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Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Death · #1006871
Somtimes introspection can be a good thing, but what happens when you delve to far? (Dark)
A/N: Warning, this story is of a very dark subject mater, and while I think it is appropriate for those 13 or over, I am making this warning now that you may not want to read if your not into the Angust type. You have been warned. Now on with the story :)

Worthless, trash, nothing. That’s the story of my life. I suppose it’s my fault, at least that’s what my parents always said. They’re probably right, they always were. They were harsh sometimes. I have the scars to prove that much. For my own good, that’s what they would say, so when my mind slips back to those moments, that’s what I tell myself. It’s probably what keeps me sane. Not that I am. Not that anyone is.


As I write, my thoughts keep drifting, and I write them down, because my life is nothing without my thoughts. Back when I was in school, back before I let my mind slip away, I was smart. That’s what my teachers would say. They probably told everyone that, but I believed them. Any time I really put my mind to something, it was easy to do, and when it wasn’t… well, it frustrated me to no end.


I wasn’t anything-special grade wise, mostly Cs, maybe a B here or a D there. Not the worst, but far from the best, or my best. A forbidden thought. It burns worse than any external flame. A fire that consumes my soul. A trickle of blood runs down his chest from a shallow cut, a cut placed as if to bleed the pain from his heart. When my mind wanders to violence or… no, that one I keep for myself. It likes pain, any pain. Others, animals, myself. I’ve never hurt anyone else, anything else. So I don’t know from experiences, but from thoughts telling me about myself, pieces falling into place in the puzzle of my life.

My mind working in many shards, all of them telling this story. That’s how my life’s always been. I started noticing it early in high school, and it only kept getting worse. So many broken slivers of myself, all almost the same but not quite, all living life simultaneously. No wonder I never did anything with my life. True concentration was beyond my grasp. But I won’t make excuses; I believe everything boils down to willpower, the strength of mind, and I just wasn't strong enough.


I probably would have been better off if I would have spent less time analyzing myself and just took care instead. Had I just prepared myself to live in the future, rather than wasting my time analyzing the past… don’t get me wrong though, it’s not that analyzing myself hasn’t had its benefits. Had I not discovered the flame for what it was, maybe it would have escaped, and consumed some one, using my body to do it. Or maybe it would have stayed in my subconscious, maybe it wouldn’t have become a war, maybe the very thing that plagues me is my fault…mine… Blood washes down his face from a cut across his forehead, as if in a vain attempt to remove the thoughts. I know it could take control, because in my thoughts it has. I know that if it ever took over, I would be aware, but have no control.


I could kill myself. No matter how strong the flame is when it takes over, I always have that, for some reason, I know I could force myself to that. And maybe I will, should it come down to that and some one else’s life. Others have a life to care for; all I have is my thoughts, my memories. I have no future. It would feel good to die, to feel the pain of death before I die… A blade penetrates his arm, as if to remind him what pain feels like, or perhaps in an attempt to feel anything.


It’s starting to get cold; the wind has started up again. There’s not much in the way of conveniences here, so I’m used to the cold by now. I’m used to about everything by now. Nothing bothers me anymore. I’m afraid the lone window in this place is broken. I had to do that to get in when I first came here. That was a few years ago. I don’t have the heart to cover it. Then my last connection to the outside world would be cut off. My last vestige of humanity severed.


Well, until I have to go back out there again. Not that I’m human when I go out. I have to earn money, every one does… but I’m not really sure why I do any more. Maybe I’m just not done analyzing myself, or maybe I’m waiting until this is done. My life’s work. The accumulation of everything I know. Myself. The tasks I do for money… I run stuff around, move stuff. Illegal stuff.


It’s mindless, and I don’t have to think, so I’m free from my thoughts for a while. It pays pretty well, most illegal things do. I could probably make a small fortune at it, because I’m good at it by now. But to go on one more day is all I’m interested in, and because everyone’s luck runs out eventually. The less I run the risks, well, the longer mine will last…. And the less my conscious will plague me. At least that’s what I tell myself. As I recall everything, it’s almost like a dream. How far that I’ve fallen that the times when I was something are so foreign to me now. That dream slowly fades as I write my soul unto these pages, and my mind empties. I’ve lived so long on those thoughts, how can I live without them? So perhaps then the chains binding me will let go, and I can leave this life in peace… but I don’t want to go. Things are starting to get dark and as I look ahead I’m at a loss, and my visions starting to fade, so soon I’ll be gone. To hold on… another dream is what I need, or maybe its what I’ve always needed.



But… for now I’ll continue my story, so that when I go, a part of myself will be left behind. The best part of my self. A part that is still human. As I think, I realize a person can’t really live with dreams alone, but I have for so long. I know I couldn't live without them. So maybe I'm not really alive after all. Dreams are not real; they’re just a part of your mind. If life is in the world, and I live in my mind, am I alive?


My thoughts are dredging on, urging me to write more, to right the best part of my self, the light in the shadows of my soul, the time when I wasn’t alone. The time when I was with some one like me. Some one with nothing. She didn’t find safety in her mind though, not like me, not in her thoughts. No, she found her solace in other things. Things of this world. Dangerous things. When I first saw her, I had just finished a job, and I was on my way back. I noticed her not far from my home, dying. As I looked at her, thoughts stormed me, memories of times when I was like her, times when I had just let go and given up. But at those times, something nagged at me. Something forced me to get up and carry on.


But she didn’t look like she would. She didn’t have her dreams to pull her through, so as I came nearer to her, I made up my mind, and I saved her. I took her in, and I shared what little I had. Living together in today’s society, you would expect that intimate moments would be common place, but for some reason we never went that far. Maybe we where happy enough without it, or perhaps it was the fear that if we went any farther, Fate would realize that we were happy, and it would send misery our way. Not that we couldn’t handle it. We could handle anything together. Despite our situation, we were content, we where happy. It made the hell we lived in bearable, and it gave us something good in this world, and it gave me something real, something that set me free from my dreams. But all good things must come to an end.


And in the end, I wasn’t there to save her. My escape only let me hide myself from the world. The escape I took comfort in wasn’t binding; it didn’t take a debt from me, because it was only a lower form of living. But hers’ eventually took her away from me, away from life. Maybe that’s one reason nothing bothers me any more, and maybe that’s one reason I can’t feel any more. I suffered through the worst hell on this Earth. Maybe I never truly came out. And maybe it never really happened, and this is all just another of my dreams.


I’ve been dreaming for so long since she left, and before she came. But maybe she’s still there, and when I wake up, I’ll be alive with her again. Sorry I can’t finish this, but I have to find out. I have to wake up. This is my decision. A blade to the wrist, deeper then anything he used to chase away the pain. It’s either life or death for me now, because I'm tired of dreaming. The other wrist now, and things where going hazy, his mind began to black out. I’m tired of being alone. The throat now, the mother of all veins, his final life line to this dream he was living in. His mind was near gone now, the haziness of sleep was settling over him. I can see her face now… and everything else is going hazy, but nothing else matters to me now. I’m waking up. I’m coming back. Wait for me.

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Wait for me. His body pitched forwards, coming to rest beside hers. With his last motion, his last ounce of energy, his hand locked with hers, and as he finally gave himself over to the flames within himself, he was free.

(A/N: This segment has been singled out because I must ask if it really fits alright with the rest of the story. If not, alternitive suggestions are open. Thanks)

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She woke up in a bed a few hours later, harsh glaring light raining down on her from over head. Struggling, she sat up and looked around, and realized she was in a hospital. A nurse, who is standing not far from the bed taking down readings from the monitor, notices her sitting up, and gently forces her back down. “Easy girl, you had a close call. You need to rest.” So she laid there, compliantly, and drifted in and out of sleep for the next few hours, catching glimpses of doctors and nurses in the brief periods she was awake.


Finally, she awoke, and worked up the energy to stay awake, if only for a short time. Slowly, painfully, reaching out, she caught hold of a doctor’s sleeve, and asked one, simple, question. “What happened?” The doctor, after taking a moment to consider, answered. “You were suffering through a particularly violent flash back. When we found you, you where for all intensive purposes dead. We where able to bring you back, but if you had been found any later… But you have the police to thank for that. A patrol noticed…” He pauses a second to consider, not wanting to harm the patients condition, then continued.


“Some strange noises coming from a supposedly abandoned building, and went to investigate. That’s how they found you.” As he finishes, he notices a look of surprise light up her face. That look of surprise quickly turns to worry. “Did they find any one else?” She asks, not trying to mask the fear in her voice. The doctor doesn’t respond for a long time, and looks as though he’s at a loss. Finally, he responds. “I don’t know, I guess they didn’t feel it was important enough to include in your report. I’ll… I’ll try to look into it for you.” The doctor moved away quickly, trying to avoid any more questions. Psychology isn’t he’s field, but he knows the harm he could cause if he slipped up, the harm he could cause from one minor slip of the tongue.


But the young woman lying in the bed, recovering from the shock of coming back from the dead, the shock of a flash back so sever to almost kill her. No, she doesn’t know any of it. As she slips back into sleep, all she knows is fear. Fear for her friend, fear for the very reason she’s alive, and fear is all she feels as she slips back into sleep. But that fear is put to rest. The moment before she closes her eyes and falls asleep, through her blurry vision, she sees her friend standing in the doorway, if only for a moment, and then he’s gone. The last thought that registers in her mind before she drifts away into her dreams is a simple one to her, but far more complex in reality. He’s free.






A/N: My first story, a bit odd no? Also If you are not fond of the last bit with the girl, you are free to disregaurd it as this was origanly meant to be a stand alone peice, and they where combined for my own agendas.

As this is my first story, I assume I probably listed it under the wrong genres. Any help with telling me the correct listings for this would be much appreciated, as world any constructive critisims.
© Copyright 2005 Daisetsu Aritomo (celendil at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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