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rainbowfic2015-10-27 01:40 am
greenling) wrote in rainbowfic2015-10-27 01:40 am
Famous #21, Blue Opal #19, Rose #13
Name: Greenling
Story: All Great Things
Colors: Famous #21 (My mama told me when I was young we are all born superstars), Blue Opal #19 (Still remembered after all these years), Rose #13 (Do not watch the petals fall from the rose with sadness, know that, like life, things sometimes must fade, before they can bloom again.)
Supplies and Styles: Canvas, Novelty Beads ("Trouble," Pink), Mixed Media, Glitter (http://www.poets.org/print/node/411031), Modeling Clay (Have you ever had a dream that predicted the future or provided an answer to a problem for you?), Fingerpainting
Word Count: Uhhh fff like 2500? Ish?
Rating: PGish
Warnings: Sad bits, clearly unedited bits, people getting hurt.
Summary: Bits of Peace backstory, right before werewolfening. This needs to be completely rewritten in a second draft before I add the actual ending parts but I really don't want to spend another three months on it at the moment.
Comments, criticism, and questions are all appreciated. Criticism is especially encouraged on the flow and tone of the whole thing, since I'm gonna scrap anything more specific.
Because you haven’t spoken
in so long, the tongue stumbles and stutters
Peace tried to keep his attention on the paper, but his eyes wouldn't cooperate. They kept tearing up, forcing him to wipe his face and look away. The first few pages he'd dripped on had gotten ripped out, the crumpled paper guiltily shoved into his pockets. He didn't want to leave a trail. Could they get your DNA from tears? He didn't know.
At first he'd been trying to write some kind of memorial. It should've been pristine, he'd thought. Respectful. Then later his mind had turned towards maybe a letter, or maybe a song. Now he didn't know what it was, beyond something to do. The sun beat down on his face, his head hurt from the strain of listening to any stray noise, and he'd mapped out every possible exit from the dumpsters behind the old gas station. He hadn't spoken to anyone in three days, hadn't slept in two. It was only a matter of time before they found him if he stayed in town, and he was pretty sure the roads out were being watched. It wasn't exactly a big area, and he stood out like a sore thumb.
Somewhere in the shimmering heat of gas fumes on the asphalt, in the light-glare shining off a piece of foil, the gray thing watched him with malice in its features. Not for the first time, he wished he was hallucinating.
*
What to say when one says,
“You’re sooo musical,” takes your stuttering for scatting,
takes your stagger for strutting,
takes your try and tried again for willful/playful deviation?
A long time ago, in a world far away, there had been Marie. She had long dark hair and a sugary smirk and always showed up in some kind of perfume that smelled like brown sugar and sex. Sometimes when money was good, they'd go out to a nice restaurant in the suburbs and pretend to be dating like normal people. Marie would make jokes about skipping the check or going down to some fancy place in town and winding up washing dishes in the back. Sometimes he'd have his own fun and serenade her, or show up all in leather and make her squirm. More usually, they'd meet each other after work and find some excuse. Months passed like that, just her and work and dinner at his Mom's on the weekends. It got comfortable, but it wasn't a long-term thing. It wasn't meant to be.
With Marie or without her (though there was a lot of her), sleep came hard. Work had just gotten steady enough that he could afford little things like new guitar strings, or Netflix, or not eating at his Mom's every weekend. It didn't feel as good as he'd hoped. Not much did. His friends were finishing college, or married. Peace's dreams mostly involved wondering if moving to a bigger city would be more or less shitty. Often he wound end up watching movies before bed, falling asleep to the flashing screen with an empty anger he couldn't explain.
Then, at some floating future point with no hint of the space between, he was somewhere else.
It was cold and he was naked, standing near the edge of a canyon with soft red clay under his feet that scuffed and stained just like real dirt. He stood there for a long moment, confused, feeling everything too clearly. He pinched himself, and felt that too. There was a soft wind that tossed his hair and whistled, intimating something with its tone that made him shudder. Across the horizon the canyon had an end, far in the distance, but it was just more clay bordered by a cloudy black sky.
He walked for an indeterminate amount of time, shivering in the wind, kicking pebbles off the side until something changed. Something had snuck up behind him in the wind and emptiness. He took a few steps forward, and nerves hit him. The canyon's face was sheer, hundreds of feet down to an endless sprawl of sharp rocks. He stared, and maybe he swallowed or clenched his fists, and the wind whispered louder. Maybe he lost his balance, a step away from the edge of the cliff. Maybe he fell backwards and lost his breath for a moment, or he ran, hoping there was an end somewhere, anywhere other than the canyon.
Over and over, until there was nothing again and he woke up.
*
It makes you wanna not holla
silence to miss perception’s face.
Scratching sounds barely brought him to attention. Peace glanced left towards the parking lot: there was a bird, a little black crow, digging around in the trash. Just a bird, but there were cars over there. Could've been people. His strength was fading and his head hurt, and he didn't know if it was exhaustion or dehydration. His stomach hurt too, mostly from panic. Somewhere at the edges of his awareness was everything else, the sun and the loneliness and the pain and stink of sitting against a dumpster for however long.
The bird tilted its head and ruffled its feathers, suddenly noticing him. A police siren sounded off in the distance.
His heart beat so hard his vision blurred, though all around him the air was still. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to get out. He wanted to curl up in a ball. He wanted to leave. The gray thing paced around him, laughing silently; he could almost see it clearly now, pacing around in the corner of his vision. It was four-legged and walked like a dog, its skin transparent and emaciated. Where its head should have been might have been a head and might have been nothing, like a placeholder in an imagined thing. Whatever it was had been following him since the morning he'd had to run.
More than anything, he wanted to sleep. Deep, dreamless sleep. If he stayed there, he knew he probably would fall asleep, and then it would just be a matter of time before the police got him or the gray thing did. Both, probably, eventually.
Peace took a breath, slowly, then again. He closed his eyes and gathered the last of his willpower. Something had happened. Something nameless and horrible had happened, and he had to remember that if he stayed here it would be happening again. This time it was a bird; next time it might be a person. He pressed himself up against the side of the dumpster until the metal poked hard into his back. Awareness of the world began to fade, replaced by anger and a growing feral terror. It threatened to overwhelm him. He stumbled to his feet, forgetting any idea of a plan, and ran for the treeline. He may have tripped, may have knocked a tooth out, may have scraped over a few rocks. The creature was somewhere. He ran until he was somewhere else.
*
It ain’t even morning or early,
though the sun-up says “day”
A mile away, under a tree away from the midday sun, two men sat in a nondescript blue sedan. A dozen cars were parked along the street, most in broken asphalt and gravel; the other big, leafy trees, what few there were, sheltered bands of roving children and dogs. It was a lazy day, and quiet.
"Girlfriend or not, that kid is long gone by now," said one man from behind his book.
"He's here somewhere. Just gotta flush 'im out," said the other firmly, between bites of tiny hamburgers. His gaze was focused straight ahead at a house in the distance.
The first one gave him the side-eye. "Carl, I don't know how you put down that stuff with the way you look. If I didn't know better I'd think you were on meth."
Carl grinned, all teeth and sunglasses. "Just good clean living."
In the distance, something shifted that caught both their eyes. Bushes, beside the house they'd been watching. Carl rolled down the window, sharpening his ears. Nothing but the sound of insects.
Then there was a clattering, a long way off, and he knew.
He opened his door and stepped out into the streetlights of the early evening. His partner followed behind as they crept up to the place and paused in the bushes. It was a small house, and outside of the police tape and the blood leaking out from under the door it looked completely abandoned. The world had gone quiet. He waved for his partner to go around one side, and the man faded off into irrelevance.
Carl's hands itched and went for his gun. Some hazy voice in his head rattled off a complaint about protocol and not radioing in before approaching a possibly-armed suspect. The grin widened. Grass crunched under his shoes. He was on the hunt.
It stepped out from behind a shadow, waiting for him. Behind it in the black sky hung a crescent moon, and something in him shivered- no reason. No reason to shiver. He was armed, this thing wasn't. He raised his gun.
"Oughtta get down on the ground, kid- or don't, I don't mind."
It rolled its shoulders, took a step forward, and growled.
*
Though stillness suggests a possibility
of less than dead, of move, of still be.
In the years since Peace had graduated they still hadn't fixed the window by the shop class garage, and from there he made his way inside. The whole place seemed to be empty, at least for the evening, and the air inside was stuffy but cool. It was nice. He took a long drink at the first water fountain he could find, then doused his head in it. He spent a while wandering.
He found himself in the auditorium, laying on a pile of soft things that were probably costumes. The faint light seemed to fade in and out. It occurred to him how bad he smelled, and that he was probably ruining whatever he was laying on. He couldn't quite muster the will to care. The dog-thing hadn't followed him, as far as he could tell, and for the first time in a long time he could imagine he was okay.
Then there was the chasm.
Peace took a sharp breath. That was bad. That meant he was asleep. A thick, hateful feeling loomed in the distance, and maybe for the first time, he realized it felt familar. He slapped himself in the face, hard enough to sting. He felt himself wake up a little, but not very much. Exhaustion was sapping his willpower. Then he heard the dog thing behind him, and he scrambled around desperately for an idea. He slapped himself again. He looked for somewhere to run. None of that worked, so instead he found a rock and sliced his hand open with it.
He woke up shakily, not realizing where he was at first. He felt achy from sleeping on the floor. Then there was a noise. It was footsteps, far away, and then the sound of the big auditorium door opening. He listened very intently. Was it a janitor? They turned on the lights and paced into the room. He froze, then sat up slowly and tried to think of a plan. His hand stung, and he went to look at it. It was bleeding. All at once he remembered the chasm and the dog thing and everything. He stared and the footsteps got closer. He stumbled to his feet, nearly slipping on a piece of costume. There were side passages that may or may not have led somewhere; he hesitated. Instead he decided to wait until they were close and slip out from the back.
They came closer and he did so, heading up between the aisles. He wasn't quite quiet enough, and the person called again and began to come out from behind the back curtains. He broke into a run and out the doors. He ran down the hall and around a corner, hearing chasing and yelling behind him. He wasn't sure whether the guy had seen him or not. He kept running then thought to make a noise, then duck into a different room.
It was a classroom, an art classroom with a big old closet. He snuck over as quickly and quietly as he could and, thankfully, found it unlocked. He slipped in.
He stood there for much longer than necessary after all the footsteps had gone, afraid to shift his weight or breathe too hard lest he shake the paintings bunched up behind him. Eventually, slowly, quietly, he opened the closet door again.
He had been expecting to see something standing outside the closet waiting for him. Not seeing it, he let out a long shuddering breath that shook the paintings- he reached out and grabbed them. Took a step out, turned around and looked.
(There were any number of those and sculptures and pieces of styrofoam and nonsense in there. He remembered his brother had been in an art class. Without thinking he looked over and browsed through them.
Two of them were nothing. The third one looked like his brother's. He saw it and was shaken, remembering the incident that the painting sort of depicted, or seeing his brother get defensive about it. He gently leaned the paintings back where they were and slid into the cool floor.
Peace thought for a bit about high school and perspective, both his literal perspective from the floor and subjectively imagining that high school wasn't that bad, even though he knows it was. He looked at his hand. Maybe not quite as bad as right now.
It occurred to him that maybe he could find something here that would help him get out. He wasn't sure what. Maybe somebody's cell phone was shut up in a drawer or something and he could... he didn't want to steal anything. He didn't have any other ideas though.)
He found a key in the top drawer and a candy bar, which was something. He really didn't like stealing even that. He found mostly paperwork. It was really hard to think because he was very tired, so he just slid down against the wall and read a random thing in the dim light while nibbling the candy bar. He read a random thing about some kid and it brought his mind back to having to bring home a paper for his mother to sign. Then his mind started to wander.
"Joseph, this is the third note this semester. Do you know what they're going to do if you start getting suspended again?"
He wouldn't look at her. She put her hands on his shoulders, still able to reach them, and sighed so deep he could almost feel it running through her, feel her nails in his skin.
"Joseph, you have to fight this thing. You have to. I'm so sorry."
He blinked and rubbed his eyes, confused. He took a bite out of the candy bar and brought himself back to the present- yeah, he didn't feel asleep- but a rush of panic and despair ran through him. It felt like his mother. He felt floaty and empty all of a sudden, like he was losing his grip on reality. His mind turned back to the memory.
"-have to listen, please, oh Joseph! Joseph, you have to find a safe place, okay? Find a safe place to sleep and fight it. It won't stop following you, and when it finds you it will kill you. Do you understand?"
In his memory, he was still standing there, angry and hurt. He lay his head back against the cool wall and tried to think.
"Are you real?" he asked out loud.
His mom stopped. She looked like she was about to cry.
"I- I don't know how to answer that." She swallowed, gripping his shoulders tighter. "Please. One of my boys has to survive."
He felt sick to his stomach. "The monster is there, when I dream. It's trying to track me down when I sleep."
"It's tracking you either way. In dreams- dreams are powerful. I don't know how, but I know you have to try."
The idea made no sense. He didn't want to do it; the image of his Mom was painful, disturbing in some ways, too lifelike, and it seemed like a trick. He could feel the panic and a deep sadness that matched his own, and they felt like her.
The sadness cleared his head a little. He felt less alone, and started to cry again, and this time he didn't hold it back.
He imagined hugging his mother, then brought his mind back to the present. Even if it was a trick, the thought of being able to fight it was too alluring. Even if he died, at least he would be trying.
--
If this were a really good Peace mix, it would be mostly heavy/glam/power metal, modern alt rock, and bebop. That proved a bit of a stretch for me, so instead, this is a fic mix, enjoy 50% synthpop/glitch/industrial/gratuitous The Cure.
Blue Foundation - Eyes On Fire (Zeds Dead Remix)
ZZ Top - I Gotsta Get Paid
The Glitch Mob - How To Be Eaten By A Woman
P!nk - Trouble
ZZ Top - Gimme All Your Lovin'
The Cure - Lullaby
Beborn Beton - Mantrap
Florence + The Machine - Only If For A Night
Godsmack - Voodoo
Coil - A White Rainbow
The Glitch Mob - Our Demons (feat. Aja Volkman)
Lordi - Monster, Monster
VNV Nation - Retaliate
:wumpscut: - Rush (Dismantled Remix)
Guns N' Roses - November Rain
Story: All Great Things
Colors: Famous #21 (My mama told me when I was young we are all born superstars), Blue Opal #19 (Still remembered after all these years), Rose #13 (Do not watch the petals fall from the rose with sadness, know that, like life, things sometimes must fade, before they can bloom again.)
Supplies and Styles: Canvas, Novelty Beads ("Trouble," Pink), Mixed Media, Glitter (http://www.poets.org/print/node/411031), Modeling Clay (Have you ever had a dream that predicted the future or provided an answer to a problem for you?), Fingerpainting
Word Count: Uhhh fff like 2500? Ish?
Rating: PGish
Warnings: Sad bits, clearly unedited bits, people getting hurt.
Summary: Bits of Peace backstory, right before werewolfening. This needs to be completely rewritten in a second draft before I add the actual ending parts but I really don't want to spend another three months on it at the moment.
Comments, criticism, and questions are all appreciated. Criticism is especially encouraged on the flow and tone of the whole thing, since I'm gonna scrap anything more specific.
Because you haven’t spoken
in so long, the tongue stumbles and stutters
Peace tried to keep his attention on the paper, but his eyes wouldn't cooperate. They kept tearing up, forcing him to wipe his face and look away. The first few pages he'd dripped on had gotten ripped out, the crumpled paper guiltily shoved into his pockets. He didn't want to leave a trail. Could they get your DNA from tears? He didn't know.
At first he'd been trying to write some kind of memorial. It should've been pristine, he'd thought. Respectful. Then later his mind had turned towards maybe a letter, or maybe a song. Now he didn't know what it was, beyond something to do. The sun beat down on his face, his head hurt from the strain of listening to any stray noise, and he'd mapped out every possible exit from the dumpsters behind the old gas station. He hadn't spoken to anyone in three days, hadn't slept in two. It was only a matter of time before they found him if he stayed in town, and he was pretty sure the roads out were being watched. It wasn't exactly a big area, and he stood out like a sore thumb.
Somewhere in the shimmering heat of gas fumes on the asphalt, in the light-glare shining off a piece of foil, the gray thing watched him with malice in its features. Not for the first time, he wished he was hallucinating.
*
What to say when one says,
“You’re sooo musical,” takes your stuttering for scatting,
takes your stagger for strutting,
takes your try and tried again for willful/playful deviation?
A long time ago, in a world far away, there had been Marie. She had long dark hair and a sugary smirk and always showed up in some kind of perfume that smelled like brown sugar and sex. Sometimes when money was good, they'd go out to a nice restaurant in the suburbs and pretend to be dating like normal people. Marie would make jokes about skipping the check or going down to some fancy place in town and winding up washing dishes in the back. Sometimes he'd have his own fun and serenade her, or show up all in leather and make her squirm. More usually, they'd meet each other after work and find some excuse. Months passed like that, just her and work and dinner at his Mom's on the weekends. It got comfortable, but it wasn't a long-term thing. It wasn't meant to be.
With Marie or without her (though there was a lot of her), sleep came hard. Work had just gotten steady enough that he could afford little things like new guitar strings, or Netflix, or not eating at his Mom's every weekend. It didn't feel as good as he'd hoped. Not much did. His friends were finishing college, or married. Peace's dreams mostly involved wondering if moving to a bigger city would be more or less shitty. Often he wound end up watching movies before bed, falling asleep to the flashing screen with an empty anger he couldn't explain.
Then, at some floating future point with no hint of the space between, he was somewhere else.
It was cold and he was naked, standing near the edge of a canyon with soft red clay under his feet that scuffed and stained just like real dirt. He stood there for a long moment, confused, feeling everything too clearly. He pinched himself, and felt that too. There was a soft wind that tossed his hair and whistled, intimating something with its tone that made him shudder. Across the horizon the canyon had an end, far in the distance, but it was just more clay bordered by a cloudy black sky.
He walked for an indeterminate amount of time, shivering in the wind, kicking pebbles off the side until something changed. Something had snuck up behind him in the wind and emptiness. He took a few steps forward, and nerves hit him. The canyon's face was sheer, hundreds of feet down to an endless sprawl of sharp rocks. He stared, and maybe he swallowed or clenched his fists, and the wind whispered louder. Maybe he lost his balance, a step away from the edge of the cliff. Maybe he fell backwards and lost his breath for a moment, or he ran, hoping there was an end somewhere, anywhere other than the canyon.
Over and over, until there was nothing again and he woke up.
*
It makes you wanna not holla
silence to miss perception’s face.
Scratching sounds barely brought him to attention. Peace glanced left towards the parking lot: there was a bird, a little black crow, digging around in the trash. Just a bird, but there were cars over there. Could've been people. His strength was fading and his head hurt, and he didn't know if it was exhaustion or dehydration. His stomach hurt too, mostly from panic. Somewhere at the edges of his awareness was everything else, the sun and the loneliness and the pain and stink of sitting against a dumpster for however long.
The bird tilted its head and ruffled its feathers, suddenly noticing him. A police siren sounded off in the distance.
His heart beat so hard his vision blurred, though all around him the air was still. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to get out. He wanted to curl up in a ball. He wanted to leave. The gray thing paced around him, laughing silently; he could almost see it clearly now, pacing around in the corner of his vision. It was four-legged and walked like a dog, its skin transparent and emaciated. Where its head should have been might have been a head and might have been nothing, like a placeholder in an imagined thing. Whatever it was had been following him since the morning he'd had to run.
More than anything, he wanted to sleep. Deep, dreamless sleep. If he stayed there, he knew he probably would fall asleep, and then it would just be a matter of time before the police got him or the gray thing did. Both, probably, eventually.
Peace took a breath, slowly, then again. He closed his eyes and gathered the last of his willpower. Something had happened. Something nameless and horrible had happened, and he had to remember that if he stayed here it would be happening again. This time it was a bird; next time it might be a person. He pressed himself up against the side of the dumpster until the metal poked hard into his back. Awareness of the world began to fade, replaced by anger and a growing feral terror. It threatened to overwhelm him. He stumbled to his feet, forgetting any idea of a plan, and ran for the treeline. He may have tripped, may have knocked a tooth out, may have scraped over a few rocks. The creature was somewhere. He ran until he was somewhere else.
*
It ain’t even morning or early,
though the sun-up says “day”
A mile away, under a tree away from the midday sun, two men sat in a nondescript blue sedan. A dozen cars were parked along the street, most in broken asphalt and gravel; the other big, leafy trees, what few there were, sheltered bands of roving children and dogs. It was a lazy day, and quiet.
"Girlfriend or not, that kid is long gone by now," said one man from behind his book.
"He's here somewhere. Just gotta flush 'im out," said the other firmly, between bites of tiny hamburgers. His gaze was focused straight ahead at a house in the distance.
The first one gave him the side-eye. "Carl, I don't know how you put down that stuff with the way you look. If I didn't know better I'd think you were on meth."
Carl grinned, all teeth and sunglasses. "Just good clean living."
In the distance, something shifted that caught both their eyes. Bushes, beside the house they'd been watching. Carl rolled down the window, sharpening his ears. Nothing but the sound of insects.
Then there was a clattering, a long way off, and he knew.
He opened his door and stepped out into the streetlights of the early evening. His partner followed behind as they crept up to the place and paused in the bushes. It was a small house, and outside of the police tape and the blood leaking out from under the door it looked completely abandoned. The world had gone quiet. He waved for his partner to go around one side, and the man faded off into irrelevance.
Carl's hands itched and went for his gun. Some hazy voice in his head rattled off a complaint about protocol and not radioing in before approaching a possibly-armed suspect. The grin widened. Grass crunched under his shoes. He was on the hunt.
It stepped out from behind a shadow, waiting for him. Behind it in the black sky hung a crescent moon, and something in him shivered- no reason. No reason to shiver. He was armed, this thing wasn't. He raised his gun.
"Oughtta get down on the ground, kid- or don't, I don't mind."
It rolled its shoulders, took a step forward, and growled.
*
Though stillness suggests a possibility
of less than dead, of move, of still be.
In the years since Peace had graduated they still hadn't fixed the window by the shop class garage, and from there he made his way inside. The whole place seemed to be empty, at least for the evening, and the air inside was stuffy but cool. It was nice. He took a long drink at the first water fountain he could find, then doused his head in it. He spent a while wandering.
He found himself in the auditorium, laying on a pile of soft things that were probably costumes. The faint light seemed to fade in and out. It occurred to him how bad he smelled, and that he was probably ruining whatever he was laying on. He couldn't quite muster the will to care. The dog-thing hadn't followed him, as far as he could tell, and for the first time in a long time he could imagine he was okay.
Then there was the chasm.
Peace took a sharp breath. That was bad. That meant he was asleep. A thick, hateful feeling loomed in the distance, and maybe for the first time, he realized it felt familar. He slapped himself in the face, hard enough to sting. He felt himself wake up a little, but not very much. Exhaustion was sapping his willpower. Then he heard the dog thing behind him, and he scrambled around desperately for an idea. He slapped himself again. He looked for somewhere to run. None of that worked, so instead he found a rock and sliced his hand open with it.
He woke up shakily, not realizing where he was at first. He felt achy from sleeping on the floor. Then there was a noise. It was footsteps, far away, and then the sound of the big auditorium door opening. He listened very intently. Was it a janitor? They turned on the lights and paced into the room. He froze, then sat up slowly and tried to think of a plan. His hand stung, and he went to look at it. It was bleeding. All at once he remembered the chasm and the dog thing and everything. He stared and the footsteps got closer. He stumbled to his feet, nearly slipping on a piece of costume. There were side passages that may or may not have led somewhere; he hesitated. Instead he decided to wait until they were close and slip out from the back.
They came closer and he did so, heading up between the aisles. He wasn't quite quiet enough, and the person called again and began to come out from behind the back curtains. He broke into a run and out the doors. He ran down the hall and around a corner, hearing chasing and yelling behind him. He wasn't sure whether the guy had seen him or not. He kept running then thought to make a noise, then duck into a different room.
It was a classroom, an art classroom with a big old closet. He snuck over as quickly and quietly as he could and, thankfully, found it unlocked. He slipped in.
He stood there for much longer than necessary after all the footsteps had gone, afraid to shift his weight or breathe too hard lest he shake the paintings bunched up behind him. Eventually, slowly, quietly, he opened the closet door again.
He had been expecting to see something standing outside the closet waiting for him. Not seeing it, he let out a long shuddering breath that shook the paintings- he reached out and grabbed them. Took a step out, turned around and looked.
(There were any number of those and sculptures and pieces of styrofoam and nonsense in there. He remembered his brother had been in an art class. Without thinking he looked over and browsed through them.
Two of them were nothing. The third one looked like his brother's. He saw it and was shaken, remembering the incident that the painting sort of depicted, or seeing his brother get defensive about it. He gently leaned the paintings back where they were and slid into the cool floor.
Peace thought for a bit about high school and perspective, both his literal perspective from the floor and subjectively imagining that high school wasn't that bad, even though he knows it was. He looked at his hand. Maybe not quite as bad as right now.
It occurred to him that maybe he could find something here that would help him get out. He wasn't sure what. Maybe somebody's cell phone was shut up in a drawer or something and he could... he didn't want to steal anything. He didn't have any other ideas though.)
He found a key in the top drawer and a candy bar, which was something. He really didn't like stealing even that. He found mostly paperwork. It was really hard to think because he was very tired, so he just slid down against the wall and read a random thing in the dim light while nibbling the candy bar. He read a random thing about some kid and it brought his mind back to having to bring home a paper for his mother to sign. Then his mind started to wander.
"Joseph, this is the third note this semester. Do you know what they're going to do if you start getting suspended again?"
He wouldn't look at her. She put her hands on his shoulders, still able to reach them, and sighed so deep he could almost feel it running through her, feel her nails in his skin.
"Joseph, you have to fight this thing. You have to. I'm so sorry."
He blinked and rubbed his eyes, confused. He took a bite out of the candy bar and brought himself back to the present- yeah, he didn't feel asleep- but a rush of panic and despair ran through him. It felt like his mother. He felt floaty and empty all of a sudden, like he was losing his grip on reality. His mind turned back to the memory.
"-have to listen, please, oh Joseph! Joseph, you have to find a safe place, okay? Find a safe place to sleep and fight it. It won't stop following you, and when it finds you it will kill you. Do you understand?"
In his memory, he was still standing there, angry and hurt. He lay his head back against the cool wall and tried to think.
"Are you real?" he asked out loud.
His mom stopped. She looked like she was about to cry.
"I- I don't know how to answer that." She swallowed, gripping his shoulders tighter. "Please. One of my boys has to survive."
He felt sick to his stomach. "The monster is there, when I dream. It's trying to track me down when I sleep."
"It's tracking you either way. In dreams- dreams are powerful. I don't know how, but I know you have to try."
The idea made no sense. He didn't want to do it; the image of his Mom was painful, disturbing in some ways, too lifelike, and it seemed like a trick. He could feel the panic and a deep sadness that matched his own, and they felt like her.
The sadness cleared his head a little. He felt less alone, and started to cry again, and this time he didn't hold it back.
He imagined hugging his mother, then brought his mind back to the present. Even if it was a trick, the thought of being able to fight it was too alluring. Even if he died, at least he would be trying.
--
If this were a really good Peace mix, it would be mostly heavy/glam/power metal, modern alt rock, and bebop. That proved a bit of a stretch for me, so instead, this is a fic mix, enjoy 50% synthpop/glitch/industrial/gratuitous The Cure.
Blue Foundation - Eyes On Fire (Zeds Dead Remix)
ZZ Top - I Gotsta Get Paid
The Glitch Mob - How To Be Eaten By A Woman
P!nk - Trouble
ZZ Top - Gimme All Your Lovin'
The Cure - Lullaby
Beborn Beton - Mantrap
Florence + The Machine - Only If For A Night
Godsmack - Voodoo
Coil - A White Rainbow
The Glitch Mob - Our Demons (feat. Aja Volkman)
Lordi - Monster, Monster
VNV Nation - Retaliate
:wumpscut: - Rush (Dismantled Remix)
Guns N' Roses - November Rain
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Glad you liked the soundtrack. :D