chaotic-nuisance

[chaotic-nuisance]

Henry Dumas, Knees of a Natural Man: The Selected Poetry of Henry Dumas; “Saba”

[ID: she was a fighter with shreds of flesh beneath her nails light would break upon her face and call her smile a song of war she was a lone island]

[chaotic-nuisance]

Reawakened

She didn't wake with a gasp. There was no sudden parting of the darkness surrounding her mind to let in light; there was no distant sound of water waking her from some hellish prison of her mind, no sudden restarting of her life. But there was pain, the cracking open of her eyelids the trigger for her whole body to cry out at once, mind like scrambled eggs on the paving stones sluggishly trying to identify the source and remove it, though even at the first twitch, she was restrained by her own body. Motionless, even her eyes in their sockets refused to move, the parting of her lids having taken every bit of strength she had left, the blurred grey that she vaguely could see above her giving no hint of a clue to where she was or how long she had been there.

'What happened?'

The question crawled from the recesses of her mind, reverberating monotonously, and, for a moment, the pain seemed to triple. Every nerve ending in her body tensed and screamed for release as if that is all they had ever known, body demanding action to make it cease until the question was drowned out by the pain. She almost went under again just to escape, and it was there she stayed, not quite unconscious but far enough down in her mind that no thoughts would reach her, and those that did were swiftly replaced by relief that the pain did not return. It was a careful balance she would learn to keep as time wore on in that grey palace of nothingness.

The questions that did not hurt were the ones she clung to: not the where or the why, but the who; not a name, but a body that was broken, yet healing. She didn't know if it were minutes, hours, days, or weeks as slowly her body allowed her to move. The curl of a finger, one at a time until she could make a fist; her shoulders shifting as she realized it was not just her body that held her here but restraints as well, though the why that rang through her mind must have left her under for days, the question too painful, too soon. She didn't know the why, but she knew it would be answered eventually when she was ready, and before then, those answers would bring only pain as she tried to rebuild her body again. Each finger became more comfortable to control, and then she focused lower until it was ten fingers and, finally, ten toes, each flexing with her guidance until the strain left her exhausted again.

While her body was spent, her senses grew outwards. It was the sound of her own breathing that came first; the quiet rattle of her lungs nearly sent her mind in a spin, the sound almost causing her to panic. Her body once more became numb though her mind waited and feared the reignition of her pain. It did not come, but other senses did: the awful taste of dryness in her mouth, the smell of her unwashed body, the faint tinge of blood that came with every inhale until it almost seemed to fade in the background, neither old nor gone altogether but forgotten among the other smells that wafted through her room with the sound of a door opening. Her sight came last, and the blurry grey slowly took shape to the rocks of the ceiling above her, each notch and crack in its surface drank in with greedy hunger. She realized once more that the act didn't hurt; she now knew where she was, though the relief was short-lived.

Her treacherous mind once again offered the more-than fated question that sent her drowning in darkness and pain.

'What happened?’

[chaotic-nuisance]

when it keeps getting worse.

          He sees her in his dreams. He sees her in the shadows in his room on the nights when he can’t sleep, when no combination of illicit substances and alcohol can grant him the peace he craves. He sees her in every passing face, in every corner on the streets, in every room he enters and promptly leaves behind. With eyes closed or open, in a head made foggy by addictive tendencies— though he ran, though he still runs, he can’t escape it.

          A head held in a clawed hand. A body bereft of its skull.

          It’s been nine days, and Giovanni still sees her like there’s never been a break between this moment and that one.

i.

          “You look like shit,” Emilia issues from her place in the doorway. She crosses her arms, analyzing the mess in his house: tables have been flipped this way and that, chair legs broken, trash deposited on the floor. Shaking her head, she looks back to the man atop an overturned chaise lounge. “When was the last time you ate?” she asks, though she already knows the answer.

          “Why are you here?” he fires back, fixing the blonde-haired woman with a vacant stare. “Come to give me more shit for my failures?”

          She glides back into motion, uprooting herself from her position to step over the obstacles in her path. Eventually, she comes to stand before Giovanni, her index and thumb traveling beneath his chin to force his head up to look at him eye-to-eye, soul-to-soul.

          “No. I wanted to make sure you’re alright,” Emilia returns, disappointment filling the gaps between her words. After studying his features — the bags beneath hollow eyes, the bruising around the wounds she stitched back together again — and finding what she’s looking for, she clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth and lets him go. “I thought turning your back on things was your favorite skill, Lieutenant,” the woman recalls, “but it seems you grew a heart. That’s bad for business, you know.”

          Giovanni pulls away, fingers finding the bottle at his side. He brings it to his lips and takes another long sip, drowning the insults he wants nothing more than to fling her way.

          “Fuck off,” he hisses after swallowing. “This is more than me. More than you. Knowing what happened… Knowing all that’s occurred and is going to occur as a result of my own actions—”

          The back of her hand cracks against his cheek, sending the man reeling. She massages her knuckles with her opposite hand’s fingers as she states, “You did everything you could. Now get off your ass and clean this place, Giovanni. It’s time you get back to work.”

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[chaotic-nuisance]

[chaotic-nuisance]

from cinder to spark.

i. from ash to cinder.

          THIRTY YEARS AGO.

          The wretched stench of burning flesh permeates her nostrils as another cloud of thick smoke wafts her way. Her nose wrinkles, features warping to reflect distaste. The haze causes her eyes to water, and a gloved hand lifts to furiously wipe the beginning of unwanted tears away.

          “You get used to it, in time,” remarks a woman at her side, her two-toned gaze set upon the pyre in front of them. Elongated ears pin against her skull as scorching logs and bone pop beneath the flames’ weight, emitting a whine before their descent into the fire’s heart. “We burn the bodies so there’s no chance of them returning,” Calara answers before the question can be asked.

          “I guess that makes sense—” Vilois spits off to the side “— though I can’t say it’s the most reassuring thing. A little, ah… Unnecessary, in my opinion.”

          The sin’dorei chuckles, her hands finding a home in her pockets. She turns away from the fire to peer up at the sky, admiring the smattering of stars visible between the trees’ branches.

          “Don’t let him hear you say that,” Calara advises gently, “or you’ll earn his ire again. Saint Seto doesn’t take kindly to people being adverse to his methods.” She rolls her eyes and looks back to the half-elf. “How are you holding up?”

          Vilois gives an empty shrug and stoops to collect a twig from off the forest floor. She holds it between her hands while her thumbs find the center and apply ample pressure, the paper-thin wood giving way. With a snort, she tosses one of the pieces into the flames and watches as it comes to be devoured like everything else.

          “I’m alright,” she says, the muscle in her jaw twitching. “I hadn’t exactly anticipated this being the way of things, but as you said, I’ll get used to it. In time.”

          “I mean, look at it this way. Better a fire than a grave, right? Headstones can crumble apart, weathered by storms and months spent without visitation. But a fire… Fire turns to ash and embers, and from the embers, a new fire can begin.”

          NOW.

          She stands before a smoldering heap of logs and twigs, luminous cracks of orange visible beneath a dusting of ash. Far above, the stars glitter and gleam among a two-toned sky, darkness chasing away the last remnants of afternoon’s light.

          The letter in her hands weighs more than it should. She needn’t reread its message to know what it means; she’s read it a thousand times, the script seared into the backs of her eyelids. And try as Vilois might, she could not force the words to change. She could not go back in time and alter the outcome of that fateful night.

I’m sorry.

We bit off more than we could chew.

I did everything I could.

She’s gone.

          So here she stands alone, unaccompanied by the woman once at her side, with only a letter and a spent pyre left behind.

          “I’ll get used to it. In time,” Vilois murmurs to ash and ember, to a grave of her fallen mentor’s own design, in a somber voice that suggests she never will.

          | @chaotic-nuisance​​ ;

[chaotic-nuisance]

when it all goes wrong.

          They were supposed to get in, get out, and make it home alive. They were supposed to share a drink in celebration and laugh together over the Seven’s impetuousness. They were supposed to end their night in a bed where they’d eventually wake to see another day.

          It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

i.

          Something about the archive sets their nerves alight, forcing the hair on the back of their necks to stand on end. It’s not how the documents are kept, the files held in boxes stacked atop one another, or how the walls almost feel like they’re closing in on them. Instead, it’s the subtle pulse that ricochets off of the stone and vibrates the air surrounding the pair.

          “You don’t think–” Whisper can barely get the words out before Epialos’s voice cuts through the pervasive quiet.

          “We need to go. Now.”

          They abandon the objective, adrenaline becoming the guiding hand that ushers the two to the entryway. Submerging themselves in the shadows, Whisper and Epialos cross the threshold as swiftly as soundless feet allow, leaving behind the archive and its much-needed information in favor of escape. They take to the bridge that sways gently with every step. The threat of the pit looms below, growing all the more threatening by the second.

          “Fuck,” Whisper curses under her breath as three knights emerge to blot out the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. They stand before them, barring their access to the cavern’s alcove ahead. “We can take them, right?” she inquires, readying herself at Epialos’s side.

         He studies the trio, analyzing their spiked armor and the weapons they hold in their hands. Against his better judgment, he nods, voice low as he says, “Who knows. But we will have to.”

          The bridge bends from additional weight and he whips around, looking now to three more knights that had dropped from the platform above to join them on the newfound battlefield. With his back to Whisper’s, Epialos clenches his fists at his sides, uttering a soft incantation that causes the shadows to writhe at their feet.

          “Three more behind us.”

          “This is where we’ll have to make our stand,” Whisper returns. The huntsman steels herself, finding her courage in the daggers she withdraws from the sheathes on her hip. “You have my back?” comes the hushed query.

          “Until the very end,” Epialos promises.

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[chaotic-nuisance]

Herald Rheese

[chaotic-nuisance]

“Behind every strong person lies a broken child who had to learn to stand up and take no shit.”

—

lonerwolf

[chaotic-nuisance]

What doesn’t kill me makes me REAL cocky about the next thing that tries that shit

Ron Speirs (via incorrectbandofbrothersquotes)

[chaotic-nuisance]

My phantom leg

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[chaotic-nuisance]

[chaotic-nuisance]

Mismatched eyes narrowed in concentration. Fingers tightly gripped the cards in her hand as Calara drew them nearer to her face, eyeing Evon over their edges as a sinister grin caused her lips to curl. In a honey-sweet voice, she purred, “Do you have any fours, darling?”

The other woman let out a soft sound of disappointment, eyes meeting Calara’s before she replied in an overly bored tone, “Go fish.” Calara loosed an angry hiss as one hand tightened into a fist that shook in frustration before she leaned forward to grab a card, eyes narrowed on Evon once more. She grumbled, “I taught you how to play this damn game. Why do you always beat me!” At her own words, she paused to glance behind her, just then thinking to check for mirrors. All the while, she ended up flashing her cards to the other woman, gaining a roll of the eyes. “I wonder how it ever happens, Whisper,” Evon intoned softly, the start of a smirk on her lips as the elf turned back around to squint at her. Amused, the Gilnean stated, “Now, give me your twos.” The elf gave an annoyed growl before she offered two of her cards over, watching as they were placed down on the table between the two women among the other players far more numerous wins.

“This is bullshit!” she shouted, tossing her cards down on the table and throwing a bit of a fit as Evon watched with a bland expression. Immediately thereafter, Calara silenced herself, head tilting to the side as her ears perked towards the door. A bemused expression dominated her features as Evon placed her cards down with a snort, voice dryly inquiring, “I take it our ‘admirers’ have slipped away?” Lips tugged up briefly into a grin Calara nodded, focusing once more on her former leader as she settled back in her chair far more seriously. “Of course. After all, what importance is a small fit over a card game?” 

Evon hummed and nodded her head once. 

“Well then, shall we get down to business?” “Of course. It’s been far too long.”

[chaotic-nuisance]

That’s all history is, after all: scar tissue.

Stephen King, Mr. Mercedes  (via wordsnquotes)

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[chaotic-nuisance]

Calara/Whisper Drawn by the amazing Elzdraw on Artistsnclients!

[chaotic-nuisance]

‘The sole purpose of life has been to pass on what was learned. There is no higher purpose.’ - Professor Norman (Lucy)