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10/6/09 05:51 pm - RP with Gil
The sky was dark, as night had slipped over, uninvited as always, save for some. The noises and smells of the lower city churned and rose, providing ample reek to all of those fated to live there. And to some who dwelled there. He sat on his place, as it had become known, as always. Residents and dwellers alike shied away from him now, this man with strange eyes and little emotion. "Not that they'll ever know why they shy away", was his unspoken reply. He had his ideas. Because structure is tantamount to all those who live in it. Even the downtrodden and the eternal loser has a niche, a place to call his own, no matter how much he desires to change it. The consideration of being without a place, a mental home, would be unhinging. Shattering on a mind used to them. "Because chances are, you throw the rules out the window, you'll go that way too." And yet, still here he was. Having gone through a living hell and back. Part of the fear, of course, the knowledge that the abyss under your feet never ends unless you will it to. And for some ... falling eternally, caught in ineffective suspension was a better choice then to get up. His eyes darted to the moon, the impassive watcher, the companion of the night dwellers. It shone through the framework of girder and steel, casting silhouettes of passing cars on the riverfront. He scoffed slightly, and tossed another pebble in the river, watching it bounce several times. A night like any other night. Tossing another pebble, he saw it bounce again. And again. A seemingly endless succession of a weight skimming the water, until he lost sight of it. He peered into the gloom, unable to retrieve it, but still hearing the taps. Odd. Was it any other normal night?
A lull in the ever-present traffic accompanies the approach of a hooded figure, one who hops onto the low concrete wall that separates the road from the river with practice ease. With a fluidity only the young possess, the figure drops to a seated position -- legs dangling, boucing against the side of the wall with a sharp 'tapthud'. A gust of wind pushes away the figure's hood, letting loose a tumble of hair that whips about a pale face until the air stills once more. Hands, that were formerly stuffed into jacket pockets, emerge to pat the hair into some symbalance of order, before falling into a jean and cotton-clad lap. Headlights, sharper and brighter than the pale moon, dance across the figure; highlighting certain features, while casting others in shadow. Fingers tap out a rhythm on thighs, as eyes dart around beneath partially open lids, not focusing on any one thing. A bob of the head, or a subtle rise of shoulders is the only other movement from the figure, and one would expect a junkie without a fix. Like with any big city, the population consists of those with jobs and homes, those with jobs and a lack of home, and those lacking both; within each of those catergories is the drug-or-drink-influanced populace, a leech clinging to the lives of others instead of making one for itself. But, it is no addicted less-than-human sitting on that wall, letting the sounds of the night wash over them; instead, a musician, tapping out a beat to a song only they can hear, unaware of the life around them.
His facial expression shifted from passive interest to unease. There was .. something. A presence, a lull, a whistle in the drum of life. An anomaly of sorts. Many would not have noticed. Then again, many were not like him. His eyes, bloodshot yet focused, scanned the night's sky for the hook in his mind, the thing which stirred the night wind in a way he couldn't fathom. And then he heard it. Green music washed over him, like a lover's sensual embrace, a roll in a field of the softest flowers. Green.. music? A simple association, or a sign of something more, something else he was missing? He did not know. But the hook had sunk into his bowels, and now began to pull at him urgently. A bubbly groan escaped him, as he casted his relief into the murky waters below. It made a resounding wet noise, which amused him enough for a misplaced giggle. Then his expression turned serious again. Green music. Right. He found his way over his wooden beam, connecting the foot of the steel giant with the land it stretched on. He was rather pleased with this, considering he didn't fall into the water, like last time. The music was clearer now, more opaque. Greener. And it spoke to him, guided him. One feet in front of the other, forcing them in the mud. And it brought a smile to his face, despite the events of his life. It was more intoxicating then any drink, more alluring then the lips of any woman, and certainly more beautiful then anything he could craft with his burned out mind, riddled with the shards of memory. They stung as he walked, the evils and horrors of his life -was it still his life?- washing over him like a rain of tears, peeling away the layers of alcohol that lay heavily upon his mind. And he felt somehing he hadn't felt in a long time. Release. One of the shards was pulled free, and a tear rolled over his cheek as a new pain became him - liberation. Freedom. Another tear followed the first, and he tasted it on his tongue as it rolled down, as if wanting to affirm he still had the capability. He stood still, waiting for the next release. Which did, naturally, not follow. He wiped away the stray tears, and grimaced, now more firmly set on his purpose then he had ever been. The location, and source of the green music. Not to mention it's creator.
The subtle movements become more erratic, more pronounced; fingers rising to hang in the air, moving over the strings of an invisible guitar in more than an imitation of the act. Partially open eyes fall shut completely, dark lashes fanning out across the darkened hollow beneath almost translucent lids. Pale, chapped lips open, and a tongue darts out from the dark cavern to wet them before receding like a monster back into its cave. A low hum emerges from between those parted lips; quiet at first, before rising in pitch. Eventually that hum becomes words, perfectly articulated, and loud despite all the noise around the figure. The husky voice deep, yet somehow effeminate mixes with the sound of quietly rushing river, and the loud rush of traffic. The headlights are like a spotlight; the occasional screech of tires and honking of horns like a band accompanying the song. Though the words have no set rhythm or pattern, nothing to draw them together as a song, they still paint a tragic story of love and betrayal. If one were listening they could see the story unfolding behind their eyes, a woman scorned and broken by every person she has ever loved; a woman left alone in the world, who is still somehow strong and happy despite everything that has happened. The words slowly taper off, fading into the night like they were never uttered, and the erratic movements slow, the arms falling back to the figure's side. A slow inhale, unheard and unseen, is followed a loud exhale; the arms raise again as the figure fights with the bulky jacket, pulling it up and off. Dark hair cascades in complete disarray down a pale back as the figure, a woman, is now clad in nothing more than a bathing suit top -- dark against the flesh it incases. The sharp wind raises goosebumps on too thin arms though the woman seems either not to notice or not to care. Her head tilts back, raising her face to the sky, and her thoughts wander; her eyes twitch beneath her lids, and her fingers grip the edge of the concrete wall she sits on like it is the only thing keeping her from floating off.
The trail had grown cold, yet had not dulled. The notes, the cadence and it's timbre hung heavily in the air, markers, lights in the distance. They shivered and trembled, burning themselves into his mind as a painful memory, a moment of infinite shock and betrayal. Ragged breaths guided his actions as he stumbled around in the dark, both physically and mentally. The rocks and trash from up there, up from the well-lit bridge. Here there were monsters, not of the traditional sense, but in the modern sense. The things they disposed so carelessly off lay here, a teethed mouth of plastic bottles and empty, crushed beercans, ready to devour anyone who fell from the lit bridge in an endless abyss of garbage that one had helped to build themselves. The slope that separated him from the bridge was, sadly, covered in this as well, making the ascent difficult if sober, nearly impossible if not sober. Yet this did not stop him, didn't save him from the hooks that were latched into his soul. He drew a few ragged breaths, and threw himself at the slope, his feet and arms swimming in the sea of disposables. A veritable shower of containers and other things he wouldn't care about normally launched themselves at him, trying to bury him and pin him to the ground. Not today. He fancied himself a Heracles at this moment, wrestling a Hydra, finding more heads where there were none. And as his mythical counterpart, he would not give in. Defeat was not an option now. The shower of plastic and metal receded, and his feet found solid soil, of a sorts. He lost none of his determination as he began to climb, hooking his hands into the loose topsoil and pulling himself higher, towards the light. The ascent nearly killed him -again- as he struggled to reach the top from the pit below, and to his great surprise, he succeeded. He stood triumphantly, swaying, almost drunk on amazement over his ascent. He feared he would fall again, much like Icarus, but he kept his balance. Now that he was on top, the music was more important, more pressing then ever. He could see it, feel it everywhere, drumming against the edges of his consciousness like a bad headache. The individual notes arranged itself to his blurred, inebriated eyes, a line -lifeline?- in the air itself. A ribbon of shining green, twisting and whipping, seemingly extending into the darkness ahead. It danced and doubled, then tripled, before returning to it's original state of one. He oggled it suspiciously, but realised there wasn't much choice - only the vast yawning expanse under him, and the dark ahead of him. Be it as poor as it was, there wasn't much -any- choice. He followed that greenish beam, his hand extending to cup the air it shivered it. For anyone who would have watched him, it would have seemed like folly. For himself, it was the purest, most perfect thing he could do at that moment, the rearings of a that last, final illusion to the worldweary. Hope.
The lights of the city are brighter than the filtered moonlight, and they shine off the surface of the river, casting little flickers of light on the woman's boots and legs. The traffic lulls again, and the woman leans back against the cool concrete. Her stomach caves, and the sharp lines of her ribs press against her thin flesh, while her dark hair drops down the side of the wall into the debris cast off from the road. A single car passes, whipping her hair about her face and blowing a gust of warm air across her shoulders. As though unable to stop herself, the woman begins humming again, the sound distorted and hollow from the angle of her body. A soft twinkle of noise comes from the direction of the bridge; a sound which normally have gone unnoticed, had the constant wave of people in a rush to get somewhere - anywhere - had not chosen that moment to still. The sound came again, breaking through the woman's intense concentration on her own thoughts, and then silence fell again. The wave of cars returned in that moment, the heat of their exhaust pressing the woman into sitting up, her dark eyes open once more, and her humming more clear now that her throat wasn't pressed into an unnatural position. The feel of someone - something - approaching is like a caress along her spine, and her feet once again tap against the wall in a steady rhythm. She is waiting, though she is unsure exactly what she is waiting for, and how it will affect her, if it affects her at all.
The green line was fraying. It frightened him beyond knowledge, drove him out of his mind -again?-. It's wonder was falling apart, as he saw it come apart like a a rotten celery, flaking to the ground. He did what any sane person would have done - broke into a dead run. His treacherous legs wobbled and twisted as he tried to find it way to the end of the thread, even as it came undone more. He panicked, and a huff escaped his throat, a sound reminiscent of a trapped animal. And suddenly, there was life in the thread again, a staccato rhythm. It had changed. Yet it hadn't disappeared. New pictures, new visions swam before his mind's eye. The face of his wife, long dead, appeared again, cloaked in flames. Her expression was normally nightmarish, a torn visage of anger, blame, and pain. The skin bubbled and flaked off as he watched, her eyes sagging and running across her cheeks like bags of water. The strands of her hair had caught fire, and served to frame her terrible truth, the picture of his failure. From between her blood-caked lips came the words that were his undoing, every night again. They broke him, then made him anew the next morning, placed him down on his low place in the universe, where the whiskey drowned the man, but not the problems. They came like the most treacherous as enemies, the last final blow to his sanity, sneaking under the radar and striking unerringly. Longingly. And immensely sorry. "My love...." Then her form would collapse and not rise again. Ashes. Ashes and death.
This time it was different, to his surprise. Having lived the nightmare again and again, it wasn't hard to identify. Her visage was no less horrible, but the hair seemed less aflame, the lips non-bloodied. Instead of how he imagined it, it was how she was, he realised. It was his last image of her, non-muddled by the layers of endless survivor's guilt, or any other psychosis. She had been beautiful. Both in spirit and body. She pressed her fingers up to the small frames of glass that separated them, and smiled, despite her pain. In the end, there was no pain, he realised. And she she said those words again, yet they didn't stung. They encouraged, fed him. The fact he wasn't broken upon it's anvil, yet again served to fuel his hope more. And he was released back, back to the street, to to the throbbing thread that hung beneath his fingers. He walked further, and suddenly saw. The end of the green thread. It appeared from the form of a woman, tapping her heels. And he could do naught but watch, as he wondered who -what she was. Release? Or yet another chain?
A lull in the ever-present traffic accompanies the approach of a hooded figure, one who hops onto the low concrete wall that separates the road from the river with practice ease. With a fluidity only the young possess, the figure drops to a seated position -- legs dangling, boucing against the side of the wall with a sharp 'tapthud'. A gust of wind pushes away the figure's hood, letting loose a tumble of hair that whips about a pale face until the air stills once more. Hands, that were formerly stuffed into jacket pockets, emerge to pat the hair into some symbalance of order, before falling into a jean and cotton-clad lap. Headlights, sharper and brighter than the pale moon, dance across the figure; highlighting certain features, while casting others in shadow. Fingers tap out a rhythm on thighs, as eyes dart around beneath partially open lids, not focusing on any one thing. A bob of the head, or a subtle rise of shoulders is the only other movement from the figure, and one would expect a junkie without a fix. Like with any big city, the population consists of those with jobs and homes, those with jobs and a lack of home, and those lacking both; within each of those catergories is the drug-or-drink-influanced populace, a leech clinging to the lives of others instead of making one for itself. But, it is no addicted less-than-human sitting on that wall, letting the sounds of the night wash over them; instead, a musician, tapping out a beat to a song only they can hear, unaware of the life around them.
His facial expression shifted from passive interest to unease. There was .. something. A presence, a lull, a whistle in the drum of life. An anomaly of sorts. Many would not have noticed. Then again, many were not like him. His eyes, bloodshot yet focused, scanned the night's sky for the hook in his mind, the thing which stirred the night wind in a way he couldn't fathom. And then he heard it. Green music washed over him, like a lover's sensual embrace, a roll in a field of the softest flowers. Green.. music? A simple association, or a sign of something more, something else he was missing? He did not know. But the hook had sunk into his bowels, and now began to pull at him urgently. A bubbly groan escaped him, as he casted his relief into the murky waters below. It made a resounding wet noise, which amused him enough for a misplaced giggle. Then his expression turned serious again. Green music. Right. He found his way over his wooden beam, connecting the foot of the steel giant with the land it stretched on. He was rather pleased with this, considering he didn't fall into the water, like last time. The music was clearer now, more opaque. Greener. And it spoke to him, guided him. One feet in front of the other, forcing them in the mud. And it brought a smile to his face, despite the events of his life. It was more intoxicating then any drink, more alluring then the lips of any woman, and certainly more beautiful then anything he could craft with his burned out mind, riddled with the shards of memory. They stung as he walked, the evils and horrors of his life -was it still his life?- washing over him like a rain of tears, peeling away the layers of alcohol that lay heavily upon his mind. And he felt somehing he hadn't felt in a long time. Release. One of the shards was pulled free, and a tear rolled over his cheek as a new pain became him - liberation. Freedom. Another tear followed the first, and he tasted it on his tongue as it rolled down, as if wanting to affirm he still had the capability. He stood still, waiting for the next release. Which did, naturally, not follow. He wiped away the stray tears, and grimaced, now more firmly set on his purpose then he had ever been. The location, and source of the green music. Not to mention it's creator.
The subtle movements become more erratic, more pronounced; fingers rising to hang in the air, moving over the strings of an invisible guitar in more than an imitation of the act. Partially open eyes fall shut completely, dark lashes fanning out across the darkened hollow beneath almost translucent lids. Pale, chapped lips open, and a tongue darts out from the dark cavern to wet them before receding like a monster back into its cave. A low hum emerges from between those parted lips; quiet at first, before rising in pitch. Eventually that hum becomes words, perfectly articulated, and loud despite all the noise around the figure. The husky voice deep, yet somehow effeminate mixes with the sound of quietly rushing river, and the loud rush of traffic. The headlights are like a spotlight; the occasional screech of tires and honking of horns like a band accompanying the song. Though the words have no set rhythm or pattern, nothing to draw them together as a song, they still paint a tragic story of love and betrayal. If one were listening they could see the story unfolding behind their eyes, a woman scorned and broken by every person she has ever loved; a woman left alone in the world, who is still somehow strong and happy despite everything that has happened. The words slowly taper off, fading into the night like they were never uttered, and the erratic movements slow, the arms falling back to the figure's side. A slow inhale, unheard and unseen, is followed a loud exhale; the arms raise again as the figure fights with the bulky jacket, pulling it up and off. Dark hair cascades in complete disarray down a pale back as the figure, a woman, is now clad in nothing more than a bathing suit top -- dark against the flesh it incases. The sharp wind raises goosebumps on too thin arms though the woman seems either not to notice or not to care. Her head tilts back, raising her face to the sky, and her thoughts wander; her eyes twitch beneath her lids, and her fingers grip the edge of the concrete wall she sits on like it is the only thing keeping her from floating off.
The trail had grown cold, yet had not dulled. The notes, the cadence and it's timbre hung heavily in the air, markers, lights in the distance. They shivered and trembled, burning themselves into his mind as a painful memory, a moment of infinite shock and betrayal. Ragged breaths guided his actions as he stumbled around in the dark, both physically and mentally. The rocks and trash from up there, up from the well-lit bridge. Here there were monsters, not of the traditional sense, but in the modern sense. The things they disposed so carelessly off lay here, a teethed mouth of plastic bottles and empty, crushed beercans, ready to devour anyone who fell from the lit bridge in an endless abyss of garbage that one had helped to build themselves. The slope that separated him from the bridge was, sadly, covered in this as well, making the ascent difficult if sober, nearly impossible if not sober. Yet this did not stop him, didn't save him from the hooks that were latched into his soul. He drew a few ragged breaths, and threw himself at the slope, his feet and arms swimming in the sea of disposables. A veritable shower of containers and other things he wouldn't care about normally launched themselves at him, trying to bury him and pin him to the ground. Not today. He fancied himself a Heracles at this moment, wrestling a Hydra, finding more heads where there were none. And as his mythical counterpart, he would not give in. Defeat was not an option now. The shower of plastic and metal receded, and his feet found solid soil, of a sorts. He lost none of his determination as he began to climb, hooking his hands into the loose topsoil and pulling himself higher, towards the light. The ascent nearly killed him -again- as he struggled to reach the top from the pit below, and to his great surprise, he succeeded. He stood triumphantly, swaying, almost drunk on amazement over his ascent. He feared he would fall again, much like Icarus, but he kept his balance. Now that he was on top, the music was more important, more pressing then ever. He could see it, feel it everywhere, drumming against the edges of his consciousness like a bad headache. The individual notes arranged itself to his blurred, inebriated eyes, a line -lifeline?- in the air itself. A ribbon of shining green, twisting and whipping, seemingly extending into the darkness ahead. It danced and doubled, then tripled, before returning to it's original state of one. He oggled it suspiciously, but realised there wasn't much choice - only the vast yawning expanse under him, and the dark ahead of him. Be it as poor as it was, there wasn't much -any- choice. He followed that greenish beam, his hand extending to cup the air it shivered it. For anyone who would have watched him, it would have seemed like folly. For himself, it was the purest, most perfect thing he could do at that moment, the rearings of a that last, final illusion to the worldweary. Hope.
The lights of the city are brighter than the filtered moonlight, and they shine off the surface of the river, casting little flickers of light on the woman's boots and legs. The traffic lulls again, and the woman leans back against the cool concrete. Her stomach caves, and the sharp lines of her ribs press against her thin flesh, while her dark hair drops down the side of the wall into the debris cast off from the road. A single car passes, whipping her hair about her face and blowing a gust of warm air across her shoulders. As though unable to stop herself, the woman begins humming again, the sound distorted and hollow from the angle of her body. A soft twinkle of noise comes from the direction of the bridge; a sound which normally have gone unnoticed, had the constant wave of people in a rush to get somewhere - anywhere - had not chosen that moment to still. The sound came again, breaking through the woman's intense concentration on her own thoughts, and then silence fell again. The wave of cars returned in that moment, the heat of their exhaust pressing the woman into sitting up, her dark eyes open once more, and her humming more clear now that her throat wasn't pressed into an unnatural position. The feel of someone - something - approaching is like a caress along her spine, and her feet once again tap against the wall in a steady rhythm. She is waiting, though she is unsure exactly what she is waiting for, and how it will affect her, if it affects her at all.
The green line was fraying. It frightened him beyond knowledge, drove him out of his mind -again?-. It's wonder was falling apart, as he saw it come apart like a a rotten celery, flaking to the ground. He did what any sane person would have done - broke into a dead run. His treacherous legs wobbled and twisted as he tried to find it way to the end of the thread, even as it came undone more. He panicked, and a huff escaped his throat, a sound reminiscent of a trapped animal. And suddenly, there was life in the thread again, a staccato rhythm. It had changed. Yet it hadn't disappeared. New pictures, new visions swam before his mind's eye. The face of his wife, long dead, appeared again, cloaked in flames. Her expression was normally nightmarish, a torn visage of anger, blame, and pain. The skin bubbled and flaked off as he watched, her eyes sagging and running across her cheeks like bags of water. The strands of her hair had caught fire, and served to frame her terrible truth, the picture of his failure. From between her blood-caked lips came the words that were his undoing, every night again. They broke him, then made him anew the next morning, placed him down on his low place in the universe, where the whiskey drowned the man, but not the problems. They came like the most treacherous as enemies, the last final blow to his sanity, sneaking under the radar and striking unerringly. Longingly. And immensely sorry. "My love...." Then her form would collapse and not rise again. Ashes. Ashes and death.
This time it was different, to his surprise. Having lived the nightmare again and again, it wasn't hard to identify. Her visage was no less horrible, but the hair seemed less aflame, the lips non-bloodied. Instead of how he imagined it, it was how she was, he realised. It was his last image of her, non-muddled by the layers of endless survivor's guilt, or any other psychosis. She had been beautiful. Both in spirit and body. She pressed her fingers up to the small frames of glass that separated them, and smiled, despite her pain. In the end, there was no pain, he realised. And she she said those words again, yet they didn't stung. They encouraged, fed him. The fact he wasn't broken upon it's anvil, yet again served to fuel his hope more. And he was released back, back to the street, to to the throbbing thread that hung beneath his fingers. He walked further, and suddenly saw. The end of the green thread. It appeared from the form of a woman, tapping her heels. And he could do naught but watch, as he wondered who -what she was. Release? Or yet another chain?