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[the-haunted-walkman]

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Sanguine, such as celestial Spirits may bleed

(( first song))

𝔸𝕝𝕓𝕦𝕞 - 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕄𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕝𝕒 ℂ𝕒𝕥𝕒𝕝𝕠𝕘𝕦𝕖

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↠ⁿᵉˣᵗ ˢᵒⁿᵍ ↺ ʳᵉᵖᵉᵃᵗ ⊜ ᵖᵃᵘˢᵉ

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[the-haunted-walkman]

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Ichoriel

𝔸𝕝𝕓𝕦𝕞 - My Oc ! Definitely not from Minecraft

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↠ⁿᵉˣᵗ ˢᵒⁿᵍ ↺ ʳᵉᵖᵉᵃᵗ ⊜ ᵖᵃᵘˢᵉ

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"I am waking up now",Ichoriel told himself, his wide smile on his face. Big eyes blinking in the half lit room like a kid opening his eyes on his birthday to a surprise he'd already overheard the secret of. Like the feeling of delight in a good surprise, one already known.

His boney hands pressed into the easily giving mattress under him, the blanket he slept on top of shuffling against his coarse wings' skin and the thin layer of ash that covered everything; it sifted to the side with the movements.

He was awake now, or, that's what he told himself.

Because Proper People wake up, because Proper People had been asleep. And Ichoriel was nothing if not a Proper People type of person, the thought making his thin boney tail swish a little with happiness, the star shaped barbs on the end cutting through the air.

Ichorial stretched, his gangly limbs above his head and arching back a bit in a curve, always messy ivory hair sticking out everywhere like a sleepy angels halo and brushing his soft cold skin. His bones popped satisfyingly, like a gentle pinch under his slightly gray and purple skin. His spine deep in him resounded like a dozen tiny church bells echoing through the empty ceiling that was his hollow chest, his ribs clacking together a bit where they rested over his tunic like birds waking up in the rafters and taking off in a cacophony, and his wings and tail straight out like weathervanes and lighting poles. Ichoriel gave a laugh that didn't sound like clicks or chattering at all, Proper People laughed like hearty wind instruments rapidly played. Ichorial was a Proper People type of person, not an old church building, and so the thought made him laugh, just like the wood wind laughs he knew.

Ichorial smiled as he stood up on long legs covered in a tan tunic he had found.

Because Proper People stand up, Proper People stand and walk and sit and run, Proper People dream of floating and flying cause they cannot, and as a Proper People type person, neither can Ichoriel.

"I am going outside!" Ichorial said happily, voice chipper and not at all chirpy. Bugs chirp, Proper People do not. Snagging his long almost cloak-like scarf off its fire darkened hook by the door that creaked under its own, fragile and charred straining, Ichoriel's tail swished a bit out of the way so that the sharp almost barb like hooks at the boney end don't hook on the fabric like a fishing lure and tear it. The tattered holes at the end of Ichoriel's cloak tell of what happens in those situations.

It is a foggy evening, the dampness sticking to the air like a sweet sap on bread. Ichorial purrs- HUMS at the thought, remembering the sweet sticky treat he'd have on a good morning way back when.

The memory is foggy tho, like curling smoke, all the ones from before everything smelled like burnt wood and charred fibers are that way.

Ichorial still smiled, that was a good smell, tho. That smelled like home!

Ichorial walked down his steps, as proper people do, and started his 'morning' stroll through town. It is quiet, save for the friendly greeting chirps of bugs, the great rumbling croaks of the frogs and toads, and the cautious shifting of an animal testing the perimeters of the forestry town. Ichorials' steps treaded a little , , ,lighter, maybe just above the ground, so as to not scare off the wildlife. It had been awhile since they ventured into these parts, at least the larger creatures, that is, the fuzzy skittish ones and the big rude behemoths. They smelt very well, Ichorial thought, and for some reason, they did not like the smell of Home the same way Ichoriel did.

A shame really.

Home was so nice! Always calm and peaceful, lively and excited when Ichorial wanted it to be. Ichorial's home was really whatever he wanted it to be.

Change came easily when you were the only factor, Ichoriel thought to himself with an easy smile as he strode on the oaths between the stunted jutting poles that had long ago stopped smoking or holding up anything.

The ash on the ground had shifted and changed, Ichorial liked to think that the shifting of the wind is why he never could track his footsteps. Because proper people leave footprints, proper people walk on the ground. So of course the occasional weak forest breeze, that would disturb the familiar scent of ash with its earthy wetness, changing Ichoriel little world without his permission, would sift over his footprints and cover them back up before dying down to the regular charred scent. Ichoriel nodded once to himself, assuredly with an easy smile, bright eyes taking in the sight of a yellow frog atop the charred storage chest in a nearby house's shell, smiling at his guest.

Ichorial took his 'walk' through the town at a leisurely pace, slowly winding through the small charred rib cages of old houses. Sometimes he'd guess at what an old blackened lump of wood used to do, or what a melted glob of metal had kept closed. He distantly recognized the same thing he always did, they all had been made mostly of wood.

Wood likes to be bright, to shine and be bright in the way that goirges itself ferociously and loudly and hungrily, eating up everything in its path. Wood really liked that kind of light. What a silly thing to make a home from, Ichorial thought, to make it out of something so hungry to be eaten. Ichoriels' home was not like that, it was cold and hard stone. Maybe a bit burnt along the outside, but Ichoriel thought that it would be hard not to be. It had been in the center after all, an important building if the tall tower was anything to judge by, tho Ichoriel had nothing to compare it to. It was the only one standing after all. Stone was reliable like that.

It was his favorite house in his entire Home, Ichorial's house was. Not to say he hadn't tried the others, he definitely has, Ichoriel was a very fair person. Not all Proper People are, but all ought to, Ichoriel thought with a decided nod, and so he tried all of the houses before he settled on which one would be his home inside of his Home.

Ichoriel had come to the conclusion he just liked stone things better in most cases. The stone home was his favorite, and the stone paths, the stone well and the stone support beams.

Stone stayed the same, not as starved to eat and be eaten by brightness, like wood. No, stone may reflect brightness occasionally, but it had its fill of Brightness' hunger.

Ichorial could relate to that. Brightness and Ichoriel did not get along, the tender spots on his wings, his back and his arms reminded him of that old grudge. Ichoriel thought that the brightness was too hungry, and it got greedy when it came to what it could feast and gorge its burning center with, what it could feed on, often taking what was not its. A bandit of sorts.

Ichoriel hadn't met a bandit in his Home, but he had a pretty good idea of them, and what they did. In fact, he knew quite a lot about bandits and what they did, details and tricks and necessary capabilities.

Ichoriel told himself he must just be very clever to notice these things. Ichoriel was not like the brightness, he was no bandit, and he did not take what was not his. Not very difficult though, as everything in Home was his. In fact he'd be more hard pressed to find someone else to take things from!

Not that Ichoriel planned to leave. No, Ichoriel was content to stay here, amongst the charred exposed ribs of Home that always smelt like what was left of the Brightness' hunger. Ichoriel thinks his home is like him, in a lot of ways. His exposed ribs click as he walks a bit, a familiar soundtrack to his movements.

Proper People make sounds as they move, don't they? Ichoriel wonders absentmindedly, his tail flickering back and forth behind him.

Nevermind that tho, Ichoriel was coming to the edge of his little town, and this is where his trail ended. Two stoney structures stood on either side of the opening, like kids guarding a clubhouse. Ichoriel smiled and strode up to either, waving in a friendly way at the two stone structures.

"It is a good morning, Hedge and Wedge! The rain walks with me, all foggy on the ground as it is !" Ichoriel greets the two stone guardians cheerily, big eyes bright like stars. Neither answer, though that was to be expected, Ichoriel smiled anyway. Ichoriel flitted up, as best he could on his boney half webbed wings, to sit lightly on top of Hedges head, crossing his twiggy legs and his tail curling up into his lap. It swished there, never staying still.

Hedge and Wedge are made of stone, Ichoriel thinks as he sits quietly, tail unfurling after a moment to swish behind him, reaching to the ground below. It is good they are made of stone, Hedge and Wedge that is, Ichoriel also bemused, because Ichoriel likes having friends, even if they are quiet, and stone stays. And since Ichoriel's friends are stone, they will stay as Ichoriel's silent cold friends.

Ichoriel's tail catches on something on the ground as it swishes. Ichoriel blinks, and does not let out a curious chirp as he curls it up to check what was stuck in its star shaped barbs. The star shaped barbs caught things rather easily.

What had caught on his tail was bright and it was red. Red on his sharp barbed tail that he held in his fist, familiar. Like a dagger.

And it made Ichoriel freeze cold and still. Like his favorite stones.

It was sharp, and red, like a dagger in his hand.

Sharp and red in his hands. Sharp and red. Sharp and red. Sharp and red. Sharp and red, sharp and red and sharp and red and sharp-

It was a poppy flower. The perky happy flowers that surrounded the base of either of the paths' silent stone guardians in a delicate carpet of color and forgotten please for remembrance. Ichorial plucked it off of his tail, and let it flutter to the ground, torn up and lying among its still growing kin. Ichoriel's tail hung behind him like a strip of cloth torn and dangling from a dress. It did not move. It was clean and not red and not in his hand. Proper People keep themselves tidy.

They do not have red on their hands or anything in their hands. So Ichoriel will not have red on his hands, Ichoriel is a Proper People type of, , ,person after all.

Ichoriel carefully climbs off the head of his stone friend Hedge. It's a difficult descent due to the sharp and square stones edges but Ichoriel manages, Proper People have to climb after all, they can't just flit up and down off of things. Proper People don't have wings after all.

Ichoriel doesn't look as he steps through the red red flowers. Instead he looks up. The canopy of trees around him has a hole in it, charred and long dead branches around its perimeter like a gothic picture frame one could buy at a Hollow-Day Fest celebration in the fall.

The stars shine above Ichoriel making him smile.

Ichoriel liked stars.

They were like the Brightness, but they did not burn. At least, not in that hungry consuming way that the Brightness did. No, stars were like stones. They hardly would change where they hung in the air, where cold and did not hunger with that harsh appetite of the Brightness, they shine cold and unmoving, only fading when the Brightness returned cruelly. Ichoriel liked stars.

Ichoriel thinks that he used to like the Brightness. Before everything smelt like Home and before he was here. Ichoriel used to burn like the Brightness did, hungry and fast and chasing whatever would fuel him, hissing popping raucous and bright, setting other things alight with little Brightness' too, to serve a purpose in satisfying his hunger or to let others burn like him.

Ichoriel thinks he got too greedy though. Greedy as is the nature of that Brightness. He got too close to something he wanted, too close to the Brightness, and it taught him a truth colder and more still and silent than Ichoriel could hardly believe it capable of. The Brightness' voracious consumption is only fun when you are the one consuming. Being consumed that is something else, something cold and silent and dark and everything that is NOT the Brightness.

Ichoriel likes the stars and the stones and the smell of Home. Home smelt like what happens when The Brightness leaves, and the stones are cold and unmoving, and the stars shine to keep away the Not Brightness and yet are not The Brightness.

Ichoriel likes Home, and he doesn't wish to change it.

No matter what the embers in his chest say in its flickering way of speach.

[the-haunted-walkman]

Chapter three just posted !

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Sanguine, such as celestial Spirits may bleed

(( first song))

𝔸𝕝𝕓𝕦𝕞 - 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕄𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕝𝕒 ℂ𝕒𝕥𝕒𝕝𝕠𝕘𝕦𝕖

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↠ⁿᵉˣᵗ ˢᵒⁿᵍ ↺ ʳᵉᵖᵉᵃᵗ ⊜ ᵖᵃᵘˢᵉ

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

[the-haunted-walkman]

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Sanguine, such as celestial Spirits may bleed

(( first song))

𝔸𝕝𝕓𝕦𝕞 - 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕄𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕝𝕒 ℂ𝕒𝕥𝕒𝕝𝕠𝕘𝕦𝕖

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

↠ⁿᵉˣᵗ ˢᵒⁿᵍ ↺ ʳᵉᵖᵉᵃᵗ ⊜ ᵖᵃᵘˢᵉ

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[the-haunted-walkman]

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Hollow Match Tree

𝔸𝕝𝕓𝕦𝕞 - 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕄𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕝𝕒 ℂ𝕒𝕥𝕒𝕝𝕠𝕘𝕦𝕖

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

↠ⁿᵉˣᵗ ˢᵒⁿᵍ ↺ ʳᵉᵖᵉᵃᵗ ⊜ ᵖᵃᵘˢᵉ

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The old house was too cold to feel alive, even as the anger in Mark seemed to tear through him and all he knew. It burnt in his chest where he had kept it quiet, unable to douse the flames, but able to contain them. 

Until now. He always did this. Mark's dad always would fan those fucking flames till he barraged them with his hurricane of air that would either smother them out or feed their hunger. Shouting and cursing and rage beyond even Mark's would burn through him till he burned under his skin with a fire he swore he'd never have. He didn't have it the same, his fire didn't burn outwards, the flames didn't hit out of the building. No, it just sizzled on the inside. 

And he would have been fine, he had been, it was a cycle and he knew the next steps to the dance. 

But just, , , after his dad had stormed off, leaving the sizzling husk of his son standing in the kitchen, fists clenched and shoulder sore from a tight rebuking grip on them. After his dad had left for the building that made him feel holy, leaving Mark burning, something about how his mother stood. She stood cold, like neither of the men in her life's fires had even thawed her slightly. Why would it? She wasn't a raging, growing and hungry element like them. She wasn't ice. She was cold stone. Cold stone and dead wood. 

And something about that cold in her, something that stood through her husband's howling Gale of wind and fire and deflected it till it burned through the bus of life that her son had once been till it burned him through and out till he burned too and- 

He couldn't take it. 

And so he told her. He felt that fire in him and felt like it burned under his skin, only feeding off of his core and only burning him, but god's was it warmer than this cold fucking house that could never be home. 

He didn't hold back and he told her how they burnt him and froze him till he could hardly tell the one from the other. 

The shouts echoed through the house like howling winds through a graveyard given up on. 

"OH CONGRATULATIONS! YOU DIDN'T DO IT! WOW SO IMPRESSIVE YOU WEREN'T AN ABUSIVE PIECE OF SHIT! NEWS FLASH!" Mark shouted heat in his voice and eyes. The burning fire tore through him, raveging, stoked by every blistering and cutting sharp gasp of air he took in. His chest heaved as he lowly growled,

"Great Job. You may not have been the hand that held the fucking knife, but you held the other hand of the persons who drove it in". 

He heaved, staring into his mother's cold stone eyes that he had to stare at every fucking morning in the mirror. He stared at the terrible visage that haunted his own appearance cause he could not see himself as anything more than the parts that were crushed together and cemented with some twisted responsibility. Those cold stone eyes and that silently smoldering frown. He was them and he hated them. So he hated him. 

"Don't you raise your fucking voice at me. You are my fucking child and you will act like it" she said, voice the same cold as the gravestone slate that where her eyes. Their eyes. How could the same fucking eyes see so differently. It's like she didn't even hear him. Like his words hit a barrier and their meaning was strained out till all that got through was his anger and volume. The point of his anger distilled and washed out till it was nothing but what he had done wrong. In her eyes. He should have known. If his father's burning flames slid off her, how could his stand a chance of even being understood. 

The fire in him felt like it had been nothing, all of a sudden gone. Those dead cold eyes breathed out the air of a coffin forever stuck in one place, dead wood never to grow again and only filled with that which has passed and stale air. The breath of the dead froze his burning anger out till all that was left was a burnt out shell of a tree fire, cold and tired and creaking under its own weary and slowly crumbling pires. The inside burnt out till all that was left were the toughest part of him, his walls. 

His mother was a coffin, once growing but hacked down too soon to house the corpse of her younger self. Inscribed with a cross. Full of the dead air that were her hopes and dreams before he was born. She layed in her own grave and would never move or change or grow again. She is what she was now, how could she. 

His mother was a coffin and Mark was the burnt out tree beside it. 

Embers rested deep inside him like a burnt hat hurt hours later as the heat emanated from within. His dried out wood skin would be perfect kindling, sometimes he would roar and light up if someone stoked the sizzling rocks of heat and waiting fire in him. But he was put out just as easy. He was a lone tree in a graveyard and his burning would do nothing, be of use to no one as the dead did not register the heat and there were no trees near him that would catch alight. All that it did was leave a scorched ring around him and rot the dead faster. He would burn and burn till a stiff breeze put him out as suddenly as he roared up, and he would burn himself till his outstretched branches that begged and reached would be too charred and weak to hold any life and would break and fall away. Until he was a lone, mostly burnt wick sticking out from the cold earth. Till he was a lone charred pire. Burnt from fire no one cared about. A fire that screamed out, hissing crackling and weeping to nothing but the hollow corpses and dead around him. 

Mark caught his breath. Only enough to sigh, quiet inward and weary. Too tired to be sad but still tinged with that draft of bone deep and hollowing sorrow. 

" ok" he said, voice flat like a plane without even a burnt stump to obstruct the dead cold winds. 

It could have been guilt that briefly shone across his mother's stoney eyes. It hardly mattered tho. She turned and busied those spindly fingers with some mundane task, making coffee or restacking the filters, as she spoke plainly, matter of fact like a TV scripted principle. Not even looking at her son. 

" Just go to your room, Mark. It's all you ever do anyway, you practically live in that hovel hole. You could probably go weeks without leaving. . . I'll call you for dinner" she said. 

Like nothing had happened. 

And Mark nodded. He turned, silent. And he trudged up to his room. Silent and obedient. They breathed the same still and dead air anyway. What was the point of repeating back to her what she said, since it's all he had in his head anymore. 

The second floor was used mostly for storage. A guest room as well. 

Mark's room seemed to be his storage area. His little dock. Paid in full so the empty storage container that was Mark could dock himself and sit till moss and weeds grew over top of him. Till he became as much of the place as it was of him, and it would be more trouble to extract him and the bits of him from his surroundings. 

Mark say on the ground, back against his bed that he made this morning. He didn't like to mess up the sheets till he went to sleep. 

His room was the only one upstairs with carpet. Old and ugly shag with indent of furniture that the Heathcliff had never even owned, older than their ownership of the building. His parents talked about stripping the carpet sometimes. Mark wouldn't let them, or at least he tried. 

He ran his hands through it deftly, the action as thoughtless and necessary in this moment as breathing. He ran his fingers through it, and his socked feet over it, feeling ever looped down fuzzy bit that stuck out old and weary like a loyal farm dog. He couldn't focus on the feeling of it, not with his hollow head, but the feeling bounced around in there. He may not be able to focus on it but it was there and was tangible in his mind. If he didnt have that feeling there he didn't know if he would even continue to exist. 

He thinks therefore he is. But he didn't really think. The dead old air seemed to fill him up more than the old wood he used to have to burn. Cold without the fire. He didn't think so was he even real. Why should he even be real? This stupid hunk of flesh that wanted to rot in on itself but persisted by some whirring fears set in motion when he was made despite their own groaning need to stop. He was hollow and thoughtless, not a person any more than he was a bundle of reactions to all that happened around him. Chemicals electrocuting the flesh that housed it and trapped it just to keep its own cage thriving. 

The feeling of the carpet kept his fog of self in his own skin. The distant but solid thought bounced around in his hollow skull as a tether for the rest of him that was in a limbo state between solid and gaseous. It bounced around. Another bouncing solid thing was dropped in. It flashed into existence, then disappeared. Then it was there again. Then gone. Over and over. Rhythmic and constant. Weighing his thoughts down with ever tap into existence. Till he was there again, self weighed down in his own skin again. 

Mark breathed and seemed to acknowledge the tapping of small bits of gravel on his window. He looked over at the pale fall light shining on the ugly carpet of his room. A small bit of gravel tapped on it. A moment. Then another. Constant, persistent and demanding him to exist to know it. 

He heaved himself up, weighing more with his thoughts back in their place. He went over to the window, looking out at the driveway below, empty of cars. His dad was at churc- work. 

Cesar's warm colors stood out against the gray of Marks driveway. He always did in Mark's world, a shock of warmth and color that left him reeling sometimes, not used to the warmth. Like a set of roses on the unmarked grave. 

Mark blinked, and realized Cesar was waving, beaming up when he realized Mark had seen him. Mark took a moment, staring down hollowly, and a sadness seemed to draft through Cesar's warmth, like the cold dead air that flowed through Mark's hollow form had chilled him. Cesar always seemed able to tell when Mark had burnt out again. Maybe wisps of smoke or flecks of charred wood carried in that cold dead air. 

He still smiled tho. For both of them. Till it would warm Mark up too. 

Mark opened the window and leaned out slightly, holding tight to the window sill. Despite himself, he was still scared of the drop. 

"Cesar?" He asked, voice seeming to scratch him in its surprising roughness. How long had he been, , , gone. The sadness seemed to sit in Cesar heavier with the sound of it too. 

"Mark! Hi! I came for you!" He beamed up, smiling still. The Latinos brown curly hair jostled a bit in the autumn breeze. He wore a sweater the color of rust. His left red converse was untied. 

"You, , came for me?" Mark asked, a little confused. Maybe his thoughts weren't as solid as he had assumed. 

Cesar nodded, smiling. He was far enough down that Mark could almost not see his dimples. 

"Yeah! C'mon, I'm busting ya outta there, you're gonna come to my house, Abuela's making cider! She said you have to come over and help her peel the apples since she won't give me the knife!" Cesar beamed up, blushing a little. He was too far down for Mark to see it but the long faded scars on the back of his hand from last time his Abuela let him help carve the fruits was clear enough in Mark memory. 

The embers in Mark's chest sizzled warmly. 

But the cold air in him chilled then before they could burn. 

"But, my mom-" he started, looking over his shoulder at his locked bedroom door, like she would hear, though he knew she couldn't from downstairs. No one could hear him from his room, even if he could hear all outside his door. 

"Well bring her back a pitcher! You know how much she likes it! Besides, I saw her drive away in the pickup, her and my Mama have that cooking club thing on Fridays, remember?" Cesar said happily. Like he'd thought of it all. Like a special agent extracting a priceless art piece from the bad guys layer. He knew how to dodge all the alarms that would lock it in. 

Mark felt warm and a smile faintly danced onto his face as he sighed, fondly. 

"Ok, ok I'm coming, let me grab a sweater ya goof" he said back, smiling now. Cesar whooped and nodded, dashing back to his shitty red pickup he had parked on the side of the road. Starting it up and waiting in the driver's seat. 

Mark shook his head fondly and went back inside, snagging the old sweater he kept on the back of a chair, it was useless to put it away anymore with how often he wore it. Warm browns and oranges somehow made to work nicely with a faded slate blue. 

Another gift from Cesar's family. Cesar had bashfully gifted it to him a few Christmas' ago, telling him if he told anyone that he knew how to knit that he would kill him himself. Mark had just laughed, half to hide his own blush. 

He threw it on and turned off his bedroom light, hardly thinking of it as he left the stuffy hole that was his room. He dashed down the stairs and locked the front door after him. He didn't think of how his mom left without even telling him again. 

He tucked his cold hand under his arms, the sweater from Cesar warming him as he dashed across the lawn of his house and hopped into the familiar red pickup. The passenger seat may as well have his name on it with how much he rode around with Cesar. He felt warm in the familiar car, heater blasting as he put his hands near the vents and Cesar started chatting beside him. 

They lurched forward and hummed down the road, the cars heavy huffs familiar to Mark in a way that felt like home. Cesar felt like home. 

Cesar was like vines that crept into the old burnt husk that was Mark. They climbed and weaved into him and brought life with it, bright flowers bursting with polin. The vines burnt a little on the embers inside of the tree, but they also cooked them off. Helped fill the empty cavern of Mark's chest till it was so full of life and flower petals that the cold air couldn't get in, just brushing past. 

And Mark smiled. He didn't mind being an old tree, and didn't mind the cold stone of his mother in his eyes. He was solid, and Mark grew with him. He could do that. He could be that. 

He could STAY to be that.  

[the-haunted-walkman]

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : A Bad Demon

𝔸𝕝𝕓𝕦𝕞 - 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕄𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕝𝕒 ℂ𝕒𝕥𝕒𝕝𝕠𝕘𝕦𝕖

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↠ⁿᵉˣᵗ ˢᵒⁿᵍ ↺ ʳᵉᵖᵉᵃᵗ ⊜ ᵖᵃᵘˢᵉ

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

"Cesar open the fucking door! It's cold as all hell get out!" Mark hollered, pounding the front door of the house. His breath fogged in front of him, the face paint felt tacky against his skin as it dried oddly in the October chill. He hopped from foot to foot, blowing on his hands as they trembled a little. He shoved his hands under his armpits, cursing himself for not bringing a jacket and thinking the sheet cloth of his costume would be warm enough. 

Cesar laughed from inside, sounding like he was just on the other side of the door, probably getting his shoes one. 

"You sound like the Doctor Philip Mama likes!" His muffled voice shouted jovially. A thump against the wall and a small curse, the one footed thumps making it obvious Cesar had lost his balance while shimying on his favorite red sneakers. 

Mark laughed, banging on the door once.

"It's Dr Phil and you know it, ya dip shit, careful to not hit your head while you're being an idiot in there" Mark laughed, shivering a little less as his happiness seemed to warm him a little. Cedars presence had always felt like a drop of sun. 

A mother on the sidewalk up front shot Mark a glare for his foul language as she shuffled her kid in a zombie costume and tutu past their house. The street lights had hardly been on and yet all the trick or treaters had already started emerging. Mark blushed and shot an apologetic and sheepish smile at her before turning back to the door. 

His cream robes and fake wings shuffled a bit as he leaned closer to the door, lowering his voice and hissing,

"Cesar I swear to hell if you don't hurry up I'm gonna climb in through a window like that one time-" 

The door swung open, almost making Mark fall on the shorter 14 year old Latino who was grinning up at him. Mark got on balance again and took a step back to look at Cesar, who was grinning wildly with pride sparking in his warm brown eyes. 

He'd really gone all out this Halloween.

Mark almost felt silly for his own costume, though he knew it had been worth his effort. Mark was wearing some cliche angel type robes he'd managed to make by draping some white and cream sheets around till they fit right. Angel wings and a halo added to the mix finished it off. Then Mark had added about two hundred fake eyes glued all over his face, his arms, the wings and even the halo. Some fake fangs couldn't hurt. 

Mark had excitedly told Cesar his plan as soon as he had thought it up. Cesar had also gotten that mischievous smile that was the opening sentence for a lot of the twos misadventures. 

Cesar stood proudly in the doorway in his favorite red button up. The color matched the fake blood spilled over his dark brown curls and dropped down half his face, making his curls darker and weighed down. The red horns shone on top of his head, fake fangs gleaming in his smile. His black slacks were the anchor for a pinned on red devil tail, and the signature Red Converse somehow didn't look out of place at the bottom, even splattered in fake blood for the occasion. Black fake wings shuffled on Cesar's back, having been mangled by the teen. The golden cross pendant on Cesars necklace was flipped upside down even, matching the earrings on fake pointed ears. 

"Holy shit" Mark gasped, staring dumbfounded. 

"I know, right?! I mean I was excited and thought it would look cool, but not THIS cool!" Cesar beamed excitedly, his hands making attempts at coherent gestures before giving up and just flapping excitedly. 

Mark swallowed thickly. His breaths got a little faster. 

"Ces, Cesar holy shit- I mean, FUCK, dude, your mom's gonna kill you!" Mark said worriedly. He frantically looked to the driveway, but the familiar beaten up red Pt Cruiser was absent. 

"Mark?"

Good, they'd have time to get Cesar in and washed up, maybe even dump the costume bits in a neighbors trash can before she got home. 

"Amigo?" 

If Mark hurried he could maybe- 

"MARK!" Cesar shout broke him out of his thoughts. Cesar held his hands tightly between his own. Mark was panting. He closed his eyes tightly. When he opened them he stared at their hands. Cedars were sandwiching his between his own, like a prayer in a prayer. Cesar's nails were painted black, red underneath. He'd always been good at painting nails. His abuela taught him when they were young. They used to paint each other's till Marks dad had seen them. He'd come over to Cedars house, fuming, Mark's mom was barely able to convince him to not go storming to the front door, telling him that she would talk to Cesar's mom, a call between moms would suffice. 

They didn't have nail polish remover. Mark's dad had watched Mark at their kitchen table, slowly pick at the baby blue polish with pail stars, slowly flaking off under constant picking from the boy. The harsh light had made Mark's eyes water, but he never let the tears roll down, that would have made it worse. Eventually Mark's dad had gotten tired. Mark wasn't allowed to leave the table till his nails were "clean". When Mark had woken up in the morning, a bottle of nail polish remover had been placed on the table by his head with a little muffin from his mom. 

His fingers had still hurt at school the next day. 

"Mark, please, let's go inside, your shivering, amigo" Cedars low smooth voice coaxed gently, sounding tired and sad. 

Mark looked up, breaths calming, but still a little trapped in thought. Cesar smiled at him sadly, tears in his best friend's eyes. Cedars gently tugged Mark inside and sat him on the couch. Mark tried to protest, but Cesar just quietly shook his head. That quieted Mark quickly. A calm moving and quiet Cesar was always a sign. 

A small clatter as red clip on horns where deposited on the work hardwood table that had scratches and paint stains on it. The click of two mugs half filled with water being placed on that class gray in the microwave above the fridge. The beep of a timer being set. A whir. 

Mark focused on the sounds of Cedars home. The smell of cinnamon and pumpkin pie spices being pulled from the cupboard, honey too. The fridge light clicking on and buzzing as Cesar retrieved milk. 

Mark fiddles with the end of his robe. The warm light of the living room lamp made it seem like soft gold. 

The microwave beeped, and after a moment stirring sounds of metal spoons in ceramic cups filled the two joined rooms. 

A blue mug with a chip in the corner was offered to him. Mark blinked, then took it. It warmed his hands. 

The couch cushions sank a little beside him, and he felt the warmth of Cesar at his shoulder. The Latino leaned against his friend, gently, shoulder to shoulder. He blew on his own red mug of tea. It had a design so faded you could hardly make it out. The  physical contact helped. Cesar knew. 

Mark's mug was old and blue, angel wings on it and chipped on the side. He'd dropped it once while at their house, it didn't break but It did chip. Mark had near panicked but Cesar Mom had just smiled gently, setting the cup aside. She checked his hands to make sure he was ok. She'd set little Mark on the countertop to sit, Cesar hopping up, asking over and over if Mark was alright. Cesar had tried to scramble up the pantry doors to sit by Mark, nearly falling off a few times. A quick stern look had stopped his parkouring, the five year old having to be satiated with just standing on his tiptoes and resting his chin on the countertop, staring up at Mark, worriedly. 

Mark had apologized over and over for the cup, offering to pay with his allowance, or buy a new one, but Cesars mom had just waved it off like it was nothing. She rummaged in a junk drawer, pulling out a small yellow tube of glue, and had gone over the sharp edges of the chipped bit. She handed it to Mark with a gentle smile as it dried, and poured him a new cup of cocoa once it was dry. 

She'd said it was HIS cup, so he shouldn't be worried if it broke. She could fix it, and it was here at their house, only for him to use, no one else. 

"How are you feeling?" Cesar's voice hummed. He felt the vibration in his shoulder. Mark came back to himself again. He took a sip of the familiar cinnamon drink, then sighed. He looked away blushing in shame. 

"I'm feeling dumb. I'm sorry I freaked a little" he apologized in a low voice, looking down. 

Cesar shrugged beside him, staying close, but looking forward, affording Mark that privacy. 

"It's fine, you don't have to apologize. I know how your parents are. . . Mama is out of town for the night. She took my tia out to one of those haunted mazes the town over all night. . .she doesn't mind my costume if that's what worries you. We can stay in if you want, I've got some candy stashed from last year, and Mama rented the Blair Witch" he said, skipping from his own red mug. Cesar mug  was more cracks glue together than solid unbroken pieces. His fluttering hands were clumsy, it was endearing. 

Mark stared at his drink, cinnamon and spices swirling in the murky white, honey sweet on his tongue. He took a deep breath, and shook his head, looking at Cesar. 

" No, we're going out. This might be the last year we go trick or treating and our costumes are too cool to waste!" He said, setting his face in determination. After a moment, he let a smile grow on his face. Cesar blinked, then beamed, standing up, clutching Mark's hands. 

"Aw Hell Yeah!" Cesar whooped. Mark snickered at the unintentional pun, Cesar not noticing and just scampering over to the table to grab his discarded horns. He snagged two plastic grocery bags from the convenience store from under the sink and rushed back over, handing one to Mark. 

A serious look crossed his face for a moment and he stared at Mark intensely. 

"We quit as soon as you want, just say the word. If it's two houses down or all the way across town, if you get anxious or tired or just bored, we can drop it as soon as you want, ok?" He said seriously. Mark felt his core warm a little, and he nodded. Cesar's beaming smile returned and he hauled Mark up, mugs forgotten on the living room table, left where they would reheat them later when they got back.

As they walked down the sidewalk, Mark now in a red jacket Cesar had bullied him into, Mark smiled to himself a little. He looked at his best friend who dragged him along, Cesar's smile shining brighter than the horns on his head. 

Cesar would make the worst demon, Mark thought to himself. 

[the-haunted-walkman]

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Communion

𝔸𝕝𝕓𝕦𝕞 - 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕄𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕝𝕒 ℂ𝕒𝕥𝕒𝕝𝕠𝕘𝕦𝕖

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

↠ⁿᵉˣᵗ ˢᵒⁿᵍ ↺ ʳᵉᵖᵉᵃᵗ ⊜ ᵖᵃᵘˢᵉ

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

It burned down his throat like it was gasoline and his sin sparked guilt was fire that crawled across its surface, scorching his throat till it swelled shut.

All the better to keep him silent, he supposed.

Silent and reverent in the house of the Lord, like a good boy. Like a good man. Like the good should. Silent and obedient and in fear.

He was supposed to be in fear. Be in fear in the holy kind of way. They preached how fear, in the Bible, could have meant a form of respect.

Mark had plenty of fear in him. He respected his church and its head a lot. Respect, , , being used for fear.

Cesar sat beside him, silent, holding an empty communion cup. His warm hands trembled slightly. Mark winced, but kept his head bent in mocked prayer. His own hands shook too. Holding an identical glass.

"Hallowed be thy name" the pastor's voice drones on, made loud and booming by old high ceilings assaulted with the power of new shining speakers. Mark wondered how they had the money for those while they preached of our reach programs for the less fortunate. Mark chided himself for questioning those he feared- respected.

"This is my body, eat it, and think of me"

The pastor boomed, echoing someone long past and out of reach, the moon mimicking the sun's glow, shining light but casting longer shadows, only a reflection of something else's burning power.

Mark and Cesar tip their little cups back, the small dry wafers inside being tossed back into their mouths before they both bowed their heads again. It was almost scary how in unison they were. How in unison the whole congregation was. Mark and Cesar had watched a video essay on cults, unbeknownst to their parents. Mark tried not to think of religious groups and their drinks.

The wafer laid on Mark's tongue. He wondered how something could be so dry. It soaked up all the wetness in his mouth, all the residual red fruit juice. It had been fruit juice this time, they must not have had enough cash after buying the speakers to get wine. Mark wonders if the pastor had done them in the right order.

Maybe the blood of Christ was supposed to help wash down the body.

Mark fought a wince at the thought.

" Thy will be done on Earth as it is in heaven"

The voice boomed and droned and invaded his head like the static of the TV did while he slept whenever the film he'd fallen asleep to ended.

Beside him Cesars foot started to wiggle, half suppressed fidgets as it bounced in the air a bit. He always got fidgety around the time the pastor had started saying The Prayer a second time. Cesar couldn't help it.

Sunday's were hell for both of them.

Mark kept his head down. His own shoes had mood caked on the sides from the walk from their car to the front door. His dads shone beside him in the multicolored light that streamed in from the stained glass windows that framed the pastor up front, far too beautiful for someone so dark and gray and solemn. Mark didn't know how his dad managed to keep his shoes mud free. Mark didn't know how his dad stayed so pure in any form.

Cesar didn't talk about his dad a lot, there wasn't a lot to say. He lived somewhere down in Florida with a woman whose hair was too yellow to be natural and with kids who only bore a whisper of resemblance to Cesar. Mark had asked him late one night if he didn't like his dad's new family. Cesar had shrugged, laying on his side and snuggled under his old worn afghan from his abuela and said that he didn't so much hate them as much as he pitied them. Cesar said that he wasn't sure but from the one time he'd seen his dad since he left his Mama and him here, well, , the smell of shitty vodka has aged just as terribly as his father.

Cesars foot stopped tapping in the air, stilling halfway up, then loading slowly, timidly. Mark kept his head down, not wincing still. He could almost feel the heavy and silently reprimanding hand of Cesar's Abuela on his own shoulder, knowing too well the routine by now. It happened every Sunday that the pastor insisted on communion.

The prayer finally ended and Mark looked up. His eyes rested in the direction of the pulpit, that tall slender and droning man standing behind it. Cesar was in his peripheral, painfully still. Cesar would have little scabs around his mouth when Mark saw him tomorrow at the bus stop. He would chew his lips bloody today as he tried not to fidget.

Cesar knew as well as Mark the rules of church and fear and respect.

They wouldn't be able to quietly whisper and giggle after church like they usually do today. Mark's dad had a meeting with the other church Deacons afterwards, and so Mark would have to politely sit and wait outside of the room. Silent and small in that big, long and yellow hallway. Mark would stare out at it and wonder if that hall went down forever like some sort of creepypasta style horror flick.

Mark wondered if the sermon would last forever this time.

Mark sent a silent prayer to whatever god was listening for them to start their closing hymns.

[the-haunted-walkman]

I wrote this on the wrong blog before I had a writing blog, it's here now TWT

I forgor

_†_†_†_†_†_†_†_†_†_†_†_†_†_†_†_†_†_†_†_†_†

Do you ever forget something that you KNOW you know? Like when you write something so many times it's a given, a muscle memory. Doing it over and over and knowing it as a part of you.

Then your muscles just, , , don't remember.

Muscles not remembering something is such a weird thought though, cause that's the thing, they don't have thoughts, his chest isn't deciding to move up and down.

I mean yeah, there are electric impulses through the flesh, and that is all thoughts really are when you get all "existential" and nitpicking about it but, , , it's different. There's probably a science behind that somewhere, how muscle memory works.

He doesn't know, and even if he did it didn't help any now, as he grips the pen.

It was fucking stupid, to be scared this fucking sticky piece of paper. His chest stalled with his breath. He grips the pen harder in his hand, hard enough that his hands are sweaty and that it creaks a bit. This was insane, it was the worst. The paper still stared blank tho, offensive.

Just, just write it down, he tells himself. Fucking, write it down and move on with it. How could he not remember it?! It's just, that's something you KNOW, and how could he not? Was his chest even moving? He knew who he was, what he was here to do and just, , , just write it down, fucking write it down. His chest wasn't moving, how could it be moving, it didn't know to move, cause it didn't know anything and it didn't know what it was and-

"Adam, dude, the fuck is taking so long?"

Adam looks up. There was air in his lungs. He was breathing. Air, air in his lungs like there were supposed to be. They were moving again cause that's what they were supposed to do and it knew that.

Jonah stands there, an eyebrow raised and that stupid fucking lopsided grin on his face as he waits for an answer. His stupid fucking silver hair all falling in his face, and wearing that sweater that smell like a walking drug bust.

Jonah gestures to Adam again.

" Dude, you still a little~?" Jonah made a motion with his hand like he would be pulling a cigarette away from his mouth, a muscle memory for him, probably, those fingers with the black chipped nails had done it enough times. You could probably guess that about him without even knowing Jonah like Adam did.

Adam pulled a scowl on his face and shook his head, bending his head to write as Jonah snorted that stupid light laugh that sounds like he'd never been on the ground long enough to hurt.

"Hi, my name is- _____"

Adam scribbles down "Adam", slapping the sticker on and dashing after Jonah, bumping shoulders with him in the way only friends do and Jonah going to ruffle his hair, Adam easily dodging it with a grumble and Jonah with a laugh, both of them walking further into the building.

[the-haunted-walkman]

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Baptism

𝔸𝕝𝕓𝕦𝕞 - 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕄𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕝𝕒 ℂ𝕒𝕥𝕒𝕝𝕠𝕘𝕦𝕖

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

↠ⁿᵉˣᵗ ˢᵒⁿᵍ ↺ ʳᵉᵖᵉᵃᵗ ⊜ ᵖᵃᵘˢᵉ

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

Cesar huffed a little, his breath puffing out in front of him in a cloud that fogged in front of his eyes. Cesar had tried smoking exactly one time, immediately hating it and never doing it again, but, this reminded him again. Of that time he sat on the cracked cement stoop of his back porch, tattered jeans and cold air.

Mark walked up behind him, silent and tall over Mark's squatted down figure, silent, watching.

Another parallel between now and then Cesar guessed.

Just like then, Cesar didn't acknowledge Mark. Cesar's eyes were dead, distant. He focused on his hands. They weren't trembling. They weren't. Fog curled out right in front of his mouth and nose as he exhaled.

He finally finished stuffing the bed roll in his backpack, grunting a little as he zipped it up tightly. The plastic wraps of some non-perishables crinkled where they are squished down under the bed rollin the back. Cesar swung the bag over his shoulder and stood.

"Ready?" Mark asked. His voice creaked, more like an old doors' wooden frame than flesh and muscles vibrating vocal chords.

Cesar at least didn't flinch when he spoke now. He hardly tensed when Mark set a hand with fingers slightly too long and skin a lot too cold on his shoulder.

Cesar sighed again, sparing one more look around him at the abandoned loft they had stayed in. Cold, a broken window they had climbed in, holes in the roof. . . A place to stay. To rest in their travels that had no destination beyond NOT.HERE. A place to sleep.

But not home.

Cesar nodded, turning around finally.

Mark's eyes had always been big. Curious, bright and searching.

They were still big now, how he was now even, just, , , , long too. They were still gray.

They stared into Cesar's warm brown ones now. Half lidded and with bags under them, weary with a loss now remedied.

"Yeah, , , yeah I'm ready. Got all my- , , our stuff. Are you, , , sure you don't want me to get you a bed roll too?" Cesar asked. He fidgeted with one of the strings of his hoodie, the ends were frayed with how often he did it.

Mark tilts his head, giving a shrug that creaked like cold clay. It was smoother than how it had been yesterday, the movements Mark made. Every day he seemed to be more, , alive. To fit better in his skin, , , his skin fitting better around him.

"No, , I don't really, , get cold, anymore" Mark creaked out. The static that had almost drowned out his voice back when he'd first found Mark had faded to a small buzz, like a faulty radio. Cesar could understand him now, at least.

Cesar blushed, seeming to feel more bad about bringing up Mark's new state than Mark himself did.

"Oh, yeah, s-sorry. My bad. I, , , um, , " Cesar sighed, calming his nerves. This was his best fucking friend. His best friend he had thought he had lost. His best friend he HAD lost. He had started his mourning. And it had been shattered that night in that fucking alley, still there in cutting shards but no longer a cage around him. He ran into the spikey shards if he wasn't careful enough to dance around them.

Cesar had been stuck and trudging through his sorrow, drowning in it, like a baptism of water turned to blood before he could be brought out of it. It stained him now, dark and tinted in that disgusting RED instead of washed pure. Yet it had been what he had wanted. Letting himself be dunked under water. Letting himself be vulnerable. It was a choice he had made and now, ,

It, , ,

No. No, fuck that. Fuck that line of thinking, fuck those stupid fucking religious analogies that fucking prison of a school had etched into his bones and fuck this part of him that couldn't just be happy.

Cesar looked up, higher than he used to have to. And he dared a small, lopsided smile, his curls shifting out of the way. They weren't as long as before. They had both changed.

"You look better today. You seem to, , , fit better" Cesar said, optimistically.

But they were still them.

Mark was still his best friend.

A part of him.

So if Mark had changed, Cesar had too, and they would be different together.

Mark blinked, one eye then the other in an odd sort of succession. Then he smiled, small and timid too. Like he was trying it on, like a new sweater.

Cesar liked it on him.

Smiling suited Mark.

Cesar walked forward, heading to the window for them to leave out of, going to climb down the fire escape they'd come in on. He grabbed Mark's hand as he passed, leading him like Mark used to him when he had been a timid young boy.

Mark's skin was still cold.

It was ok tho, Cesar would help warm him.

[the-haunted-walkman]

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Cheap Plastic

𝔸𝕝𝕓𝕦𝕞 - 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕄𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕝𝕒 ℂ𝕒𝕥𝕒𝕝𝕠𝕘𝕦𝕖

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

↠ⁿᵉˣᵗ ˢᵒⁿᵍ ↺ ʳᵉᵖᵉᵃᵗ ⊜ ᵖᵃᵘˢᵉ

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

It wasn't really hotboxing. He had a window cracked. It was always cracked to be fair, it was a shitty car. If cars were sold by the dollar general, this is the kind of car they would sell. Cheap plastic and cheap metal and cheap wires that burnt more often than they conducted anything more than hopes and half hearted prayers. 

Still, it got Jonah and Adam from every new point A to every changing point B. And when it didn't, they'd replace it. 

They'd named this one Percy. It was blue, that's why. A name from a book from both Jonah and Adam's childhood. Adam pretended to hate it, but he'd done that hidden little snicker of his when Jonah had suggested it and so it stuck. 

Smoke curled out the permanently cracked window leaving a trail to Jonah slightly open mouth, and the mostly smoked blunt in-between his slightly crooked fingers. He'd always been told he'd be good at guitar. He'd tried for awhile, but well, like a lot of things nowadays it came to an end. 

The smoke filled Jonah lungs, then curled out. They gave the false hinting at a fire in Jonah. What a fucking joke. Jonah didn't have a fire burning in him, not even smolders. Not even ash, there had never BEEN a fire in him in the first place. 

Jonah was hollow. Or at least he felt like it. Like those shitty ceramic figures you could get at a dollar tree. Those shattered and broke so easily. So quick to fall off a counter top at the actions of an overactive child, too young to know better and with guardians too gone to care. 

Maybe a cheap chess piece was more accurate. Jonah used to know how to play chess. The old Hispanic lady across the hall of the apartment he grew up in had taught him how. She used to babysit him whenever his guardians weren't home. She had a kid, Jonah had seen a picture of him in a suit, smiling in some field somewhere. He'd moved out, and as the woman's health failed, she followed him. Jonah missed her. In that distant half forgotten way, like a snack he'd liked had been discontinued. 

He only half remembered how to play chess. He still rem eres how the pieces felt in his hand, this cheap hollow plastic ones him and the old gal used to get from the dollar tree two blocks away. 

Jonah used to stop there after school some days, even after the gal across the hall moved out. He'd get some shitty cheap snack, trying a new one every week. The middle aged woman behind the counter started to recognize him, he came in so often. She would slip him sweets sometimes, little hard candies with a soft center, wrapped in pink and yellow striped foil. No matter how many times he tried he could never find what kind they were or where to buy them. Jonah had a conspiracy she made them herself, an empty nester who could help but be soft for the scraggly excitable boy that came through. 

He'd stop in, and she would slip them into his palm, like some great game or secret just between the two of them. He was a regular and it was their treat. And when she left, , , when something that looked like her, but it's eyes were a little too big, and the cops shot both the sequel and the original to be safe, when that happened, Jonah became a regular for the man that took her place at the register. 

He would slip Jonah treats too. His kind of treat came at a monetary cost tho, but they were still wrapped up. This time in flammable paper that would fill Jonah hollow chest with smoke and give the illusion of fullness. 

Jonah stopped playing chess a long time ago. 

He only remembered a few of the pieces names or functions anyway. The pawns where obvious. 

Sometimes Jonah felt like that. Like he an expendable and replaceable chess piece, the cheap ones everyone used up quickly at the start of a game to get the more powerful pieces in better positions. Like he was made from that shitty cheap plastic, mostly see through but kinda foggy, made from the same shit as those throw away utensils his guardians bought when they stopped cooking at home, clogging up landfills probably. He was how like those fucking glorified toys, made with that emptyness, and just see through enough to see the emptiness, but foggy enough that he could pretend not to be. 

He snorted a bit to himself, gods he was like an emo 13 year old again. R/Im13AndThisIsDeep or some bullshit, everyone had their phases. 

Jonah tried to keep quiet when Adam stirred in the front seat. Adam was sleeping up there this time, they'd parked in some small towns empty grocery store parking lot. Not like anyone had security cameras anymore to look at and get upset with them when they saw them on the feeds. Only Jonah and Adam would count themselves as idiots enough to have screens still. 

Adam had been driving, and he slept in the front seat. On colder nights, Adam sometimes slept next to Jonah. Not in like,  aromantic way, more so for comfort of another huma-,  , person next to them and as friends. Jonah didn't swing that way, actually. He, , , didn't really swing at all, to be honest. Sometimes a breeze would sway him one way or another but never for long. Adam swung in the opposite direction, tho, or at least he used too. Neither of them really ever cared to clarify or label anything, they didn't really need to. There wasn't anything between them that would need it. Just a, , , tentative friendship. 

They had driven in a truck through the summer, earlier in the year. They had pulled blankets and pillows out of the backseat to set up the bed of the truck nicely every night. And sleep like that. Got some nasty looks from more than one stuck up conservative couple.

  Jonah and Adam had fought tho, earlier in the day, and so they kept their distance tonight. As much as two people perpetually on a road trip could tho. Jonah took another drag, filling his hollow chest again and exhaling, watching the smoke curl. It haloed around Adam's sleeping head a bit, making him look like some half painted angel for a moment before it dissipated, Adam frowning a little. Jonah dismissed it. The gal who had babysat him was very religious, sent her son to a Catholic school and the whole shebang. Poor guy. 

Jonah had never used religion to fill his hollowness, not anything more than a passing fancy. It was like any other substance that he had dabbled in. In his opinion, heaven's hosts had nothing on weed. Smoke filled his chest more than a prayer ever had.

. . . 

Adam was like weed. Jonah snorted again, at his own dumb joking thoughts, though he covered his mouth this time when Adam stirred a little. Had to be quiet, fuck knows the blond needed more sleep than he got. He always seemed weighed down, like there was some mission that matters his skin and made it heavy in a way that didn't fit right. Like a wet cardigan, a bit too heavy and a lot uncomfortable. Jonah wanted to help but, well, , , . 

Adam helped Jonah a lot, is what he thinks he means. While religion was like a party drug Jonah would one and done, the hope that was a through line through all the churches and cults was like the weed Jonah stuck with. And Adam seemed to inspire that in Jonah. Adam was like a weed. Or, ,weed. Didn't matter which one, and Jonah was too high and tired to care. 

All that mattered was, Adam had a way of filling Jonah's chest with smoke. His hollow chess piece chest was filled up. Maybe sand was more accurate. Sand filling up his cheap plastic walls till it made him heavy like something expensive and looking like something that cost enough to be worth it. Like those fancy weighted pieces he'd see at the artsy stores the gal across the hall loved. 

Jonah would clatter hollowly when he was thrown around. He wouldn't break, hardly crack, as hollow plastic could be surprisingly durable. He clatter and roll to a rest, then be picked up, a little scuffed but mostly fine, close to his original, admittedly subpar, original condition. Hollow but normal. 

But, , , Adam filled him with something heavy that made him have a drive of sorts. And now, if he was thrown, it would crack him, shatter him, and let all his sand spill out, like tears on a crybaby kid's face. The weight of what had filled up his plastic walls made his strong hollowness brittle and worth something in that terrible and dangerous way. 

Jonah didn't let people get close. It scared him. He was the funny weed smoking best friend in a sitcom that the main character was perpetually annoyed with, but always got laughs from people and was a tenant to  the third place in popularity polls. And he was fine living out that hollow role. But, , Adam gave him a drive, not seeming to even mean to, and it made Jonah scared sometimes when he realized he was actually invested in the script. 

Jonah let the smoke curl from his mouth, soaring a glance at the blond in the front seat. The main character, it felt like, despite whatever Adam wanted. Burdened, his crowd favoritism came at a heavy cost. Jonah couldn't carry any all powerful ring for Adam tho, and despite traveling, there was no aptly named Mount Doom they could set their sights on. 

Jonah breathed a small sigh, smoke and sand weighing his chest down like a beach burn pit. 

He could carry him though. Drag him along on a mission he wanted but couldn't seem to do on his own. Jonah didn't mind. 

Jonah opened his car door softly, appreciating that it was too cheap a thing to have a ding when there was an open door, and threw the now smoked roach on the road outside, stomping out the rest of the shoulders since he was done smoking. The last few curls of acrid smoke came from his mouth. Maybe there were some embers in him, maybe they had been funneled in with the sand, lit by someone else's flame. Jonah didn't have his own fire to boast, but someone else's, he could sizzle with, till they could be alight themselves. 

Jonah settled into the back of the car, hands in his hoods pockets. He dismissed the thoughts for now.

 Whatever this new weed strain he was being the guinea pig for, he'd have to give his dealer a glowing review of.

 They all had absurd names, this one should have some old poets or philosophers monicor on it for how it was making him feel. Virgil's Vacay, Poes Packet, Silverstein's Strand. Jonah kept his snorting laugh quiet this time. He'd get smacked upside the head for those jokes. He'd have to tell them to Adam tomorrow. The dumb ones always got through his grouchy shell. Probably tell them while he was inside that cat ladies house, lighten the mood a bit. 

Jonah fell asleep. 

[the-haunted-walkman]

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Slip

𝔸𝕝𝕓𝕦𝕞 - 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕄𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕝𝕒 ℂ𝕒𝕥𝕒𝕝𝕠𝕘𝕦𝕖

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

↠ⁿᵉˣᵗ ˢᵒⁿᵍ ↺ ʳᵉᵖᵉᵃᵗ ⊜ ᵖᵃᵘˢᵉ

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

He couldn't get up.

Well he could, but, it, , , it was hard.

He had slipped, he thinks. Why would he be on the ground in this cold, but carpeted place? Who cares what had made him slip.

He was just on the ground now.

How, , , how do you get up if you don't know what you're even supposed to be standing on.

He was aware, so fucking aware, and so so lost. Like, , , like being lost in the woods, you know the trees and the area, can see the sky and the ground, but lost. You could tell you from down, it just didn't help.

Feet. He was supposed to be standing on his feet. And he could feel them, there at the end of his legs, sprawled away from his torso like they had been trying to escape the core that was his chest. Like a star leashed to a black hole by its own light trail.

Adam, , , Adam couldn't figure out what fucking electric impulse it was that would move his limbs.

Have you ever tried to figure out how to move your eyebrows all funky and dumb, or move your ears? Something silly like that.You know how they feel but you have to train your body to do that thing, figure out what muscles to tense how much and fucking HOW. Like driving an RC car through an obstacle course right after being handed a controller foreign to your hands.

And so he was on the ground, trying to figure out how to function his own encasement. He was the king of this fucking castle but he didnt know where the lever of the gate was. It was his, all of this, it was his and he was it, but he couldn't get it to work for the life of him.

For the life of him. Stupid fucking phrase. For his life? What does that even mean?

Fuck it. He stared at the ceiling. It was gray. Like his hoodie, and the rainy sky outside. Like his eyes on the days he can't remember what color they are supposed to be.

Maybe Jonah is onto something, weed as a self medication. Eyes don't change color, Adam isn't on something, maybe he should be. Maybe he will respond to those texts.

Soon as he finds what lever moves the bridge.

Or, , , how to move his hands. Stupid analogies. Just distracting him.

He blinked slowly. At least he could still do that. If he was near a mirror, what color would his eyes be? Blue, , , they'd be blue, , , cause they were blue, not just cause he knew they were blue right now. He's not some Schrodinger's boy or some shit, existing only as he knows himself to be. Stupid.

He'd gotten high with Jonah once, lost a bit of the guards he'd built and put around his castle. Told Jonah how he felt, this stupid thing about being in a body that "wasn't his", how he couldn't imagine his body as himself in hisbmind some days.

Jonah just suggested he might be non-binary or an adjacent. It'd be almost, , nice, if it wasn't so off the mark.

Adam knew what felt right, him, he, whatever, he felt right with the little category he had been placed in originally, so he couldn't attribute his dissociative sense of self to his gender expression.

He was getting distracted. Staring at the ceiling would do that to you. Send your thoughts places you'd had roped off.

He closed his eyes instead. Tried to focus on his, , 'feelings'.

His hand twitched, he knew cause he felt his fingers against the carpet.

His neck moved, he knew cause his cheek now was chilled by the air after being on the carpet.

His, , his knee bent a little, he knew cause his right foot was now, against the ground.

And he could feel his foot, and move his knees now.

And so, slowly, he stood.

And he blinked.

He stood in the middle of a, , , , a basement?

. . .

Adam didn't have a basement.

He would have remembered that. He'd have remembered it because it wasn't related to his body, which apparently was the only thing he ever drew a blank on. Adam cringed a little at the mental self depreciating thought. Couldn't blame staring at the ceiling for that one. Right now Adam was just staring into some strangers' basement.

Right, the basement. Adam looks down at his disloyal feet, and sees a radio for communication.

Trying not to think too much about the motion, he bent and picked it up. The red light blinked a bit, so it still worked.

He didn't have to think about it when he pressed the button, and in a voice oddly raspy with disuse, he asked,

"Jonah? You there?"

[the-haunted-walkman]

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : - Name Tags

𝔸𝕝𝕓𝕦𝕞 - 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕄𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕝𝕒 ℂ𝕒𝕥𝕒𝕝𝕠𝕘𝕦𝕖

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

↠ⁿᵉˣᵗ ˢᵒⁿᵍ ↺ ʳᵉᵖᵉᵃᵗ ⊜ ᵖᵃᵘˢᵉ

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

Do you ever forget something that you KNOW you know? Like when you write something so many times it's a given, a muscle memory. Doing it over and over and knowing it as a part of you.

Then your muscles just, , , don't remember.

Muscles not remembering something is such a weird thought though, cause that's the thing, they don't have thoughts, his chest isn't deciding to move up and down.

I mean yeah, there are electric impulses through the flesh, and that is all thoughts really are when you get all "existential" and nitpicking about it but, , , it's different. There's probably a science behind that somewhere, how muscle memory works.

He doesn't know, and even if he did it didn't help any now, as he grips the pen.

It was fucking stupid, to be scared this fucking sticky piece of paper. His chest stalled with his breath. He grips the pen harder in his hand, hard enough that his hands are sweaty and that it creaks a bit. This was insane, it was the worst. The paper still stared blank tho, offensive.

Just, just write it down, he tells himself. Fucking, write it down and move on with it. How could he not remember it?! It's just, that's something you KNOW, and how could he not? Was his chest even moving? He knew who he was, what he was here to do and just, , , just write it down, fucking write it down. His chest wasn't moving, how could it be moving, it didn't know to move, cause it didn't know anything and it didn't know what it was and-

"Adam, dude, the fuck is taking so long?"

Adam looks up. There was air in his lungs. He was breathing. Air, air in his lungs like there were supposed to be. They were moving again cause that's what they were supposed to do and it knew that.

Jonah stands there, an eyebrow raised and that stupid fucking lopsided grin on his face as he waits for an answer. His stupid fucking silver hair all falling in his face, and wearing that sweater that smell like a walking drug bust.

Jonah gestures to Adam again.

" Dude, you still a little~?" Jonah made a motion with his hand like he would be pulling a cigarette away from his mouth, a muscle memory for him, probably, those fingers with the black chipped nails had done it enough times. You could probably guess that about him without even knowing Jonah like Adam did.

Adam pulled a scowl on his face and shook his head, bending his head to write as Jonah snorted that stupid light laugh that sounds like he'd never been on the ground long enough to hurt.

"Hi, my name is- _____"

Adam scribbles down "Adam", slapping the sticker on and dashing after Jonah, bumping shoulders with him in the way only friends do and Jonah going to ruffle his hair, Adam easily dodging it with a grumble and Jonah with a laugh, both of them walking further into the building.