Mistakes

I'm trembling.

I can't even control the shaking, much as I try to recollect myself, taking in deep, shivering breaths as I slide my hand through my hair.

Wet.

My hand is wet with thick, crimson liquid. I can still feel the sharp pain stabbing through up my arm. 

I'm alone.

The realization hits me hard, and I can't even breath as I stare at what I've done. There are so many things running through my mind now, that I'm stumbling to my bed before my legs give way, the recently shattered remnants of my life drumming louder in my head at the feel of the empty bed, the sight of the upturned room that was usually tidy.

"Janice…" Somehow I'm tearing your name from my lips, my voice alarmingly like my fathers.

I'd always been petrified at the prospect of ending up like him, alone and tangled in my anger and frustration, the lack of ability to be useful and utterly failing at life driving these bitter feelings with only alcohol to drown it out.

You were there for me, you consoled me and as much as I appreciated it, as much as I loved you for it… I couldn't help but hate you fiercely and even now you had been willing to accept me despite my tumble, like so many times before you'd been willing to hold out your hand and support me through it.

And I couldn't stand it. As I sit and stare at your limp, lifeless body I can't help but feel that you've brought it upon yourself and that comforts me.

There had been times when you'd seen me at my worst and you hadn't ran, you were driven by the fruitless hope that I was more then this, you'd been so sure that it had boiled my blood, to think you had any inkling of what I could do.

I'm making my way and kneeling besides you, feeling stronger and closing your once determined but now empty and lifeless eyes.

Yes, you should have known better.

written by -- HappyF.ace

The Past Burns: Hidden Marks

'How can you tell where the fire started, if it all ignited at once? How can you know where the poison entered the body, if it pours out everywhere?'

A horrible poem, I throw the book down in anger. The thing doesn’t even make sense for fuck’s sake. It might as well just be a whole load of nonsense. I wouldn't be able to understand it even if it did make sense, my head has been elsewhere of late. I can't concentrate on a single thing, it's so frigging annoying.

I wish I could just do something and all this bullshit with my mum would go away. As I think about it all I see the book has flipped to a different page when I threw it on the floor. I sighing, I push myself off the bed, and slowly bend to pick it up. I turn it over in my hands, studying it, remembering all the hours I'd spent scribbling in it. I was quite sure that it hadn't changed page when I hurled it at the wall, but apparently it had.

This page was covered in ornate designs. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw it, I was so sure that I had never drawn anything like that, never even attempted to draw anything so amazing. I could never imagine it, so delicate and frail. It startled me with it’s immensity, even though it’s only lines on a page. It was confusing, like some sort of labyrinth - but with tiny pictures. I stare at it for a little while and the lines blurred together. A curl here, a swoop of some long forgotten pen there. All joining together to form something beautiful. A single image, one entire symbol, made up of thousands of intricate smaller ones.

I blink a couple of times, a bit moved by it, feeling a tear roll down my cheek. I watch it slowly fall and land on one of the rough pages. Frowning, I stand back up from my - less than comfortable - stoop and carry the book back to the bed with me. Lying my stiff body back down onto the bed, lifting the book above my head, I try to find and clue of the maze, looking for the indentations on any of the pages. Despite searching for almost a quarter of an hour, I find nothing and give up, I put the book down on my lap.

‘What the hell...’ I murmur, squinting at the pages, I lean in closer to make sure I’m not seeing things. I run my hands over the pages and it’s still the same. Nothing. It doesn’t make any sense. If someone made the lines with a pen, then there must have left some sort of mark behind. But it’s clean. Even the lines are starting to disappear, curling in on themselves to become nothing.

-- written by George and Cat Lee

From The Shadowy Mists

My only friend; she’d talk to me every now and then, in better times past, when I lived in paradise. Well past the final breath of the bell, we used to wander the high school’s lonely halls. The struggle of learning and its draining burden was thrown off our shoulders, I no longer alone. In isolation, by the dying light of sunset, we would meet and patch our wounds and ease our troubles. I would waltz with my lover, to the lonely piano and violins of a solitary man, each step another sliver of arrow shaft driven into my heart, bleeding passion for blood. Each note magnified the seductive smile of my partner, I playfully resisting her advances. She would take it in good fun, knowing I was hers. Then, love knew no bounds. We were equals, comrades in arms; two lovers, thrown together by fate. I knew not her origins, but we quickly bonded. She would giggle as the light of the dying sun would catch my silver rings when I flourished fingers as we spoke. Through her, I was taken into a different world. Though I saw naught but a dim hallway, we witnessed judgments cast upon us by mute shadows; looking on as we used dance slowly, gracefully, as I caressed her skin. Holding each other close; her soft flesh against mine, hearing nothing but the silent cries of existence, but listening to our private symphony, I lifted my cares; each struck snowy key, each bowed brass string, syncopating my steps.

Such was life around me:

Hallways full to bursting,

Groaning under the strain

Classrooms, barley containing

The young minds of this generation,

Wishing for the weekend so desperately desired,

Wandering, some anxious, some careless, some lost in dreams

A moment two hours past, captured by the open mind

Lying on the lounge couch, plush beneath my fingers,

We cared for nothing in the world

It was in such bliss that we lived in such days. But I knew not; each note slowly wove my hangman’s noose. It was then, with the final thread, the world fell from under me, and she stood there, smiling.

I awoke in the same hall, standing, empty and alone: once welcoming shadows resented my presence; a once warm safe-haven turned into an eerie wasteland. Not a trace could be found of her. No one ever knew.

I never saw her again; from the misted void she came, and to the misted void returned.

-- written by Paolo La'O