil I experienced. I don't know how long it will last, and I can't think about that either. It's there, hovering, threatening me. I can feel it in the way my heart beats at a normal rate and yet I can feel it thumping against the wall of my chest like a hammer, or in the dull ache of my bandaged arm, or how I'm wide awake despite only encountering a couple hours of sleep. I know it's going to be with me, possibly forever. "We'll see." I murmur as I reach up and brush back a lock of her sienna hair, tucking it behind her ear and out of the way of her fair face. <br><br>A tender smile forms upon my lips as she calls me her best friend. Obviously, I knew that I was her best friend, but it's still nice to hear it. I need her badly, as much as I wish she needed me more. She is my anchor now. She's what I fight for. She makes me reach forward and grasp for stability, for normalcy, for the bits and pieces of the old me that still hang in the air, that lingers in those bright blue eyes of hers. I want to be the best first mate I can for her. I want to be the protector she deserves. I feel tears forming in my eyes as I look at her, just staring at her, without realizing it. "Always." I whisper, allowing my smile to turn into a grin, if just for a moment, before we move on to more serious conversation. <br><br>I don't look at her as she tells me of what happened to our elders, eyes flickering off towards the wall, allowing her description to create the scene in my mind. I can feel the time machine burning against me at the thought that my loved ones died over it, and I know now more than ever that I have to keep it safe. I feel my face growing hot as my emotions creep up on me when she trails off, because I know the ending to the story. The tears feel thick as they creep over my eyelids, my nose soon becoming clogged, and I have to sit up just as she mentions the ring, my fingers finding my hair. It hits me all over again that my father is dead, truly dead and gone and never coming back, along with my grandfather, and Mr. Trumeter. All of them. They are gone. No matter how much I wish or will it to be, they aren't coming back to us. I let out a muffled sob, keeping my mouth closed so that it barely escapes. I sniff as I run my hands down my face, one hand dropping to my lap while the other grasps onto my chin, rubbing it gently for a second before I look over my shoulder at her and smile faintly, a sad single chimed laugh slipping out, "I miss them." My hand drops from my chin and runs over the soft suede of my father's vest before I let out a sigh and sink down, turning onto my side so that I'm facing her, our faces level. <br><br>"I always liked this ring." I get out, my voice low, as I reach over and caress the metal jewelry with a single finger. It grows quiet, but only for a bit, for she soon grasps my hand, her tiny fingers wrapping about my palm, and I curl my fingers around hers, engulfing it, and I smile as she tells me that me being back makes this place finally feel like home again. "It wouldn't be home without you, dearest Vin." I give her hand a squeeze before I give her a soft smile. "You should get some rest, Vinnie, you know. I'll still be here in the morning. You'll see." I look down at our hands and begin to draw designs along the top of hers, "Now sleep." I state firmly but caringly, not about to allow her to protest. I lay there patiently for an hour, not anywhere close to falling asleep, gradually growing antsy, and finally, I carefully release her hand, pull myself up from the bed and head out of the room. <br><br>In the middle of the night, I roam about the house in quiet footsteps, getting myself used to it, drinking in the old and safe memories associated with it. I realize how run down it's become, and I make sure to note that I will fix it up for us. Eventually, I come across my father's office and begin to tinker with a clock that's sitting on his desk, neatly off to the side with it's pieces beside it, still needing to be repaired. That's where I am for hours, until the clock has all of it's pieces in their proper places, and then I set it up on a shelf. I leave the office, debating on if I should attempt sleeping, until my eyes catch sight of one of my uniform patches just sticking out of the dying fire in the fireplace, and that's all it takes. <br><br>A rage crashes over me, but it's soon replaced with panic when I am sure I see shadows sweeping over the walls. I get flashes of seeing the same patch blood stained or singed around the edges as I take the names of those who died in battle, as I note them all down so that officers back home can tell the worrying families of their loss. I write down their names and as soon as the ink stops, it's as if their death is official, as if my very hand made it happen. I let out a yelp of anguish as I run forward, my boot not hesitating to kick the patch back into the embers, a small flame starting up as the patch sets on fire. It's not enough though. I frantically grab onto the nearest book I can find, soon tearing out the pages and tossing them into the fire, one right after the other, until the flames are high and the patch is nothing but ash now. The fire in front of me only triggers more memories, of burning and crashing airships of our men and our enemies that we witness from the shore, of the enemy setting fire to the innocent homes that we try to protect, of my trousers catching and the heat stinging at my leg until I'm able to roll into the trenches and extinguish it. <br><br>I suddenly feel overwhelmingly hot, and so I strip myself of my father's vest, tossing it onto a chair before the button up is nearly torn off, leaving me in my singlet. I collapsed back onto the floor and let out a muffled scream as I cover my face with my hands, shoving myself away from the fire with my feet scraping against the wood, before I roll onto my side and curl up underneath my grandfather's old piano, arms over my head, haunted with nightmares continuously fueled with the disturbing crackle of the fire, until the sun is up and shining through the windows, filling the room with light and calming me down into a state of numbness. <br><br>The old August is never ever going to be coming back. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | Nov 24 2012, 11:21 PM Post #11 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 407px; text-align:justify;"><br> But then something will set off in August like a flick of fire by a puddle of oil, and the evening's suddenly interrupted with screams and tears, broken china and pain, and I'm reminded that it's only a dream, and that life in the previous years was nothing so sweet. I do my best to try to help August when it happens, but sometimes he just wants me to leave, prompting me to go outside or up to my room. To just stay out of his way, so that something like what happened with the china cabinet won't happen again. So far, he hasn't seen the bandage on my back because I've been careful about hiding it, and making sure to lock the door when I change the gauze, and I'd just like to keep it that way. He'd feel so horrible about it. <br><br>One morning, I realize that we've run out of food quicker than I anticipated. I didn't have any idea that August was coming home after all, and after the war, his stomach's become a bit…sensitive. It didn't take long before we discovered he wasn't really one for meat anymore, the food reminding him too much of horrors he's seen, especially in its raw form…all wrapped up in red-stained paper. Soups with simple bread and butter seem to go down much easier…dishes with nuts. Fruit too, so I'm grateful the Proctors had planted some trees when we were young and that I had continued to tend for them while August was gone. My grief had blinded me, but never so much. <br><br>I ask August if he'd come to market with me, not wanting to leave him here in this house of ghosts alone. I tell him that I could certainly use his assistance in carrying everything, letting him know I need him too, and soon we head off together, baskets in hand. We walk along the road, talking about the birds and weather--things that would seem so dull to speak about with anyone else, but not August. We dodge wagons that splash mud and cross the old bridge, and eventually, we reach town. I keep August close by and try to make sure that the hustle and bustle of the village won't be too much for him, but soon enough, I remember that I have to visit a particular store for canned goods. It might be less fancy fare, but it won't empty our savings as much as the other's. The problem is, the old man also sells weaponry, and I can't anticipate how August might feel about that. So I leave him at another store to wait at instead, a shop filled with beautiful glassworks and toys that we always used to visit when we were children. But we never looked with envy, like the other children, because we were lucky enough to have family that could make even better things. <br><br>As Mr. Bates rings up my purchases, he gives a strangely sympathetic smile and starts a conversation I didn't expect. <br><br>"So, is August really back?" <br><br>I look up, startled that he knows, and then immediately begin to have a sinking feeling in my chest. "Yes," I say, smiling back as I put everything in my basket quickly. "It's wonderful to have him home again." I don't lie. <br><br>"…is it true what they say?" he asks suddenly, awkwardly as his fingers strum on the counter. "About…him in the war…losing his marbles and attacking his own comrades?" <br><br>I struggle not to frown. "No," I respond, decidedly and finally as I step back. "Not at all." Because it wasn't really him. It was what the war turned August into. "Good day, Mr. Bates." I turn on my heel and leave the shop quickly, the bell jangling loudly behind me. His words make me wonder how many people have heard August's story, and it gives me a terrible feeling about leaving August by himself. But we've known the shopkeeper since we were young--he should be safe there, shouldn't he? <br><br>I hurry anyway, and to my distress…I hear the shouting just as I turn the corner, a mother swiftly ushering her child out the front door as I enter, and a couple of others rushing to leave, not wanting to listen to the ruckus. When I enter, Mr. Harris has got his hand firmly clamped on August's arm, and pulling him aside to shout at him. "Mr. Harris! What are you doing!?" I demand, running over and abruptly attempting to separate them, but he's got a tight hold on August. <br><br>"He broke it! HE BROKE THE CAROUSEL! He said he didn't, but I KNOW he did and--" <br><br>"Mr. Harris, you know August, he would NEVER lie abou--" <br><br>"Well that was BEFORE!" he screams with a voice that overpowers mine, in words that kill the trains of thought. "Who knows what he's become after the war?!" <br><br>I'm prepared for this; I've got Mr. Bates to thank for that. I just have to continue having faith in August, shooting down anyone who dares to prove he's become something else. "He wouldn't do that!" I snap back. "And I'm sorry about your carousel, truly, but I won't pay for something when August is completely innocent!" <br><br>Mr. Harris steps back, gaping at me for a moment. "Why you stupid girl…" <br><br>I feel the blow on my cheek before I hear it.</div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Gipity | Nov 26 2012, 12:15 AM Post #12 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>I try to keep Vinnie out of it, but sometimes, she's the only one who makes the chaos go away. <br><br>When it hits me, when that weak string holding the pieces in place wobbles, starts to stretch and pull apart, I'll scream for her to go. Leave the house, leave the room, just leave me alone. It's not that I don't want her there, because I feel better when she is there, but I don't want to hurt her, and I... I don't want her to see me like this. Do you know what it's like for someone who loves you to watch you lose yourself? It never occurs to me when it's happening, but when I sit there, eyes red rimmed from my tears and muscles aching from my convulsions and jerky actions, I think of Vinnie sitting all alone somewhere, my issues separating us, and I don't like it. I don't want her to be alone. I don't want her to be sad. I want her beside me. <br><br>That's why the aftermath is nice. Usually after an episode, I settle down into a calm, and I'm myself, or at least a bruised version of myself. Things can be good. I help Vinnie around the house. I fiddle with projects and fixing things. That's when my focus is clearest, and when nothing bothers me as much. Otherwise, my ability to concentrate on things is weaker. I tend to walk into rooms and forget why I came in there too frequently. If the house was any bigger, I might get myself lost. I find that funny, getting lost in my own house. Silly, isn't it? It is. Anyway, those are just small things that happen now, and other physical nervousness, you know, as well as the fact that I can't eat meat anymore. Vinnie took out the package of red meat, seeping with juices and it took all I had to bring myself to the window to puke, before the flashes in my mind of rotting meat, skulls, and ripped tendons filled it to the top, causing me to cry and huddle in the corner of the counters. That was when I let Vinnie stay. <br><br>I clung to her, buried myself in her shoulder, and I let her voice and touch take me home. She was like a lighthouse, her warm radiance in the distance, telling me where to go. When my episodes are less violent, I want her there, to bring me back. It doesn't always work, the fog in my mind always varying, sometimes far too thick for any light to penetrate, but even so, when the fog does clear, she's there, toasty and bright. She's always there for me. She's there whenever I need to find her, when I need to talk, when I need to do something or anything. She's willing to let me wake her up in the middle of the night, when my mind is crystal clear after the horrific nightmares, and she lets me talk. I missed talking to Vinnie. Sometimes I speak of the day, skipping the bad parts, and sometimes I tell her stories. I love stories, and I love telling the ones that come off the top of my mind. I'm glad that part wasn't smashed, because I think I'd go crazy without my imagination. <br><br>I've been held up in the house since I've been here, but I like it that way. I go in the backyard, and I sit outside, working on a project with my legs crossed as I sit in the soft grass. That's all I need. Vinnie had to go to the market however, because we ran out of food, and that meant she asked for me to go too. I knew she didn't want me by myself, and I couldn't blame her for that. I wouldn't want me by myself either. I hesitated though, my head dropping down as I fiddled with a red string in my hands, afraid of what I may do there, but if Vinnie believed in me, like she always does, I could do it. She made me brave about some sorts of things when we were younger. I never really needed to make her brave. Sometimes I wished, or wish, I was more like her, you see, for her benefit. <br><br>So, I agree, and off we go. The walk to the market is nice. My family always preferred being a tad away from the town lines, so the trek is quiet, but I only mean that it's quiet around us. We talk. Once I get started, it seems hard for me to stop. I swing my empty basket around my wrist while my other hand goes this way and that, discussing trivial things as if they are precious gems, my voice light and laughter present. I'm seemingly distracted, yet I'm the one who notices the stray dogs chasing each other, causing me to pull Vinnie close to me and out of the way as they head towards her legs like a protective instinct, before simply letting her go and continuing on our way. <br><br>I do simmer down once we are over the bridge, as my attentions are swiftly pulled elsewhere. There's so much going on in the market. My eyes aren't sure which way to turn. It's loud too, and sometimes there's a noise that startles me, but I recover quickly enough. I begin to enjoy it, liking to see the familiar faces of the townspeople and the wondrous sights of toys, decor, games, and artistic expressions. Soon however, I notice the looks I get. People I knew, people who always thought I was a little strange but nonetheless liked me, look at me as if there's something wrong with me, like they know, but how could they? I cast my eyes away from them, and soon enough, Vinnie parks me in front of the Menagerie, a favorite shop of ours back in the old days, filled with artful glass and spectacular toys, though nothing that compared to what our elders made us. We always admired it though, like a gallery of sorts, so I understand her reasoning for putting me here while she goes someplace she feels won't be suitable for my fragile state. <br><br>When I enter, Mr. Harris is busy with a customer, but as I stroll through through the short aisles, he soon notices me. He looks shocked at first, and then wary, as if I'm about to bite. He greets me though, with a careful voice, asking how I am. I give him a smile and a small wave, telling him I'm fine, and that it's good to be home. It's all true. I may be a fractured man, but I'm fine. I'm alive, and Vinnie's with me. I'm not alone. I still smile. I still laugh. I may not be of the most peaceful mind, but I'm happy when I'm clear. I'm fine, and how much better it is to be here instead of the war holds no bounds. He seems a little relieved, but he's not sure, glancing between me and his counter a couple times before he nods and goes about his work, leaving me be. I hear the bell on the door ring a few times while I examine glass flowers and forest creatures, eyes doing all the work as I fear something triggering could make me drop it, and we can't afford to buy anything here. <br><br>That's when I hear something drop nearby, and a little boy's gasp abruptly following. I take the few steps over to the next aisle, only to see the expensive carousel piece, the horses of glass and the base of glimmering metals. I saw it before, admiring how it moved and played a gentle melody, wondering if I could make one for Vinnie, believing she'd like one. The boy must have tried to pick it up and ended up dropping it. Fortunately, it was on the lowest shelf, but I can see one of the horses has shattered, another has cracked, and the mechanics at the bottle have sprung out, leaving the piece motionless. The boy looks like he is about to panic, and being one who gets along much better with children than adults, I kneel down, giving the boy a kind smile. "It's okay! It's just a little broken. Mr. Harris will understand it was an accident." I say with confidence as I pick the piece up, examining the workings on the bottom, my brain whirling as I put together the pieces in my mind. Yes. It'll be simple. "I can fix this. Don't you worry, I'll ge-" I hear the bell, and I turn my head, only to see the kid has abandoned me, with the broken decor in hand, and I feel my heart start to pound in my ears as I hear Mr. Harris' heavy footsteps crossing the floor, and I stand to meet my fate. <br><br>"You broke my carousel. You know how expensive that is? I hope you're able to pay for th-" He goes on in a harsh whisper as he comes out from behind the counter and over to me. <br><br>"No, sir, I didn't break it. It was the boy that just left, but he didn't mean it." I point towards the door, my gray eyes growing wide. I swallow before I speak again, "I swear it, sir. I did not touch it until I was trying to fix it." I try to keep my voice low, wetting my lips as I develop dry month. He doesn't believe me though. I can see it in his eyes, and my brows furrow in anticipation of the man's growing anger. <br><br>"You are a liar, boy. You touched it, you broke it, and now you'll pay for it. You see that tag. You are not leaving until you pay that price." He searches me suddenly, seeing that I'm not exactly chock full of money, but he spies the chain coming out of my vest pocket, the clip at the end having my father's initials carved into it. He always admired my father's pocket watch. "That can pay for mos-" <br><br>"I didn't do it!" I snap at him, eyes growing glossy as my hand covers the pocket the watch resides in. "I don't lie, Mr. Harris, you know. You know that! I will not pay for that. You can't make me!" I know we are hurting for money. I'm not blind. I've only made it worse for Vinnie by being here. I will not let this man have anything of ours, especially for something I did not do. I move passed him to place the delicate object on the counter, the assertiveness from my role as a Lieutenant pushing through in my desperate state. "I can fix this, sir. You know my family. I can fi-." That's when he grips my arm hard enough to create bruising, pulling me back in front of him, and he raises his voice, making it far louder than my own just moments ago, startling me. <br><br>"You LOUSY child, August Proctor! You did it! Everyone knows you're not right after the war! STOP LYING!" He growls at me, his grip on my arm getting tighter while he pulls it back and forth, and I'm starting to lose focus, men in opposing uniforms coming towards me whereas the townspeople are scurrying out. No. Don't let it win, August. I blink it away as I turn my face to the side, pushing my lips together as tears prick harder at my eyes. <br><br>"No... NO! I DIDN'T! GET OFF ME PLEASE!" I plead as I stomp my foot. I don't want to hurt the man. I don't want to have an episode and truly break any of the store's valuables. <br><br>"GIVE ME MY MONEY, PRO-." He goes again, raging and yet cautious, not about to let me go, but he's interrupted by Vinnie, her presence bringing me back and I close my eyes, pulling faintly away from Mr. Harris, but he keeps his hold despite the witness. My lips tremble as I open my gaze while Vinnie tries to pull us apart, but it doesn't do any good. The man is not relenting. He tells Vinnie what he's accusing me off, and of course, she defends me, because she knows I would never lie. She reminds the man that he knows me, that I wouldn't deceive him, but he brings up the war again, how it's affected me, and that does not sit well with Vinnie. She snaps at the man, her voice more fierce and defiant than maybe mine will ever be, and that's when Mr. Harris does something he will soon regret. <br><br>He hits her, right across the face, and it's hard. I see Vinnie's head wing off to the side, and that's all it takes. I always defended Vinnie in the past. I was never considered a tough boy, but nothing harmed her or my family if I could help it. I can hear my mentors in the war screaming at me, telling me to protect what's mine, defend it, do whatever you have to, but protect it, and they taught me how. Soon, Mr. Harris is no longer some brash and greedy older man with a temper. He's the enemy, a monster attacking my dearest Vinnie, and I will have none of it. <br><br>My face is no longer that of a frightened disturbed boy, transforming seamlessly into that of a cold-hearted soldier, my arm free of his grip coming up with blinding speed as I grasp the man's arm, twisting it back in a way that will break it if he moves the wrong way. "Don't you dare touch her." The scowl rumbles from my throat as I stare down the man, the puppy eyes gone, realizing I've grown taller than him since I was last here two years ago. Fear erupts in his eyes as he attempts to pull away, and he goes to speak, but I don't allow him any more of his awful words, all of it happening so quickly as my other hand grasps his shirt collar and shoves him against the counter, letting go of his hand as I land a elbow right across his face, possibly breaking his cheekbone. "DID YOU HEAR ME?!" I scream. "Don't touch her. Not a hand. Not a fingertip. NOT A HAIR." As those last three words escape my lips, my fist rams into his stomach, causing him to double over onto the floor, and that's when I don't hesitate to straddle him and wail on his face. I don't hear Vinnie's screaming, everything around me blocked out besides the man in front of me, vision rapidly blurring due to my furious tears, the pounding of my heart and heaving of my breath deafening me. <br><br>I don't hear the bell of the door, and therefore two men come out of nowhere, pulling me off of Mr. Harris. This doesn't help me, as it only reminds me of the beginning of my fall, being dragged away from the battlefield. I scream and struggle, but they don't let me go, holding me still until I calm down. I do calm down after a few minutes, my head falling as I feel like my body is giving out. The men, who called me by name several times, place me down when they realize I'm not a threat anymore as I cry, and I don't hesitate to collapse and look up at the scene I caused. Mr. Harris may be in the hospital for awhile, and his associate, who must have been out on break, is speaking to Vinnie, who's face is far from serene. I glance behind my shoulder towards the windows, and I see the many curious people peeking at me, saying things, muffled through the glass. <br><br>"The rumors are true." <br><br>"He really is a nutso." <br><br>"That soldier was right about that boy." <br><br>"Poor August. He was such a nice boy." <br><br>The words begin to ring in my ears, causing me to cup them as I let out a whining sob. "Vinnie." I cry out, my arms soon looping around my abdomen as I pull myself up, boots scraping against the floor. She comes to me after a moment with a box about the size of the carousel under her arm, and with her free hand on me, we leave the shop, the people outside of it clearing the way as if I'm a disease. That's when I hear more words, but they aren't whispers, and they are all directed towards Vinnie. <br><br>"Get him out of here!" <br><br>"You should be ashamed of yourself!" <br><br>"That boy should be committed, Lavinia." <br><br>"Get him some help, girl, for your own safety." <br><br>The last one hurts me the most, and I duck down my head as if to hide, my feet quickening as I attempt to get away from the town and back to home. It's full of ghosts, but it's a safe haven from them. My tears do stop on the way back, but I continue to hold onto myself as we go. I don't hear what Vinnie says to me, if she says anything at all. It all seems like a fuzzy blur until we are through that front door and it is shut behind me, sealing us away from the rest of the world. That's when I fall back with a thump against the door, my father's carving of vines and roses embedded in it. I trace them with my fingertips as I look upon Vinnie with a face belonging to a boy full of guilt and regret, because not only have I hurt that man severely, but I embarrassed Vinnie. I cost her money. I made myself into the town fool, the nutso as they say, the one she's risking her life taking care of. I gulp as my eyes shine with the disappointment in myself and the sorrow I've caused her. "I'm so sorry, Vinnie." I apologize, lips shivering as I pause, head tilting slightly to the side. I attempt to contain myself, but my chest shudders as my next statement comes out with a sob, "Maybe you should let them come take me away." My hand flies to my mouth as I suck in a breath and sob into it, tears overflowing as I stand there, loathing the notion, but unable to be selfish any longer. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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