New story that I wrote in five minutes.
So, I just sat down and started writing. Well, first, I thought of the fact that you never see titles starting with Z. So I decided to try it, thinking of something that might actually make sense. Then I thought of who this title could fit. Then I started writing. I went at it totally backwards, but as an exercise it works.
Zenith to the Nth
by Sroni
Show: Angel.
Spoilers: Season 2 (the Pylea episodes) and part of Season 3. You people will deal if I can’t remember the titles, right? I mean, It’s almost midnight, my time.
Disclaimer: Please, don’t sue me. I’m a missionary with pocket lint. These aren’t my characters. I just wish they were. When I get bored, I borrow them and play with them, and screw with their minds. I almost never leave them in a happy place.
She wasn’t crazy. She wasn’t. She might have written all over her brand new white walls, but that didn’t make her crazy. It was the whiteness that made her do it. The blinding whiteness scraped at her skin like rocks, pricking her eyes, hurting her brain. So she took care of the empty white space. Obliterated it. Destroyed it. She was playing the word game but she wasn’t as good at it as she used to be. She missed talking to real people. People who weren’t afraid. The lack of interaction with real people with a real vocabulary had taken it’s toll on her own vocabulary, and it was rusty. Rusty like dried blood on a nail. Blood smelled rusty. Rust. Fear tasted like rust. She didn’t like rust. It reminded her of bad things. Bad things that she’d dealt with in her life on a day to day basis. The way to pull one of the monsters of a friend was to dip your hand in a bag of blood. She didn’t have a lot of friends. She didn’t have anyone who would dip their hand in blood to get the monster to leave her alone. Not until now. Not until here. Blood covered the walls, covered the hands, covered the soul, until you couldn’t see what color the soul was supposed to be. Markers were like that with walls. Markers were good for diminishing whiteness. They covered it. They could make all kinds of notations, dancing about, almost of their own free will, but not quite, since her hands still controlled them. And her brain was still in charge of her hands. She could write out a hypotheses or five, doing some equations, and chemical formulas. No reason to let her brain rot and turn to cheese, simply because used to be in a place that didn’t believe in cows having brains. Cows. Bovines. Grass eating herd animals. She doesn’t have hoofs. She’s not a cow. Not after leaving… there. She still didn’t feel comfortable saying it’s name. She still didn’t like talking about it, thinking about it. So she took care of the glaring white space that smelled like purple.
These people were nice. The girl was pretty, and the men were handsome. Except for him. The one who came from that place. He wasn’t like the others from his home. But it still hurt her brain to look at him. They seemed to really want to help the crazy person. But she wasn’t crazy. She wasn’t. Help, kindness, politeness, indoors … four concepts she’d had to live without for five years. And now these people were offering that to her. Giving her things she couldn’t hope to pay back. They were giving her burritos. She missed burritos. She missed enchiladas, and they were sharing it with her. But she could help keep them safe. She might not be able to fight, but she was good at creating things to protect her. It wouldn’t be hard to modify them to defend a larger area.
She wasn’t crazy.
Zenith to the Nth
by Sroni
Show: Angel.
Spoilers: Season 2 (the Pylea episodes) and part of Season 3. You people will deal if I can’t remember the titles, right? I mean, It’s almost midnight, my time.
Disclaimer: Please, don’t sue me. I’m a missionary with pocket lint. These aren’t my characters. I just wish they were. When I get bored, I borrow them and play with them, and screw with their minds. I almost never leave them in a happy place.
She wasn’t crazy. She wasn’t. She might have written all over her brand new white walls, but that didn’t make her crazy. It was the whiteness that made her do it. The blinding whiteness scraped at her skin like rocks, pricking her eyes, hurting her brain. So she took care of the empty white space. Obliterated it. Destroyed it. She was playing the word game but she wasn’t as good at it as she used to be. She missed talking to real people. People who weren’t afraid. The lack of interaction with real people with a real vocabulary had taken it’s toll on her own vocabulary, and it was rusty. Rusty like dried blood on a nail. Blood smelled rusty. Rust. Fear tasted like rust. She didn’t like rust. It reminded her of bad things. Bad things that she’d dealt with in her life on a day to day basis. The way to pull one of the monsters of a friend was to dip your hand in a bag of blood. She didn’t have a lot of friends. She didn’t have anyone who would dip their hand in blood to get the monster to leave her alone. Not until now. Not until here. Blood covered the walls, covered the hands, covered the soul, until you couldn’t see what color the soul was supposed to be. Markers were like that with walls. Markers were good for diminishing whiteness. They covered it. They could make all kinds of notations, dancing about, almost of their own free will, but not quite, since her hands still controlled them. And her brain was still in charge of her hands. She could write out a hypotheses or five, doing some equations, and chemical formulas. No reason to let her brain rot and turn to cheese, simply because used to be in a place that didn’t believe in cows having brains. Cows. Bovines. Grass eating herd animals. She doesn’t have hoofs. She’s not a cow. Not after leaving… there. She still didn’t feel comfortable saying it’s name. She still didn’t like talking about it, thinking about it. So she took care of the glaring white space that smelled like purple.
These people were nice. The girl was pretty, and the men were handsome. Except for him. The one who came from that place. He wasn’t like the others from his home. But it still hurt her brain to look at him. They seemed to really want to help the crazy person. But she wasn’t crazy. She wasn’t. Help, kindness, politeness, indoors … four concepts she’d had to live without for five years. And now these people were offering that to her. Giving her things she couldn’t hope to pay back. They were giving her burritos. She missed burritos. She missed enchiladas, and they were sharing it with her. But she could help keep them safe. She might not be able to fight, but she was good at creating things to protect her. It wouldn’t be hard to modify them to defend a larger area.
She wasn’t crazy.