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| From Dusk 'Til Dawn; broken pieces of an imperfect life | |
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| Topic Started: Nov 28 2009, 08:32 PM (423 Views) | |
| Xavi | Nov 28 2009, 08:32 PM Post #1 |
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Neat scripted hand fills a cream-white page, bold but elegant, a reflection of the man who penned them. The collection of pages is bound in a small black volume, thin and lightweight, with no identifying marks save for the names and places mentioned within. *Note: Journal entries, memories, thoughts, and miscellaneous are all included. JOURNAL ENTRIES - in order from oldest to newest father's son good monsters all of the words east to west morning passages MEMORIES cry a river it's alright what have we done OTHER catalyst - a nightmare Edited by Xavi, May 31 2010, 02:53 PM.
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| Xavi | Nov 28 2009, 08:33 PM Post #2 |
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EAST TO WEST ::a journal entry:: one day prior to his arrival in Elenlond, two years ago. They say you never truly understand the value of something until it is lost to you forever. Sitting here, watching the sun set in a blood-red sky and wondering if I will be dead in less than twenty four hours, I cannot help but realize how true that statement is. For the better part of two hundred and twenty six years, I cared not a whit for whether I lived or died, for there was nothing on Terrawin that could tie me down, person, object, and location alike. I had no home to speak of, being a wanderer or sorts, no family deserving of my attention and affection, and certainly no material goods, save for the clothes on my back and the few coins I kept at my side. Now, all of that is different. Soon, all of it may be gone. Morwen is practicing still, but focused now on the mental rather than physical battle she will be fighting tomorrow. She is the determining factor in the fight, and I a mere supporting figure. I would not have been a figure at all, but sometimes she forgets that I am just as stubborn as she is, if not more. It's not only stubbornness that drives me, though, but a fierce need to be at her side when our lives change forever, a need to honor and cherish, protect a serve, the vows I made in front of a single witness that night not so long ago. I am not ready for this battle; I will never be. Half a year of training is a far cry from the time needed to turn raw beginner into seasoned warrior, and though I have exceeded greatly the expectations of both myself and my wife, I am going up against an opponent with centuries, not months, of experience. Most likely, I will die tomorrow. The thought no longer terrifies me as it once did. If I do die, though, my only regret is that I will never again look into warm amethyst eyes, and see the love in my eyes reflected n her own. But it is enough to have known that love, and to have felt love in its many forms. I may be losing something, but all that I have gained far outweighs that. The sun has set completely now, my cue to go inside and catch what little rest I can. We leave tomorrow, at dawn. |
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| Xavi | Nov 29 2009, 12:41 AM Post #3 |
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WHAT HAVE WE DONE ::a memory:: excerpted from 'every crash bleeding the hourglass' Blood. It stained the walls, drenched the floor, permeated the air with its rusty, metallic tang. Less than an hour ago, it'd been hot, racing through veins and pumping rich vitality through the body it'd belonged to. Now, it lay cooling in ever expanding pools, never again to be the source of life and warmth and heat. Rather, it left a morbid touch on the place, exerting a sense of wrongness upon all those who were near. There was so much of it; too much, actually. The amount was unnatural, impossible for the small, prone body that lay crumpled on the ground. A young woman, barely more than a girl, with dark brown hair and a smile sweeter than honey. All who met her were enchanted with her, wished her no ill will, yet now she lay sprawled, a gleaming sword protruding from her breast, the once-bright silver blade now flecked with crimson. It was a weapon designed for killing, yes, but the victims in mind had been demons, murderers, those with blackened hearts and corrupted minds. Not young innocent girls. Never this girl. Wide eyes stared unblinking into the night, their fires extinguished for eternity. Though they could no longer see, they were directed at the man standing a mere few feet away, trembling like a leaf in autumn wind. Unseeing orbs of gold stared at palms held face up, the skin calloused and tough but otherwise unstained physically and literally. Metaphorically, emotionally...they had been bathed in blood, forever marked. For they had been the hands that gripped the cruciform hilt, that had raised and poised the sword for the killing stroke. But all of this would have been forgivable if not for teh fact that they had also been the hands that had delivered the killing stroke. For that alone, he would pay, every single day until the debt was repaid. It would take eternity, but even that was not enough. A low whine began, rising in both pitch and volume until it became a keening, full of grief and despair. "No, no, no, no....." What had he done? Horror and bile rose in his throat, and jerkily, he stumbled backwards, his face a perfect portrait of denial and panic. One step, two steps, and then he was on the ground, knees brushing the floor, unable to support himself any longer, the weight of grief too heavy on his shaking shoulders. She'd trusted him, placed her life in his hands, and this was how he'd repaid her, by scattering her blood to the four winds. Salt water slid down his cheek, one drop at a time, but the trickling stream soon became a raging river, and it wasn't long before the sobs had overtaken him, racking his body in tremendous shudders. She was gone forever, and he was the one who'd killed her. His best friend, his savior. Tathren. |
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| Xavi | Dec 13 2009, 04:22 PM Post #4 |
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CRY A RIVER ::a memory:: n/a Tiptoeing feet scurry around, rapidly finishing an elaborate prank. An intake of breath, heard simultaneously from five people. Silence. Then the sound of water splashing to the ground, and a shriek, followed by an eruption of laughter. “AHHHH!!! MAMA! MAMA!” “Mother’s not here right now.” “That wasn’t funny.” A boy’s voice, trembling. A different voice, thinner and younger. “Hahaha, yes it was and you know it.” “No, it wasn’t! I’m going to tell Mama once she gets back!” The first female voice. “Oh gods, cut it out, Val. Act your age, will you? You’re already ten. No other boy your age cries as much as you!” “I don’t cry.” “Yes, you do! Look, you’re crying right now!” “…am not.” “Ugh, you’re such a crybaby. How’d I get stuck with you as a brother?” Several more female voices, chiming in. “Yeah, how come?” “Come on, guys. Let’s go do something else. Val’s no fun.” Feet stomping away. Then silence, punctuated only by the sound of quiet crying. |
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| Xavi | Dec 13 2009, 04:27 PM Post #5 |
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IT'S ALRIGHT ::a memory:: n/a “Mama?” “Yes, dear?” “Mama…do you hate me?” Silence. Then: “No, of course not. Why would I hate you?” “I don’t know. Because I whine all the time. And I cry a lot. Iris calls me a crybaby, and everyone else laughs at me. I just thought, maybe, that you thought that I was a crybaby too.” “Of course I don’t. I don’t hate you either. You’re my son, and I love you.” “Oh. Okay. I love you too, mama.” The sound of light footsteps pitter-pattering away. Then, a sad sigh. |
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| Xavi | Feb 12 2010, 01:23 AM Post #6 |
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CATALYST ::a nightmare:: Three years ago. Night has fallen. The darkness beckons to me, tells me to release the tattered remains of my humanity and just give in to the demon that lurks within me. Its call is strong, and I find I cannot resist. I am helpless, weak. I see you there, sleeping soundly in the massive four-poster bed. All that I am, all that I have become tells me not to go near you, to run as far as I possibly can in the opposite direction. But I ignore the advice, guided by an instinct so strong I cannot even begin to contemplate opposing. Your blood, it sings to me, lures me ever closer into a trap from which I cannot escape. My feet move out of their own accord, not halting until I have reached your side. You are deep in slumber, chest rising and falling in the even rhythms of sleep. This close, I can hear your heart beat, sending warm blood rushing through your veins. It is that same blood which calls me to, singing a song sweeter than any I have ever heard. Any traces of resolve disappear. Bloodlust overcomes me, sending the human in me spiraling down and summoning forth the monster. A long pale finger reaches out, and gently strokes the junction where your neck meets your shoulders. A head bends down, fine crimson hair veiling the golden eyes, and places lips where his finger had been seconds previous. From far away, it would seem nothing more than an innocent kiss between two lovers. But it is not. Fangs emerge, and pierce through delicate skin, searching for the blood that pounds underneath. One taste, and the barriers are broken. Greedily, the monster partakes of the feast. Your eyes snap open, and you cry out. Too late. He has lost any control he might once have had. He will not stop until he has satisfied his thirst. It is over in a matter of minutes. Sated, the monster withdraws to his shadowy corner, and I re-emerge. Licking my lips, I taste the rich flavor of fresh blood. I frown and look down. Your eyes meet mine, but they are lifeless, glassy magenta orbs in which the fire of life has been extinguished. Confusion, bewilderment, fills me at this strange turn of events. Where is the life, the vitality? My eyes travel downwards, seeking some sort of explanation. There. Two neat holes, partially obscured by waves of silver hair. I back away, horrified as comprehension begins to dawn. No. No, no, no. It cannot be. But it is. What have I done? |
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| Xavi | Feb 12 2010, 01:29 AM Post #7 |
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GOOD MONSTERS ::a journal entry:: Two and a half years ago. My mind often wanders. To tell the truth, I don't believe that there is a single moment of any day in which my thoughts are not incessantly wandering, jumping over brooks and obstacles as it begins to puzzle out each and every one of life's many mysteries. But of late, it has been fixated on one subject, one that concerns me and many of the people I surround myself with. Once upon a time, I was seen as something not quite human. Something other. For lack of a better word, I was a monster. And simply because I was not normal, as everyone else was, I was ostracized, forced into a life alone and unloved. For, after all, who could love a monster? And yet what puzzles me, back then and even still today, is one simple question, and whose answer eludes me. What exactly is a monster? For so many, this is not the complex query I believe it to be, but one with definite boundaries, exact answers. Vampires, werewolves, demons…of course all of those evil creatures are monsters. What else could they be, with their atrocious behavior? And I do agree that some of those listed above are indeed capable of such acts, though I would not take upon myself to brand an entire race with such a simplistic label. But, what of those others? Others who are entirely human, but lacking that fundamental goodness that transforms them from baseless, mindless animals to something…more. What of those people, then, those who slaughter innocent children in their sleep, those who rape and seduce and toss aside used and broken lovers the way some toss away their clothes? What of those who pillage and plunder, those who steal away others and bring them to far away lands to become nothing more than chattel? Despite the fact that they execute these appalling deeds, they are, after all, human. How could they possibly be monsters? That is what hurts the most, I suppose. The fact that there are good people out there, deserving of a fate much kinder than the one they were assigned upon birth. Simply because they carried a hint of the otherworldly, they were condemned, beaten down until they believed themselves nothing more than animals. The faces of so many in that unfortunate state parade across my mind, sentient beings full of intelligence and life, but shunned simply because of their heritage. Kragt, Don, Spite… and most of all, myself. We are what mainstream society terms ‘monsters’ but I disagree. There lies within each one of us a spark of goodness, a fundamental value that defies any definition of a monster. Is it possible to be a good monster? I suppose it is, if you base monstrosity off appearance and not behavior. But for me, the answer is not clear yet. It will require more thinking on my part. Am I a monster, or am I good? Are those two conflicting terms, an oxymoron? I don’t know. |
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| Xavi | Mar 14 2010, 04:55 PM Post #8 |
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MORNING PASSAGES ::a journal entry:: Shortly after the events of 'until the end.' I found a kitten today, all black save for a snow white paw. Well, I guess the better way to put it would be that it found me. I was sitting on the grass reading, and lo and behold, a scrap of black clumsily leaps into my lap, trying to chase an errant yellow butterfly. The splash of color on the page seemed to distract it though, and it prompted diverted its attention to the book, batting at the page with fervor. It was such a small thing and I couldn't help but smile at it. Though the area of Zedrin (apparently that is this city's name) I live in is far from the slums, stray animals that are completely trusting are rare. And, truth be told, it's cute, a phrase that makes me seem awfully feminine. She (it didn't take much discovering to determine its gender) followed me back inside when I stood up to fetch a bowl of milk for it, and now she sits with me as I write this, and I can't help but stop every few words to reach down and scratch her small head. I wonder if she'll stay with me. She seems content to just rest here. I've already given her a name, even though I know the chances of her remaining with me are small. Nila. It means 'dark' which she is. I've no idea where the word came from, or even what language it's in, but it seemed fitting. That's how so many things go nowadays. I have so few memories left to me that all I can do is follow a trace of an instinct. But for now, I shan't worry. Nila's mewling at me; I think she wants some more milk. |
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| Xavi | Mar 14 2010, 05:06 PM Post #9 |
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ALL OF THE WORDS ::a journal entry:: Two and a half years ago. I see the black velvet box sitting across from me. In my mind’s eye, I can imagine its contents, down to the finest detail: a band of pure gold, bejeweled with a sparkling diamond offset by twin glittering amethysts. Their violet hues match the eyes of their possessor, half the reason why they were chosen above their sapphire, emerald, and ruby companions. Why, then, are they hidden away in the case before me, and not adorning the fourth finger of their rightful owner, as they should be? It is a question I have asked myself, over and over again. After a million times of asking, or so it seems, I still have not arrived at the answer. What it is that stops me from presenting this gift to the one I love most? Is it because this golden ring is no ordinary gift, but one that holds an endless well of promise and hope? With it, I give my love, my heart, my soul. But no. She already holds those things, whether she is aware of it or not. This ring would only be a confirmation, proof that she does, and forever will, hold all of me. If that were it, I would have given it to her long ago. If that were all that ring of gold meant, it would have been hers shortly after we met. There is more to this, I think, than the promise of undying love. Does not that ring signify commitment, a lifelong bond of trust and faithfulness that can never be broken? I do not fear being unfaithful, for I know I would kill myself before even heading a step in that direction. I would like to say that I fear nothing, but that is a lie if there ever was one. What I fear…it’s something that is difficult for me to put into words. Fear of not being good enough, I suppose. Because I’m not good enough for her. She deserves so much more than I can give her. For once, I should do the right thing, and just end this all. But – I find I cannot. I am weak, foolish, insecure. Instead of giving her what she deserves, I tie her down, keeping her by my side so I can be happy. Is that so wrong, though? And I would give her everything and moon, if that was what she wanted. Anything to make her happy. For some reason, though, all she wants is me. I don’t know why she would choose to settle for one such as me when she could have chosen anyone she wanted. There are so many men out there, men who are more intelligent than I, more attractive than I. Why pick me? But, I am so very glad she did. I love her. Why, then, am I sitting here, dwelling on such inconsequential matters? Why should any of these irrational thoughts even bother me as they do? Isn’t this all about love? Isn’t this all about keeping her in my life, rather than pushing her away, again and again? The answer lies in this most simple of questions: Could I live without her? And the answer to that is oh so simple. No. Because a life without her…it would be unbearable, intolerable. No more a life than that meaningless existence of mine before she entered it and lit up even the darkest corners with her radiance. I realize now that nothing else matters. The difference lies in whether or not I could live without her in my life. And the answer to that has already been established. Time then, I think, to tell her just how much she really means to me. |
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| Xavi | May 31 2010, 02:52 PM Post #10 |
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FATHER'S SON ::a journal entry:: Many years ago. I saw my father's grave today. It was while I was strolling through the cemetery, eyes drifting from headstone to headstone, that I saw his name, etched into a slab of grey stone driven into the ground. Rafael Zachariah, a name not quite so common in the backwaters of Erohjia. But not uncommon enough that I recognized it for what it was straightaway. After all, it has been a hundred years since I saw him last, and I always did imagine him dying in some terrible storm, lifeless body drifting down to the sea's murky depths, returning to the arms of his true love. But it was indeed my father's grave. Why the sight surprised me so, I cannot say. I suppose merely that I had not expected to come across it during my existence, and that if I did, I would not recognize the name. Memories of my past life were tossed out the window after my transformation, and the few I have left are tattered, faded images. Standing there, I felt a strange sense of hollowness. Not the kind of emptiness that borders on despair, but an emptiness that more closely matches...nothing. Shouldn't I have felt grief, or sadness, or even a faint twinge of regret at the sight of my own father's tomb? Yet, I did not. All I felt was...nothing. Is this coldhearted of me then, to not mourn even my own father? Perhaps it is, but in all honesty, I cannot say that I care overly much. How could I feel regret over an unknown man's passing? I did not know him, not truly. For all that he was my father, he always remained a stranger to me. And now, he shall remain a stranger for the rest of eternity. |
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