#had a vision again. hollering screaming crying and breaking furniture

[weezeryuri]

[i-rove-rock-n-roll]

Excerpt from my WIP

Light brimmed beneath Isaac’ eyelids, blinding him as they snapped open. His breath was coming in gasps, then began to slow. What was that? He shivered, a cold sheen of sweat stuck his shirt to his skin. I hate those dreams.

Already the details were slipping, but that didn't matter. All he could see was red. He shuddered, waiting for his stomach to settle before he lay back down.

It wasn't until he was helping his mother in the kitchen when he stopped, staring at the food as it cooked. Fire. It was fire.

“Isaac,” his mother called. “Are you alright?” She placed a hand on his forehead. “Maybe you shouldn't go out with your father.” He pushed her hand away and pouted.

“Mother, the trip is weeks from now, and even if I were sick I'd be better by then anyway.” She didn't look convinced. He sighed.

“I'm not sick.” Truth. “I'm just thinking about how pleased father will be tonight with the dinner we've worked on.” Lie. Lying was a common practice he had gotten far too used to doing. The flare of guilt that accompanied it every time he did so never seemed to fade either. It seems like that's all he did.

“I wanted to go outside and play.” he told his father. Truth.

“I tripped running after a bird.” Isaac told his mother as she helped him stop the bleeding trickling down his knee. Lie.

“My dream came true again,” he murmured to himself, hugging his knees to his chest as the dawn broke. “That's the third time this month.” Truth.

“They're just dreams.” he whispered late at night, tears dripping onto the pillow. “They aren’t real.” Lie.

Isaac knew it wasn't healthy. None of it was. The constant lies, the dreams, kept him on edge. He wasn't only dodging his parents, but himself.

‘Half lies, partial truths.’ He always told himself, yet he could never tell them the extent of it.

Each morning he'd wake up, the empty gaping feeling in his chest still there, as it had been in his dream. Like his heart had gotten lost in the dark and the shadows, swallowed. He thought he was dreaming of Hell.

  So, Isaac doubled his prayers, his pleading. His parents had taken notice, stating how happy they were that he began to be more serious.

He couldn't bear to tell them. He tried once, but they just grew pale and muttered some prayers. They thought he was being tormented with visions of Hell. After a few nights, his father and mother asked him how he slept as smoothed his hair.

 “Fine,” he said. “No more screaming.” His parents shivered at the mention but smiled nonetheless at his response.

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. He’d stopped screaming in his sleep, but all he could feel was a terrible cold, penetrating his skin and filling his lungs and he'd wake up, gasping for air. His mother worried over him as it was, fussing as if he were still three years of age and ready to jump off the furniture to see if he could fly.

Currently, he was staring out of the window. Dinner was almost done and it was still light out.  

“Isaac,” his mother asked. “Did you hear a word I just said.”

“Yes.” He lied. “May I go outside?” She frowned.

“I suppose.” As he ran outside she hollered, “Be back before dinner.”

“I will.” Truth.

Isaac scampered out into the fresh air, ready to try climbing that pesky tree he’d had his eyes on for months.

At dinner his parents spoke very little. They prayed before eating, like always, then devolved into silence. Isaac went back to picking at his food. He had no interest in vomiting it back up later.

The nightmares tended to do that.

“So,” his mother began. “How are the plans coming along for the trip next week? Are the mules well enough to ride? They did seem a little under the weather a bit ago.”

“Oh, they’re fine,” his father said. “In fact, we might even be able to move the date up a few days if everything else is in order.”

“But why?” She seemed surprised. “I mean, I thought you wanted to be up there by--”

“I changed my mind, okay?” His father snapped and his mother flinched minutely. “Just drop it, Sarah. We're going at the end of the week.”

“Alright, she replied quietly. “Just make sure you have a good enough offering for the trip. That lamb you had your eye on isn’t quite ready yet.” Isaac watched the two, carefully keeping his eyes on his food. His father took a bite and swallowed before saying

“Don’t worry about that. God will provide for us.” Isaac could feel his eyes on him, burning, daring him to disagree. He said nothing.

“Yes,” His mother said, unblinking. Unquestioning. “Of course.”

The ride to the mountain was silent. Every so often the group would stop and Isaac helped feed the mules. Around the halfway point, his father broke the silence, directing his pointed gaze at the two men accompanying them. He didn’t so much as look at Isaac.

“You two may remain here and watch the mules. Isaac and I will continue on alone.” Isaac blinked, confused. His father hated building pyres. He would have trouble stretching each time they finished, his back cracking with age each time he’s bend over. He opened his mouth to ask, but his father had already left, setting off at a brisk pace so Isaac had to all but run to keep up. The wind was beginning to pick up as they started to build, gathering sticks much slower with only two people rather than four. His father lit a torch, which flickered briefly as they arranged the wood.

When the two of them finished building the pyre, Isaac asked his father the simple question of where the sacrifice was. They had passed and startled many animals on their way up, though his father made no more towards any of them. Now they were building an altar without a sacrifice to put on it. Then the answer came.

He never expected his father to pull a knife on him.

Isaac stared at the empty sky. There wasn’t even a cloud, even as the shades of blue began to bleed into red, then purple. Normally, he loved those days, playing outside for hours in the sun after he finished his chores.

He never expected to die on a day so nice.

Isaac’s tears were drying on his skin as he waited. Pleading had done nothing. In a state of terror, he asked his father, “Why?” What had he done? He promised to eat his vegetables, to help with more chores; he even promised to stop having such unnatural dreams. In response, his father pulled the rope around him a little tighter, binding him with the same knots he had taught Isaac to use on animals the past fall. And as the gag was being placed over his mouth, Isaac screamed.

                      When he was very young, he remembered asking why they had moved, why they never lived near anyone else before finally settling in beside the mountain. His father's face was as grave and serious as it always was when he replied,

“The devil is following in our footsteps, son.”

Isaac had seen something in his father's eyes. Those pale eyes that scared him so.

Hesitation.

Then it vanished. His father had turned his eyes away. Isaac couldn't see the droplets of water gathering on his father's lashes, as pale as the eyes they came from. His wrists were growing numb, the feeling receding from his fingertips. Even with the warm breeze that began to blow, all the warmer thanks to the nearby torch, all he could do was shiver. Morbidly, Isaac wondered if he would feel any warmer when the pyre was lit. The wood around him was sweet smelling, freshly cut and still slightly damp. There was no smoke yet to smell, no aroma upon the wind but some flowers and a tinge of salty sweat in the air.

He was all too aware of his father’s low voice behind him, offering libation like any other ritual. He had yet to hear the metal being drawn, but he knew at least his death would be painless. He had helped his father sharpen the blade just last night. The knobby edges of the sticks dug into his side, but Isaac refused to shift his weight and stared resolutely at the torch. He remembered the fire from his dreams and wished more than ever he did not. Isaac closed his eyes, then opened them.

‘I'm not going to go without seeing the sky.’

His eyes opened to a blotted-out sun. Enormous wings, jagged and flared, filled his vision. Then, looking past them, past the glaring of shadow and light, he noticed the eyes.

 When his father had told him that the devil was following them, Isaac asked in the way only a child can,

“What keeps him away?” his father smiled, and smoothed his hair.

“The angels, son. The angels.”

As he stared at the wings and the dark eyes, he understood. There was a steady beat in his brain, tapping out a dizzying code. His skin was clammy, but as the warmth soaked back into his skin, he strained his neck to see if he had burst into flames. He could see no actual color to the eyes, nor any lack of color. All he could see was fire.

The flame that had not lit the pyre. Isaac was an inch away from losing it, from sobbing as he was unable to rip his eyes away from the being before him, unable to move.

Then the angel spoke.

“Abraham,” The angel rumbled. ‘Like thunder.’ The eyes narrowed. “You need not act further.” He squirmed, able to see his father's wide eyes as he untied the rope, gathering it. His palms were sweaty. The message was clear.

There would be no sacrifice today.

A cry pierced the air, a ram, presumably stuck on one of the brambling paths that littered the mountainside. Isaac’s hands flinched towards his ears at the noise.  The angel stared at him but did not speak. His father--Abraham--backed away slowly. When he returned, puffing, he was dragging the bleating ram with the same rope that tied up his son  

‘I can’t breathe.’ He began to rock back and forth slightly, rubbing his wrists self-consciously, and before the knife cleared its sheathe again, the angel said.

“You can sacrifice the ram yourself, Abraham. Isaac shall come with me.” Any protest his father may have had died as the long wings flared in challenge.

Then, they took off.

Isaac screwed his eyes shut tight, pressing himself against his savior as they fell. To keep from breaking down, he focused on the feeling of the hands that held him, soft, yet firm, a few calloused spots dancing along his fingers. Isaac gripped the angel tightly, almost hugging him as they hurtled through the air, streaking towards the ground.

But he did let go.

Isaac’s stomach twisted as they smashed into the ground, the wings having wrapped around him to act as a sort of cushion while the angel tried to take the brunt of the impact. Isaac scrambled away quickly, covering his mouth. The angel stood by awkwardly as he heaved and shook some sand from his feathers. The sand had sprayed everywhere, including their hair. He didn’t try to touch him, and for that Isaac was grateful.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Isaac shot a glare in his direction, then deflated as the angel raised his hands in surrender. ‘All he did was help you,’ said the voice in his head. He waited a moment, then turned to face the other.

“Thank you.” The angel looked up, surprised the quiet voice. “You--Thank you.” he finished lamely, twisting his hands together nervously. The other shuffled over awkwardly.

“Do you have anywhere you can stay? A friend’s or something?” The words seemed strange, stilted, but Isaac nodded.

“My brother.” The angel hesitated, then said simply.

          “I can take you to him.”

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Azula Ship Challenge

Week 7: Madness

Ship: Azula/Zirin

Song Rec:  Nega’s Guilt Trip and Dazzle Vision’s Second

An institutionalized Azula is in the middle of a breakdown when she finds herself face to face with an uninvited guest. Zirin, lacking all manners both annoys and entices Azula. 

Azula buried her head in her palms, even if she griped her ears and screamed, nothing could drown out the sounds. There were days when it was manageable. Days when all she had to deal with was a cup of apple juice tasting like cherries or something that was supposed to smell like smoke, smelled like resin instead. But then there were days when voices were too loud to hear and too plenty to focus on. They screamed that which made her feel most guilty and that which brought her the most shame. The words from the people who weren’t there always seemed to cut the deepest. The words from people who no longer talked to her for real reminded her most vividly of that which she’d lost.

 So she would sink deeper and deeper in. Loathing herself for everything she had been and for everything she has become. With a drawn out sob, she beat her fist against the floor and watched it go pink from the impact. An overwhelming desire to smack the ground until her knuckles bled overtook her. Perhaps the physical pain would ease the pain in her head. She punched the floor again, sending a fresh torrent of pain up her arm. It brought tears to her eyes but she did it again. And again, that time with a bitter laugh. Because she deserved it. She deserved to feel pain. She was a monster, it was such common knowledge at this point. Monsters deserved to be hunted and caged.  She deserved that too. She slammed her fist into the ground again, this time breaking skin. She couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying as she lie on the floor and curled into a ball.

She wanted the noise to stop. She wanted the pain to go away. She wanted the memories out of her brain.

She wanted, at the very least, someone to understand and to not judge.

 Without thinking she screamed, and did so until she could practically feel her throat tear. The staff had long since learned to ignore her. They’d either sedate her or bind her up nice in tight with a strait jacket. Sometimes they would outright ignore her and let her fuss until she wore herself completely down. The other patients had also grown good at ignoring her. They thought her to be ungrateful and spoiled. She couldn’t really blame them; she got her own room. It was bigger and had more furniture and things to do. But she trashed it regularly. The way they saw it, she complained the loudest when she had the least to complain about. She hated the lot of them anyways and didn’t care if they hated her. She would stay alone in her room until she was allowed to leave the place. She would suffer not in silence, but entirely alone.

She has done it before too; screaming until her vocal chords finally gave out and then some more, until her body grew too weak produce any more hollers.

 Her demons seemed to grow louder with each passing moment, until she considered pitching herself from the window. She fell silent and eyed it with a sort of longing, wondering if she had the means to unlatch the bars. Lost in her focus, she didn’t hear the footsteps. She didn’t realize that she had company until the smell of food met her nose—cinnamon.

 “I brought you something.” The voice was unwavering and she handed Azula a cinnamon roll without hesitation. Azula thought that the girl must have been here a long time, long enough to have seen some truly wild things. She had to have been, otherwise she would not have approached Azula which such an obvious lack of fear. Or perhaps she simply had no sense of danger. For the girl’s display of nerve, Azula accepted the offering. Her prior contemplation forgotten, at least for the moment. The girl tossed a long braid over her shoulder. “I’m Zirin.” She didn’t offer a hand or any sort of polite formality.

 Since Zirin seemed to have no manners of her own Azula asked bluntly, “exactly how long have you been here and what for?”

 Zirin shrugged and took a bite of her own cinnamon roll. “I think a little over a year. They said I have ‘anger problems that need to be worked on’. The way I see it everyone should be here then, if all it takes to be here is getting a little angry.” This time she did hesitate before asking, “and yourself, princess?”

 Azula folded her arms over her chest with a sour expression that should have put the conversation to rest. But instead she kept looking at Azula expectantly.  When she realized that she wasn’t going to get an answer she changed her attack point, “doesn’t it bother you that no one has asked you what was wrong.” She eyed Azula curiously, “or if you are okay?”

 “It doesn’t surprise me.” Azula answered with a dismissive gesture and then began tucking loose strands of hair back into place.

 “No one ever asked me either. It didn’t surprise me, but it still stings.” Zirin admitted. Without so much as asking, she sat herself down on Azula’s bed. The princess’ mouth twitched, she was on the edge of telling the girl to learn some manner and kindly piss off. But at the same time she admired the girl’s nerve and some part of her wanted the attention. “I always thought it was kind of neat. You being here I mean. No one important ever comes here.”

 Azula didn’t know how to take that; was Zirin implying that she wasn’t important or was she honored to know she was in the presence of someone important. Either which way, this girl didn’t know how to choose her words carefully.

 “I’m surprised no one has tried to talk to you.” Zirin continued.

 “I kicked a table across the room.” Azula pointed out.

 Zirin shrugged again, Azula concluded that shrugging must be her favorite gesture. “And I’ve thrown multiple chairs. They’re used to that kind of thing.” She yawned and kept talking. “So are you going to tell me what you’re here for?”

 Azula admired her persistency. “That’s not for you to know.”

 “Oh, okay. I just thought I’d ask before leaping to my own conclusions.” Zirin replied, seemingly satisfied with the lack of answer.

 This got a bit of a rise out of the princess. “And just what conclusion have you leapt to?”

 Choosing her words with as little care as ever, she answered, “I’ve heard you yelling at no one. I’ve been under the impression that that’s what it is.”

 Azula pressed her lips together. She wouldn’t let the girl know that she’d struck a nerve.

 “I’ve been here for a while now and I’ve only met one other person who has heard things that weren’t there.” She fingered her braid. “That’s kind of why I wanted to talk to you. That other person is my friend but she doesn’t have anyone else. No one understands her…or something like that. I thought maybe I could introduce you to her sometime.”

 Azula considered. “I might speak with her.” She recalled the first part of the proposal. “What did you mean by ‘kind of’ why you wanted to talk to me?”

 “I like your face.” Zirin replied both annoying Azula, and making her feel better about her own flirting skills. “So I figured that I’d talk to you and find out if I like the rest of you.”

 Curiosity got the best of her, “and?”

 Zirin drummed her fingers on the bed. “Still trying to decide. I still like your face though.” She smirked.  Her stare fell from the face in question to the blood dripping from Azula’s knuckles. “You do that yourself?”

 “I might have.”

 “Shit, they would have bound me up real good.” Zirin took Azula’s hand. Once again, Azula was captured by how inconsiderate the girl’s manners were. She stroked the top of Azula’s hand. “It doesn’t hurt does it?”

 “You ask too many questions and don’t answer enough.”

 “That’s because you only asked something like two questions. And by all means, I answered all two of them.” She walked over to Azula’s nightstand, plucked one of her hair ribbons, and tied it around her bleeding hand.

 “I was going to use that.” Azula scoffed.

 “You’re not supposed to have them anyways.” Zirin remarked.

 “I’m—”

 “‘The princess, they can’t tell me what to do.’ I figured as much.” After adjusting her work, Zirin brought Azula’s hand to her lips.

 “What are you doing?!”

 “Isn’t that what nobility do when they’re trying to court someone, kiss their hands?” Zirin asked.

 “Now you care about formality?” Azula grumbled.

 “Not really I just wanted to kiss your hand because I like that too. It’s soft.” She locked eyes with Azula and shoved her hands into her pockets.

 Azula wasn’t quite sure how to take that. She wasn’t quite sure how to take any of this. So instead she waited for Zirin to start yapping again, the girl seemed pretty good at that. But naturally, when she wanted her to pipe up, she had nothing left to vocalize. They stared awkwardly at each other for a moment and it set in that both of them seemed to have the same level of social skills.

 Finally, looking as if she had decided somethining, Zirin spoke. “Hm, I like your face better, but guess you’re alright.” She caught sight of one of the nurses. “So I guess I’ll come back tomorrow.” Before Azula could protest the company, Zirin was pulled away by the nurse, who had apparently been looking all over for her.

Azula supposed Zirin was decent enough. It certainly wasn’t worth it to scream, ‘don’t do that’ all the way down the hall. Anyhow, she wouldn’t mind having someone to perhaps listen to her complain –if misery needed company, then so did madness.