(no subject)
Today..I learned how to round fractions
If math wasn't almost over I'd be tempted to kill something..like a big poofy pillows..
Anyway, this was written for a class workshop piece in writing..tis long, so it do be behind a cut:
I can't get the elephant out of my head. Nevertheless, I recognise the room I walk into, and feel the revulsion rising in acid bile to mix with fear deep in my throat. This isn't a place I like to be, no matter how often I appear.
I pass under a beam, with my hair brushing and clinging along the unsanded wood like spider-webs. Amazingly dry, this beam, all the others damp with oil and slime -- the seepage that drips off the ceiling to trail down coated walls. It's here, I can feel It following my footsteps and calling from ahead, a soundless voice so cold I'm surprised at the moist warmth of a drip hitting my ear. But theres no time to think, and I continue on, steps matching my heat in quick, wet slaps and I'm there.
Standing in the middle, a slow turn is enough to bring the pieces out of gloom one by one, Look back, and there's the stairs, the ones I came down; where the elephant was the last time I saw it, unable to rise from grasping mud. They slant and twist unevenly, bare wood cracked, risers broken. Funnily enough the rails still there, bolted to the wall with the promise of strength. I know already that this is for my escape.
It drags me around, towards a wall blanketed in shadows. The beams rise, join and travel along the ceiling, mottles in damp and mould, leaving uneven spaces along crumbling walls. That's when I notice the colours, tat there aren't any. Everything, from the hard-packed floor to the torn walls is in dank tones of browns and grays, all covered with a glistening sheen. The room is like a painting, done all in diesel oil and mud dredged from industrial ponds. On all things wooden is the rot, slick blue-green muted into a smeared gray of mould crushed beneath the unknowing finger. The close corners are black, the only things without their own putrid gloss, disappearing into shadows that merge with the tops of walls and edges of beams.
Another half turn and It urges me to movement again. I turn a corner I don't know is there, and I see what It was leading me to, what the end is. Theres a boy there, one I should know; something about him I recognise and for a moment I think he might be my brother -- but I don't have a brother. I guess what drew me here soon enough, the boy lifts his head and I see his eyes. They have colour, even in this place, a bright piercing blue; the colour of hope. Behind them though, theres darkness and a smile twists his child's face. It has already found It's way here, where innocence is stamped out.
I look over him, around him, this part of the room the same as the last. Directly in front of where I stand near a corner, between to beams awash in shadows I can see him clearly; pale child with pale hair wearing a quilted vest, the painted gray standing out, the only thing left untainted with shadows.
Turn then, looking at his outstretched arms and my heart is suddenly too loud, too furious on the quiet drip-drip of seeping water. Suspended, he hangs captive, caged there by the nails through each palm. I silently wonder how they hold him up, the flesh so stretched and thin on this forgotten, unwanted Christ. I think this is as bad as it get, as bad as It can make things. All I want is to go, to get somewhere far away but I can't. I'm in too far now and the stairs a long ways off. All I can hope is that it will let me go, that the haunting, delicious darkness will set me free for a while -- a day, a week, maybe even a year. But my hopes are brighter than my expectations, and true to those It keeps hold. Dropping my gaze in unwilling need I gasp a horrid breathless moan, and I see it.
Again I'm amazed his hands don't tear around those nails, nothing else there to support him. At first I think they've shriveled, his legs, somehow sucking up into the wasted body. I can still feel though and suddenly what I thought was only the two of us is three. The thudding in my ears reverberates through every bone, eyes sharpening to see It leaking from his body. The drips of dissolved being spread down the wall in thick blackness, legs melting into fear. Without a whisper I scream, in all the power my mind has left
"How? Bound to the wall unmoving, how did you do this child?"
My silence is heard by the boy, it must be, and a light voice escapes the parched brown lips "It showed me. It came inside and taught me how to turn the life off, and now they won't come back."
And that's what it must be, I see from his words, It is inside him eating It's way out of his senseless, wasted joy. That's the third on here, the viscous black tar dripping from a ruined child to a sticky puddle of shattered lives on the floor.
Then theres only two in the room, because I'm gasping my way up the stairs, a drowning diver struggling downwards through the mud in search of air. The stairs, broken and rotting, they're what bring me here, drag me up out of the room to this. So, if its all right I'll just stay a minute and take care of myself where It becomes a friend.
As I finish my explanation I'm already unsure what I've said. He, the gray-haired man behind the desk, reaches to a drawer, pulling out a plastic bag.
"That was an interesting story." He's looking at me funny, bit that's okay, I'm getting used to it.
"Now, you've been here before but I have to go over this again, to make sure you remember" So dry. I can't understands how he can be so calm, wasn't he listening? But I have to pay attention, he's explaining what everything is, what to do with the unsterile remains; And I'm bored, so I stand before he can finish.
"Theres no time, I have to get this over with. Its the only thing that keeps it from getting in my head." I can feel it, its already too late, I've waited to long again.
He passes me the bag of course, taking care that none of his skin touches mine and for a moment I'm alive enough to wonder what he did to deserve working here. I know what he does as I walk out, I'm still there after I go; I watch. He leans back and sighs as one skeletal faceless shadow leaves and another comes to take its place. I, hurrying out to catch up to myself, make my way down the colourless hall of crumbled plaster and let it fade around me, amazed I can still walk with my legs melted away.
If math wasn't almost over I'd be tempted to kill something..like a big poofy pillows..
Anyway, this was written for a class workshop piece in writing..tis long, so it do be behind a cut:
I can't get the elephant out of my head. Nevertheless, I recognise the room I walk into, and feel the revulsion rising in acid bile to mix with fear deep in my throat. This isn't a place I like to be, no matter how often I appear.
I pass under a beam, with my hair brushing and clinging along the unsanded wood like spider-webs. Amazingly dry, this beam, all the others damp with oil and slime -- the seepage that drips off the ceiling to trail down coated walls. It's here, I can feel It following my footsteps and calling from ahead, a soundless voice so cold I'm surprised at the moist warmth of a drip hitting my ear. But theres no time to think, and I continue on, steps matching my heat in quick, wet slaps and I'm there.
Standing in the middle, a slow turn is enough to bring the pieces out of gloom one by one, Look back, and there's the stairs, the ones I came down; where the elephant was the last time I saw it, unable to rise from grasping mud. They slant and twist unevenly, bare wood cracked, risers broken. Funnily enough the rails still there, bolted to the wall with the promise of strength. I know already that this is for my escape.
It drags me around, towards a wall blanketed in shadows. The beams rise, join and travel along the ceiling, mottles in damp and mould, leaving uneven spaces along crumbling walls. That's when I notice the colours, tat there aren't any. Everything, from the hard-packed floor to the torn walls is in dank tones of browns and grays, all covered with a glistening sheen. The room is like a painting, done all in diesel oil and mud dredged from industrial ponds. On all things wooden is the rot, slick blue-green muted into a smeared gray of mould crushed beneath the unknowing finger. The close corners are black, the only things without their own putrid gloss, disappearing into shadows that merge with the tops of walls and edges of beams.
Another half turn and It urges me to movement again. I turn a corner I don't know is there, and I see what It was leading me to, what the end is. Theres a boy there, one I should know; something about him I recognise and for a moment I think he might be my brother -- but I don't have a brother. I guess what drew me here soon enough, the boy lifts his head and I see his eyes. They have colour, even in this place, a bright piercing blue; the colour of hope. Behind them though, theres darkness and a smile twists his child's face. It has already found It's way here, where innocence is stamped out.
I look over him, around him, this part of the room the same as the last. Directly in front of where I stand near a corner, between to beams awash in shadows I can see him clearly; pale child with pale hair wearing a quilted vest, the painted gray standing out, the only thing left untainted with shadows.
Turn then, looking at his outstretched arms and my heart is suddenly too loud, too furious on the quiet drip-drip of seeping water. Suspended, he hangs captive, caged there by the nails through each palm. I silently wonder how they hold him up, the flesh so stretched and thin on this forgotten, unwanted Christ. I think this is as bad as it get, as bad as It can make things. All I want is to go, to get somewhere far away but I can't. I'm in too far now and the stairs a long ways off. All I can hope is that it will let me go, that the haunting, delicious darkness will set me free for a while -- a day, a week, maybe even a year. But my hopes are brighter than my expectations, and true to those It keeps hold. Dropping my gaze in unwilling need I gasp a horrid breathless moan, and I see it.
Again I'm amazed his hands don't tear around those nails, nothing else there to support him. At first I think they've shriveled, his legs, somehow sucking up into the wasted body. I can still feel though and suddenly what I thought was only the two of us is three. The thudding in my ears reverberates through every bone, eyes sharpening to see It leaking from his body. The drips of dissolved being spread down the wall in thick blackness, legs melting into fear. Without a whisper I scream, in all the power my mind has left
"How? Bound to the wall unmoving, how did you do this child?"
My silence is heard by the boy, it must be, and a light voice escapes the parched brown lips "It showed me. It came inside and taught me how to turn the life off, and now they won't come back."
And that's what it must be, I see from his words, It is inside him eating It's way out of his senseless, wasted joy. That's the third on here, the viscous black tar dripping from a ruined child to a sticky puddle of shattered lives on the floor.
Then theres only two in the room, because I'm gasping my way up the stairs, a drowning diver struggling downwards through the mud in search of air. The stairs, broken and rotting, they're what bring me here, drag me up out of the room to this. So, if its all right I'll just stay a minute and take care of myself where It becomes a friend.
As I finish my explanation I'm already unsure what I've said. He, the gray-haired man behind the desk, reaches to a drawer, pulling out a plastic bag.
"That was an interesting story." He's looking at me funny, bit that's okay, I'm getting used to it.
"Now, you've been here before but I have to go over this again, to make sure you remember" So dry. I can't understands how he can be so calm, wasn't he listening? But I have to pay attention, he's explaining what everything is, what to do with the unsterile remains; And I'm bored, so I stand before he can finish.
"Theres no time, I have to get this over with. Its the only thing that keeps it from getting in my head." I can feel it, its already too late, I've waited to long again.
He passes me the bag of course, taking care that none of his skin touches mine and for a moment I'm alive enough to wonder what he did to deserve working here. I know what he does as I walk out, I'm still there after I go; I watch. He leans back and sighs as one skeletal faceless shadow leaves and another comes to take its place. I, hurrying out to catch up to myself, make my way down the colourless hall of crumbled plaster and let it fade around me, amazed I can still walk with my legs melted away.