The Regicide of Apothem

“Regicide” was a word that no one—save for those so loathingly oppressed—wanted to attach to the circumstances befalling Apothem’s previously longstanding kingdom of pride and might.  Yet, despite the plea, the word had come, riding on the coattails of a man dressed in borrowed robes of benevolence.  Aye, they were peaces talk only in name, never in conscience.  That was the day, wickedly disrupted by those who would have it as so, reaching a conclusion utmost befitting to the crime withstanding of assessment.  Sickening injustices were torn that day, as the king and his single most trusted of guards were paraded through the streets.  Injured and chained with arm behind back, objects were flung at the pair, striking the already battered bodies with hateful vengeance.

To the town square they were marched, walking through long rows of citizens, out to watch the finale.  It was visible from the castle, the beginnings of this primordial festival.  Concocted with intent and an ebullient drive was the event, headed by the man in the very center of the square.  Other denizens of Apothem formed a circle of sorts around him, surrounding the area.  They hollered and screamed, their voices a broken cacophony of resentment.  Yet through it all, there seemed to echo throughout the land, a punitive cry: “Kill the King!”

There was blood about the city.  Blood on the cobblestones, blood painted on buildings, and, t’were it that such was not enough satiation, blood even left its damned stain upon the hands of those who, so unadulterated, had yet to learn the very words of their forefathers.  The crimson filth even durst to lay a foul claim on the hitherto pellucid waters that decorated the city’s canals, turning them now to a froth of wine-like essence, lost so pointlessly so.

Filing past the final throng of people, the movement ceased as the King, his guard, and their escorts halted in the radius of the town’s imperfect circle.  The King, whose head was so previously forlorn and cast downward, now rose to meet the gaze of the man who lingered in the very center of the circle.  His countenance reflected feelings of unbridled hatred toward said man, his chest heaving with the weight of thick asperity in his burdened breath.  His garments were nothing but shreds, bathed in spots of his own blood, and remnants of victuals that had been thrown his way.  His hair, once long and that of the night sky, was now disheveled and dishelmed, the crown wrenched from his head early on.  The panache was gone, leaving only a banal person in place of the previous gallantry that a king was supposed to maintain.  Yet, he said nothing.

“You!” the leader of the rebellion shouted, drawing his sword and indicating the Captain of the Royal Guard—the King’s most trusted adherent and protector, Vantus.  The crowd fell near silent, watching in awe and bloodlusting satisfaction of the events that were to succeed this one.  “You are one of us; a brother!” the leader continued, “Yet, you loyal yourself with the shirkers of this world and become—what?”  A caustic smile met his lips.  “Their dog?”

“If it is a dog I am, then it is a dog I will die as,” Vantus replied, great effort apparent in his endeavor to steady his composure.  His body was shaking, racked with wounds inflicted by the rebellious army.  His face was aged, yet resolute and loyal; he remained fixedly upon his duty, knowing with heart he would never ask for anything different.

“Oh!  And has he trained you so well?” the leader asked, scoffing with pure delight.

“Call it what you will, Dexen,” Vantus challenged in a malevolent hiss, glaring outward.  “I am forever loyal to the Royal Family, as you all should be!”

The leader of the rebellion, Dexen, threw his head back in a thunderous crescendo of laughter.  “You see the evils of this man?!” he inquired, addressing the crowd as he indicated the King.  “He will charm you—brainwash you!—into believing your brothers are worthy of abandoning in favor of Royal Injustice!”

“Injustice?!” the king demanded, at last speaking as the rage poured forth, true as the waters of Apothem.  “This very act—the acts preceding it: sedition, thievery, murder—your acts are unjust!”

“Oh, are they?” Dexen asked with another score of laughter.  He looked to the side, gesturing to another member of the rebellious army with a nod of his head.  The member ventured toward the King, though grabbed Vantus by his elbow and pulled him to the center of the commotion, where Dexen stood.

“And what of your injustices, my King?” he continued in query, sarcasm in the use of the appellation.  “You enslaved our people, treated them as no more than an inconvenience.  We are forced to live in squalor!  Yet, you would dare call it just!”

“I do not pretend to know the will of the gods,” the King returned, but was unable to finish, for Dexen silenced him with a single movement.  He danced with his blade, sweeping toward the heavens and, in its wake, meeting with the barrier of flesh.  Blood spilled forth, scattering its aqueous matter to the ground with a horrible sound of gushing.  The head had not severed, though the soul had.

The King did not cry out, though his face was contorted into a look of pure horror as Vantus fell to the ground, joining the many that had already lost their lives to this rebellion.

Dexen brought his sword down, a cold stare on his face, his eyes only watching the King.  “The gods act solely in ways you deem appropriate, or ways you have designed.  It was your people who transcribed what we consider to be holy writ,” he said, striding forward with ineffable precision.  “Nowhere in nature does it dictate that I am below you!” he shouted, now near enough to the King to touch him.

“That doesn’t give you the right to end my bloodline!” the King returned, vehemently, hands clenching to fists within the shackles that held him.  He felt an escort press a palm to the back of his neck, steadying him.  “That does not give you the right to decide who lives and who dies!” he shouted, emotion leaping from his eyes—Dexen knew who he was regarding.

“Yet, for ages, you have done this to my people,” Dexen replied evenly, grabbing the King’s hair.  He took the majority of it, pulling it straight and slicing the strands.  “You’ve brought shame upon us!  Branded us as lower beings with your iniquitous debauchery!” he yelled, clenching the hair for a moment, before casting it in nihilism at the King’s feet.

The crowd shouted with odium, confirming the sin that was charged.  They moved as a single entity, yelling with exactitude their conformity to all things claimed by those who would dare stand up to authority and Divine Right in their cowardly place from the sidelines.

The King said nothing, though the dishonor and humiliation soon coursed deep, causing him to wince and close his eyes.  To have his hair removed, and to have seen nearly all his loved ones die—was this all for naught?  Had he considered peace earlier, would this have been avoided?  Contracts might have been drafted, had he commanded his armies to stay out of the lives of these people.  Had there been democracy, contributions from all—would it have helped this sorry situation?  Were affairs to be conducted civilly, and without rebuke?  He knew the value of freedoms, that very thing that these people lacked, so quickly to be considered nothing but slaves to the higher race.

Though the thoughts would never manifest, and the words that were spoken would not carry far, all around saw what occurred.  News spread faster than the plague of illness, more detailed than the latest lascivious act—the town was alight with talk, tales already unfolding of the events that had yet to blossom to fullest potential and closing.

From the castle, Prince Raliem was without word or story—though he could see the events unfolding.  He watched them in fearful apprehension, his hand over his mouth as he gaped in horror.  “Father!” he cried, helplessly, wanting to reach out and help in some way or manner.  But he could not leave, that he knew.  The risk for assassination ran great, for he would be recognized instantly.  As second to last remaining member of his family’s bloodline, he needed to survive.  Yet, how could one rule, without hoping to address the public in some course of that period?  But was this his public—this vicious band of people who felt so wronged they had to result to such horrid methods of reprisal?  And how could he sit and watch, when, surely, he would be left without any family to speak of?  “Father!  Father!!”

Raliem felt a hand come to his mouth, and pull him backwards.  “Your Highness!” a voice cried, from behind him, though was hushed and whispered into the young master’s ear.

“Please, forgive me, your Highness—but you must be quiet.  Someone will hear you,” the voice insisted, letting go and allowing the Prince to turn to see who addressed him.  Raliem did so.  It was Onlye, the chief tactician of his father’s armies.

“Onlye!” Raliem shouted still, nearly weeping as he placed his hands upon the elder’s shoulders.  “You have to help my father!  He is—!”

“My Prince,” the elder addressed, grave sadness in his features, though it were paired with an attempt at commiseration.  “Very little of our forces are left.  Most of the soldiers allied themselves with Dexen from the very start, as… they have more in common with him than with us,” he explained, hurriedly, eyes fixed on the nervous ones of his Prince.

“A unit of twenty was dispatched to go to his aid but moments ago, your Highness.”

Relief finally washed over Raliem, and he allowed himself to smile as he hung his head and dropped his arms back to his sides.  Yet, his shoulders were still shaking, nearly breaking under the weight of anxiety and dread.  “Thank the gods!” he whispered.

“Prince Raliem, we have only an army of five thousand strong.  Many are injured, though they are still willing to fight,” Onlye explained, voice cracking as he began to speak with a sudden, incongruous haste.

“That’s… that’s noble of them,” Raliem managed, glancing back up at the tactician, refusing to look outside, lest his eyes be met with an unfair truth.  He knew that his father would be saved by that unit, and in but a moment, he would hear the clang of metal indicating a successful rescue and death of Dexen.

“Indeed,” Onlye continued, extracting a small book from his robes as he began to thumb through it, nervously.  “Yet… morale is falling.  It is not out of desire that they fight, sire, but of duty.”  Raliem listened, hesitantly.  “Dexen has blockaded our roads.  We can’t hope to leave the castle without facing vast forces, sire.  We only have provisions to last another month or two, provided that we ration accordingly.”

The Prince felt a fear grip his heart.  “Why are you telling me this?” he demanded, his inflections giving way to tremors.

Onlye closed his book, looking away with dejection and solemn certainty.  “I’m afraid that they will not be able to reach King Gwindor in time, your Majesty.”

Raliem’s eyes widened in dismay, the deepest fears of his heart reaching vitality as these words conjugated with his perception.  In a flurry of great haste, he rushed back towards the window, leaning out of it in near desperation of meeting with his father for a final council

“Oh, Father—!” he sobbed, the tears finally breaking free as Raliem’s eyes were met with the untimely coup de grâce.

Dexen had buried his sword to the hilt through the King’s chest, the steel singing in the graceful blood that once maintained hegira only in the vessels of its owner.  The crowd was in an uproar of joy, cheering and praising he who would dare to exact the will of a god upon one of Divine Right.

With a violent jerk, Dexen withdrew his sword from the King’s chest, laughing as he did.  The King sank to his knees, then he fell to the ground, cheek meeting with the stone street as life quickly drained from him.

Dexen smirked, pressing the heel of his boot to the King’s shoulder.  Then, lifting the crimson soaked sword and pointing it towards the heavens, he shouted: “Thus, always do I deal death to tyrants!”  The crowd shouted and cheered, pressing in closer.  Dexen breathed a sigh, smirking at the clouds as he considered his words for but a moment.

“On this day, we are but a step closer to liberation,” he announced above the shouts of the enthusiastic crowd, now casting his eyes out toward them.  “Our days of unprecedented and unneeded obsequiousness are limited!”

Laughing in the shower of panegyrics, Dexen then turned his head towards the castle, observing it in satisfied silence.  “You have fought hard, my friends!  At this time tomorrow, the palace will fall, and so will the errant, parochial rule!”

And thus it was so: the unholy regicide, forming a time in the history of Apothem that none ever looked on with praise, save for the oppressed.  Yet, there was not a period of sufficient mourning, leaving broken men to fight off the rebellious army that dared rob them of a king and leader.  The rebellious army pressed and pressed, reaching further into the boundaries of the castle’s walls throughout the following months.  Raliem, having taken the place of his father, was only a callow at best—one that the Royal Army felt could never truly replace what was once so glorious and proud.  Yet, history is not stagnant.  The passage of time continues throughout trial and tribulation, revolution after revolution.

In the records that only time keeps, King Gwindor’s demise is remembered as a period of shattered hope and deep desolation that would ultimately cost hundreds of lives in a war of storm and siege.

Last Words

I had always imagined the end of the world to be in the summer, some time in June. Cold weather didn’t seem to fit Armageddon. It was incongruous in the utmost sense, like a scarecrow in tundra. The cusp of an apocalypse seemed, to me, to be an instance which would occur when the world was warm—ultimately foreshadowing the final location of souls claimed by this terrible outcome.

But I was wrong. It was winter when we knew we were going to die.

I pulled you close, kissing your eyelashes, and begging you not to cry. Even though we were both scared, I couldn’t bear to see you so hurt and frightened. I felt as though I had done something wrong. I felt like this was entirely my fault, and it had been within my power to stop this wrongful destruction.

Until my last breath, I will protect you. I swear it. Even if it means a few seconds that you will be alive longer than I—then so be it. If I could somehow save you, I would. I try to promise you this, but my tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth. I can’t speak. It’s too difficult, and soon, I’m crying, too.

“I don’t want to lose you, yet,” I choke, gripping your waist closer to my own as I shield my wet face in your cold hair.

You’re unable to respond, at first, and simply cry into my chest. It’s so odd, now, to see you this vulnerable. Never had I suspected it would come, and never had I predicted it would pain me so to be unable to help you.

Finally, you say: “I love you, Xeraphi.”

A seabird calls above our heads, and I look up at it. It is coasting along, oblivious, carefree and happy. How I would have loved to die like that: blissfully unaware of my fate, enjoying a final, tranquil moment with you.

The wind is howling, now, nature crying out as it slowly feels extirpation creeping forward, skirting along the edges of perception. It stings our flesh, bitterly, the fangs of snakes personified and livid. I hug you tighter, hoping our blanket will hold out until that time, growing ever closer.

“It’s okay,” I promise suddenly, softly, my voice still clogged with tears. “I’ll be here. We’re going together. It’s okay.”

You nod against my shirt, but you can’t stop shaking—though from fear or cold I do not know. Still, is there nothing I can do to help you?

These are my thoughts as the wave engulfs us. Our bodies transcend time, and we are finally free.

but i can’t just hit her

Second addition to the whole pirate thing.  See the post called “Tsst” for the first part.

~*~

I couldn’t be certain how long I had been there. When I woke, the night air was sharp against my skin, and I was on the floor of the deck, pushed up against the railing—presumably, to hide from the weather. Jeanne-Louise was no where to be seen, though I heard something shuffling in the distance. Tired, I blinked my eyes, using my fingers to rub the sleep from them.

When my vision cleared, I saw that Nathaniel, too, had quit the upper deck. In place of his body, however, he had left a mark; even from my distance I could see splatters of blood on the deck, from the wounds he had attained under the ship.

I ignored the noises I heard, and sat up. I rubbed my chin clean, as I seemed to have been salivating, and looked around. It took me a moment to regain my bearings, and for a brief instant I could not remember what day it was and if I was supposed to be awake at this hour or not. Sometimes we rose very early, but this night seemed to still to be anything other than a time of repose.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement, and instinctively, I threw myself back down. It must have been the quietness of the evening, but I felt on edge. It could have been no one else but a crew member, even a friend of mine. But in this atmosphere, I felt frightened. I crawled on my hands and knees, and quickly hid behind some cargo.

I could hear voices. Not what they were saying; no, they were too hushed for that. But from what I could tell, there were at least two or three people approaching middeck. The footsteps got closer, and my heart quickened. I felt five again; as if I had done something wrong, and knew I had done it, and was hiding from the punishment my mother and father would surely give. But I had done nothing wrong, had I?

As the voices became more distinctive, I had been about to stand up, with the resolve that I had no reason to hide. I would just tell the truth if I seemed suspicious. It wasn’t like there was anything worth stealing upper deck—and that was probably what they would be most concerned with. Hell, where would I hide anything I stole, anyway? I may be a pirate, and stealing may come natural to me, but I don’t betray my kin. Plus, it wasn’t as if I had a brilliant place to hide any of it.

But, I was not able to stand up. I heard the captain’s voice, and his voice alone was enough to freeze my muscles, bolting me to the ground. As they drew closer still, I was able to pick out pieces of what was being said.

“…synonymous with frightening.” It was our captain, that time.

Then, another voice. “Whenever a large group of women… always for… witchcraft.” I recognized it, after a moment of analysis, to belong to Calder, the quartermaster.

I was surprised by what I encountered next. Laughter. I peeked out from behind a barrel, catching only a glimpse. It was our captain and Calder, the former chuckling in what appeared to be earnest. It baffled me. Our captain had never been one to show such mirth, regardless of the occasion. Even when plundering most bountifully, he appeared indifferent. This didn’t feel or seem right, to perceive him so happy for something so seemingly slight as a joke. I double checked to make my eyes had not deceived me but, indeed, it was naught anyone but our captain.

They were very close to me now. I could hear their voices, clearly, and I feared I was so close that they might have sensed my presence. I attempted to stifle my breathing, but to no avail; I felt as if my breaths were coming out in gasps, for I was still in a state of alarm. My hair on the back of my neck stood on end when I discovered I could see them near perfectly between the crates which I was wedged.

“That said,” our captain began, his voice flowing through my ears like silk, “do you suppose any have caught on yet?”

“Oh, no; not yet,” Calder assured, and I saw him smirk. “We could tear his fucking body apart and toss it across the deck—even scrawl a message in his blood atop the mizzen, and they would neither ever notice nor question it.”

Our captain smiled in return. “You’re that confident?” The quartermaster nodded, and our captain continued: “I’m glad. Without your assertion I might have backed out of this long ago.”

Many things were running through my mind. I turned my gaze away at that point, rapidly trying to come to some form of conclusion. Who were they talking about? What was this intent? I had heard nothing of this sort discussed at a previous date.

“I don’t see why you have need to worry. You saw an example of their intelligence earlier this evening.”

“That I did. But we can’t hide something this crucial forever. A crew is supposed to be…” Here, our captain trailed off.

There was a bit of silence, and curious, I peered back through the crates. Our captain was fiddling with the handle of his cutlass, and Calder was looking him over with some mixture of misgiving and interest. Our captain seemed about ready to say something, or pick up on what he had been saying, when suddenly he was silenced by the quartermaster. I am not sure what transpired after that moment, for I quickly looked away out of the fear I had been discovered. I was certain Calder’s gaze had locked with mine—but only for that instant. I tried to convince myself, however, that I had only imagined it. I was very well hidden—there was no way he would have known where to look.

After that, however, an eerie silence befell us. I felt myself tense, waiting for the sound of footsteps, or the demand to reveal myself.

It never came, however.

In fact, it had been silent so long, I had felt that they had left. I wasn’t sure they could have done it so quietly, but I was nearly convinced. Working up the courage, I quickly looked back through the opening. The sight I was faced with, however, only made me want to turn my face away again just as quickly.

They were both staring at me, now: dead-on, inducing something close to paralysis.

Had they been doing that the whole time? I stared back, eyes wide with fear and anxiousness. The coup de grâce was just moments away, however, when Calder at last spoke, proposing: “Shall we seek privacy, Jamal?”

tsst

I had always admired him, our captain. The way he effortlessly carried himself, maintaining an air of superiority better than any official title holder I had the pleasure of encountering in my travels. But with that said, let it be known: he was never anything great to me. He never treated me as a father might his son, or as an older brother I never had would. I would consider myself lucky if he even so much as scarcely took notice of me. I would report to him, of course, and he would cast me a withering glance before telling me to set off.

We dined together, often. But my presence was overshadowed even in such intimate occasions, by things that perhaps plagued his mind, or the sound of the ocean caressing the sides of our vessel. We were never completely to ourselves, however, and likely such extra bodies contributed to his distraction from my company.

His mannerisms were always the same. He would dine only with his right hand, never the left. Only on occasion would he break apart a biscuit, and in doing so, took up the aid of his left. But never else did he touch his food with it. He always sat, fairly silent, small smiles cutting his stoic demeanor whenever a body made a particularly amusing joke. Still, it was hard to accomplish such a feat. I tried, but I was never successful—he simply regarded me with a tiny grunt, pensive all the while.

There was, however, a certain being that seemed to draw some more tangible emotion from him.

The ship’s cat, Jeanne-Louise, adored him so. Indeed, at times he did seem rather indifferent to her perching on him, sniffing his groin, or licking his fingers. But, really, he allowed it all to transpire, never a word of reprimand leaving his lips. When Jeanne-Louise would settle into his lap, however, that’s when a smile would shine through. He seemed to truly enjoy her company in those times, with she purring and rubbing against his abdomen, while he stroked her fur with the tips of his fingers. It was a trade off of affection, and they both seemed to enjoy it most full heartedly.

I tried to bond with Jeanne-Louise, myself, because she reminded me of my own cat back home. And if not for that reason, then it was simply a pathetic attempt to feel closer to the man I aspired to be like. Perhaps, even, I supposed I could use Jeanne-Louise as a way to strike up conversation. With her help, I could hope to inspire a trinity between the three of us—a trinity of relationships, so to speak. Through that cat, I would, with any luck, find myself in a more pleasing situation.

But she wouldn’t have it. Whenever I went near her, she would do a strange but inherent ritual of turning sideways, arching her back, forcing her hair upward and hissing. I went so far as to cast a line over the boat and catch a fish for her, but she refused it. Disgruntled and defeated, I called her names and I ate the fish myself, only to, ironically, get sick a few days later.

I don’t know if it’s related or not, but someone once told me it was bad luck to anger or insult a cat, because they could be a witch in disguise and do terrible things to you. I wasn’t sure if I believed them or not, at the time, but after this incident I did. I had also heard if a cat lays on your bed when you are sick, you are sure to die—as such I made sure that, at all times, my door remained shut.

During my debilitated state, more trouble with Jeanne-Louise occurred. She was seen licking her fur against the grain, a sign of an upcoming hailstorm. We altered our course, so I heard, as to avoid the possibility of getting caught up in it. Only then, when we felt like we were safe, did she sneeze (indicating rain), and run across a sailor’s path (indicating disaster), causing us to change direction once again.

The cat-witch Jeanne-Louise seemed appeased after that. She never wandered into my room, and I made my recovery. I did not again try to coax her into liking me, for I felt that all the trouble with her warnings of killer storms had come of my doing. She was definitely a witch; I know for certain that she was. And had it not been even more bad luck to throw her overboard, I might have done it.

With our course changed, our arrival to port seemed as though it would take twice as long as we had anticipated, the quartermaster said. Some were worried, others weren’t. I found myself somewhere in the middle. Our stock on limes was still reasonable; the number of alcohol containing barrels was dwindling, but enough to sustain us for a few more days, at most. Perhaps we’d have one or two evenings with bone soup and no drink if we didn’t ration our supplies properly, but I couldn’t say it bothered me. The longer we are out at sea, I proposed, the more opportunities we have of encountering another Spanish vessel.

There was no immediate reaction, but a mumble of dissent across the table. Jeanne-Louise strutted into the mess hall, and took a seat on our captain’s lap. He lifted his hand, stroking her head, gaze remaining modest against our faces.

The quartermaster finally said: “We had been lucky. The chances of running into such another opportunistic prospect are slim.”

A mate spoke up, still chewing crudely on his hardened biscuit. “And how do you figure we were ‘lucky’? It was no matter of luck, says I, Nathaniel Lafferty! We maneuvered quickly ‘n did everything skillfully. No stock in luck business about it, Calder,” he finished, swallowing.

Calder, the quartermaster, smirked calmly at the mate Nathaniel, who had spoken. “Is that so?” he asked, barely parting his lips to issue the inquiry. “When we were boarding the ship,” Calder said, “I suppose, then, instead of your usual being one sheet in the wind’s eye, you were likely to three?” Laughter sounded from the men gathered around the table, save for the captain and the mate Nathaniel. The chatter began to decline thereafter, so as to listen to the confrontation.

The mate Nathaniel paused a moment, looking down into his cup, searching for meaning in the quartermaster’s words. “What in’a seven hells are you talking about?”

“Half their crew was injured. Their ship was already damaged from a previous skirmish,” Calder said, eyes narrowing. “We picked up where someone else left off. That was luck. It takes no skill to pass by a near wreck and conquer it.” He glanced around the table, holding every man’s gaze for but a moment. Finally, he added the obligatory: “Savvy?”

There were a few nods, some pitches of “aye!” and a handful of tooth-lined smiles. However, the mate Nathaniel still seemed rather discontent with the situation of luck versus skill, but more particularly with the accusation.

“I wasn’t drunk,” he declared emphatically. “I ain’t that much of a pushover, to get drunk off’a grog.”

If Calder was annoyed with the persistence, he didn’t openly show it. Instead, he smiled patiently, straightening the pleats of his coat and enunciating: “Perhaps it was off the bilge water then.”

I glanced in the direction of our captain. The other crewmen had laughed once again at Calder’s words, and I wondered if the captain was in any way affected by what was going on. And, indeed, a small smile was upon his lips. I assumed it was from the situation unfolding, but it could easily have been due to Jeanne-Louise’s presence, for she was sleeping peacefully in his lap despite the commotion.

Gaining a bit of gall, I added: “You did trip over the coaming on the way in.” Though my addition wasn’t nearly as appreciated, a few men smiled and nodded, confirming the truth of my statement. Well, by this time, the mate Nathaniel was red in the face, and he slammed his hands to the table.

“Well, prepare the hempen halter for the lot of you! I know I wasn’t drunk. You can say whatever you want about luck,” the mate Nathaniel continued, not acknowledging Calder with his eyes, but our captain. “But it takes skill to decide whether’r not to stop by a ship. You gotta—you gotta know what to look fer! The signs! All that. An’ you knew that, Cap’n. That takes skill.” He looked around at the crewmen for help. “Don’ tell me I’m the only one who thinks that way!”

Some men began to speak, but at the moment, a chuckle happened to pass the captain’s lips—something probably only a few took note of—and he spoke. “Indeed it does,” he said, still stroking Jeanne-Louise as he turned his gaze towards one of the lieutenants. “The underside of Her hasn’t been scraped in a while, has it?” He stood then, much to the displeasure of the cat, who hopped off his lap and trotted indignantly down the hall.

The lieutenant answered that no, it hadn’t. The captain smiled, and turned to follow after Jeanne-Louise, inserting his hands into his pockets. “I think She might teach Nathaniel Lafferty some manners when speaking to his superiors, don’t you?”

And with that, he left, leaving several mouthing the word: “keelhaul.”

Calder got up, then, and followed the captain out. I wanted to leave as well, but I couldn’t make myself pass this chance up. Wasn’t every day you got to see a man dragged under your ship, after all.

~*~

Nathaniel Lafferty made a big fuss about the whole thing, saying he didn’t deserve it, and that every man there was a pansy for not speaking up on what he thought. Though it was just as well. Soon he was bound by his ankles, thrown over board, and dragged under the ship’s keel to the other side.

The process was humdrum and boring, to me. The men were pulling the rope at a relatively fast pace, but still, it was a bit of a long trek. During the actual event, Jeanne-Louise wandered out from below deck, and sat about ten feet from us. She began washing her face, appearing oddly content. Every so often she would look up, and perhaps I was paranoid, but I always felt she was looking straight at me. She was evil, I knew it.

The longer I watched her, though, I began to wonder about the other superstitions I had heard. Often times, when a cat washed its face, it meant a storm was brewing. But casting a glance toward the sky, anyone could see it was cloudless. But there was another one, something about if a cat washes its face in front of a crowd, the first person it looks at will get married.

And then I remembered she had looked at me. Or, at least, I thought she had. The idea thrilled and excited me. I hadn’t seen a woman in what felt like ages—even less someone I thought I might like to marry. Of course, we were still a few days from port, but it was nonetheless a bit of a mood elevator.

That is, assuming that such a superstition was even true. Or if she had even been looking at me.

Something sounded near the stern of the ship, where most of us had congregated for the event.  The mate Nathaniel had broken water again, it seemed.  I heard him gasping, and they pulled him back onboard. He flumped onto the deck, much like a defeated fish, rasping and keeping his eyes shut. I wandered a little closer, and in the pale moonlight, I saw the lacerations the marine life had left on his body. It was so unreal, and yet so morbidly fascinating to me.

Well, by and by, we all left, leaving Nathaniel in a heap on the deck. I had sequestered myself a little, watching him breathe helplessly from afar. I thought it was a bit pathetic of him, to simply lie there—but to him, everyone had left, and thus he had no real reason to get up. Perhaps he was watching the stars, or maybe he was even asleep. After a while I got bored of looking at him, and turned my gaze up at the heavens as well. I sat down on the deck, resting my back against the railing.

It was so peaceful, in a strange way; something like the calm before the storm, when everyone is completely unaware of the following destruction. I closed my eyes, and remembered Jeanne-Louise. Had she been predicting our deaths, or my happiness?

I felt something soft touch my hand, causing me to jump. It was the cat, a paw pressed hesitantly onto my thigh. I held my breath, wanting to shoo her but fearing the consequences of doing so. But somehow, I was a bit eager. I wanted this animal to like me, even if the idea ultimately scared me.

Eventually, she hopped into my lap, and after a few moments of shifting, settled down. Hoping I had her trust, I began to stroke her head, the way that our captain had. She purred, leaving me thinking that, perhaps, she was not so evil after all.

public service criteria

Quickie. c:

~*~

“Where are you going, Daddy?”

Your words stung my heart with more precision than an arrow, though you never knew it. Your face, contorted into a look of shock and dismay, swept me into a torrent of unstable guilt, though you never knew it. But above all, your childish innocence and naïveté hurt me the most—what I had to do to preserve your virtue, and keep your hands untainted from my sin, even my father’s sin.

You rooted me to the ground I stood upon, your tiny arms wrapped desperately around my legs, acting as a fetter to my will.

What choice do I have?

I knelt down by you, delicately, and took your sobbing frame to my breast. You were quivering, trembling, enunciating once again, softy: “Where are you going?” I almost took the bait, but dropped it in shameful recollection. This is a rotten, vile thing—it should be forgotten, placed down and cleared. You have no place in it. Not someone as perfect as you, not someone as unadulterated as you.

But you cast your line again.

“Why can’t I go with you, Daddy?”

“You’ll be safe,” I promise you, discarding the topic you have hence set forth. “Your brother will take good care of you. I’ll be back soon.” It was an empty promise, and I fear that we both realized it the moment it left my lips.

Even so, I can not get you to be content with this response. You hold fast, and I can’t bear to break away. To do so would be to lose you—to do so would be tantamount to defeat. I can’t give in to that, but again: what choice do I have? This must be settled, before I can begin to direct my energy towards rearing you again. It hurts me, too, though this you do not understand. Instead you perceive a stoic man, attempting to walk out of your life, wishing to forget you so that he can move on. He is remorseless, in your eyes, and you do not understand why he tells you nothing.

What am I to do?

I look helplessly in the direction of your brother. You scarcely noticed him entering the room, gazing modestly at our display. Even now you take no note of him, though he is only a few feet away from us. Your small hands only tighten on my clothing as I try to move away from you.

Your brother hesitates, but he understands my intentions. He cautiously places a hand on your shoulder, causing you to jump. Occupied with him, I stand and am free from your hold on my will. “You will be safe,” I promise again, my eyes lingering on your face, trying to memorize its curves and shape, lest I come to forget it.

You move to latch onto me again, but you stop in midstep. It’s painful, I know, but it will be okay. Instead, you grab onto your brother’s legs. He hesitates, again, before slowly crouching and picking you up.

I thank him, and give you both an oath of love before taking wing.

nu nu nu

This post is CRAP, I did not work hard on it at all–keep that in mind. :c

Third addition to this… thing.

I’d like to take this opportunity to say that SAVVUY made up Zach, not me.  HE BE (C) TO HER.

_{does it bother anyone else that my paragraphs are getting shorter and shorter and less and less descriptive? Because it bothers me.}

Edit:  FFFFFF.  TYPOS.

~*~

The sudden sunshine had surprised him. It was almost a cliché, an expected end to the fairy tale they were all more or less living. The chaos had left, birthing order and peace—it was all very Shakespearean. Everything should have been in harmony, now.

“Should have,” because there was no determinable ending, yet. The stage was set, and the curtain was opening for the final act—just enough time for tragedy to befall the scene once again, betraying the trust of the audience that had expected “happily ever after.”

And certainly no one wanted that.

My name is Zachary Quinn, Zach for short. I’m twenty six, just beginning my internship in the Snohomish Health District.

There were surprisingly few cars on the road, especially on the freeway—save for an adamant blue Taurus. It coasted gently along the pathway provided, occasionally skittering past what few cars came to serve as a hindrance to its journey.

A pair of blue eyes lifted, fixing on the rearview mirror. Checking the distance, said eyes traversed, glancing over the shoulder of the body they belonged too. On went the signal, and the blue Taurus changed lanes.

Again, Zach was taking on the role of driver and chauffer.

Somehow I got talked into taking my friend, Gavan, to the mall. Though I guess it’s a good idea, anyway—to help get his mind off things. I just took him to get tested for HIV, after all. He’s putting on a lovely guise of indifference, but I think he’s scared.

I certainly was.

“Any idea what you’re looking for? I can’t spend a fortune.”

Gavan blinked lazily, keeping his gaze directed out the window. He almost missed the rain. In a way, it had been comforting—because it was what he was used to. No one liked change, and he was no exception. Sunshine was so foreign.

“Yeah, I know… maybe just some new shoes and a shirt,” the raven haired male proposed, heaving a quiet sigh as he continued to observe the bushery that seemed to rush past them with posthaste.

I wonder what he’s thinking about…

Zach frowned, tightening his grip on the wheel. His eyes momentarily flickered over to Gavan, observing him for what the few seconds away from the road allowed.

“Zumiez?” Zach put forward, fishing for a word of agreement or discord.

The blonde caught a nod out of the corner his eye, and responded to it with a resounding: “Okay.”

The blue Taurus sped up a little, passing another impedimental car on the road. Before long the destination had been reached, and the two men quit the car, walking into the shopping center.

It wasn’t any different than either of them had anticipated. It was understandably crowded, understandably stuffy, and understandably loud.

Gavan led the way, and Zach duly trailed after him, looking around at the shops they passed with mild interest and curiosity. A few things caught his eye, however—

Still got debt to pay off. But it’s material things. I’m okay without them.

Despite this resolve, it was hard not to wish he could do more recreational shopping. Not everyone could be a Christopher McCandless, especially in the age of technology. Every day a new product came out, along with a commercial featuring every subdivision of propaganda in favor thereof. Man was weak, and man gave in when the scantily clad girl sampled the new cell phone from T-Mobile.

Zach liked to think commercials never tempted him. The product may have looked appealing, but that was not to say he absolutely needed it. No, he was invincible to subliminal messaging. Ads rarely fazed him.

But there was nothing wrong with a little self-indulgence.

Shopping had taken under an hour, and both men had gotten their fair share of items from four different stores. Gavan thanked his friend and driver profusely, having not expected to have gotten so much. Not to say he was complaining, however—he was American, through and through.

Afterwards, Zach drove them to an elegant dining establishment—Quiznos—for lunch. But not before stopping for coffee from Starbucks, at the request of the man in the passenger seat.

Over slightly burnt sandwiches and cooling coffee the two struck up a conversation that continued for far longer than either participant intended.

“Well you know what causes it, right?”

“No, Zach,” Gavan began, feigned annoyance dripping in his tone, “I haven’t gotten around to getting my Ph.D. yet—what causes it?”

A smile cracked Zach’s features. “Too much masturbating.”

“You’re shitting me!” Gavan insisted, pausing his eating to stare at the other male.

“Pretty much.”

From there, the conversation travelled from cellulite to whales, to Star Wars and, finally, back to the issue with AIDS.

“I don’t want to be a dick about this, but… you talked to Amin about it, right?”

“Yes,” Gavan replied curtly, not looking up from the trash-castle he was constructing.

You’re a shitty liar.

“Gavan.”

“What?! I did,” the raven haired male said, lying once again as he balanced a straw atop the now empty paper coffee cup.

I probably shouldn’t push it. I don’t want us to leave on a bad note.

“And you’re staying with him tonight? You can come to my place, if you want,” Zach offered, feeling a little uncomfortable with the younger male staying at Amin’s yet again.

“No. I want to stay there,” Gavan mumbled, growing visibly annoyed with the topic.

Zach expelled a sigh, looking the other way.

I’m not comfortable with it, but I’m not his parent, either.

The two left with an uneasiness wafting between them. Nothing was said as the blue Taurus made its way downtown, eventually coming to a stop outside a residence marked 1105.

Gavan got out of the car, gathered his gifts, and said thank you.

The blue Taurus drove off, leaving the raven haired boy staring uneasily at his feet.

mu mu mu

This post is CRAP, I did not work hard on it at all–keep that in mind. :c

Sequel to lambda lambda lambda. Chhh, yes there will be moar.

~*~

Afternoon dawned unexpectedly upon the denizens of Everett that day. Previously stormy atmosphere parted, revealing a scintillating warmness. Water evaporated from the crevices of eaves, and a strange wave of life overtook the town. People went for walks. People ate outside. The drenched boy walked with a higher head, and the man driving the Prius conformed to the law that would pass seven years later, hanging up his phone.

But there was an area of town that remained the same, regardless of the weather. Rain or shine, their activities continued. Rain or shine, they stole. Rain or shine, they didn’t give a fuck.

Today was oddly quiet, though.

“The hell is Perra?”

My name is Amin. Just Amin. I act as the leader of the Blue Raggers, which is just a moniker for our faction. I’ve organized about eighty guys, but that’s it. The Red Raggers—again, a moniker—have been stealin’ all my goddamn recruits as of late. They’re trying to extend their turf. Need to do a drive-by later tonight, ‘cept…

“Fuck if I know,” Amin replied, not glancing up from the magazine he was currently examining. The pages displayed an assortment of weaponry, ranging from small knifes to handguns. Next to him lay another, this one featuring a nude woman on the cover.

The inquirer said something in garbled Spanish. Amin narrowed his eyes, trying to both ignore it and decipher what was being said. He wasn’t fluent in the language, and only knew a few words and some often used phrases. But he had a feeling hostility clung on what was being said, for the other male’s inflection told him that much.

I wanna know where the little shit is, though.

Amin sighed, tossing the magazine aside. He picked up the one with the naked woman instead.

The gang’s headquarters weren’t unknown. Everyone knew their usual stomping grounds, and as such, no one stayed long in the area—unless they were a tourist, of course. In fact, that was the gang’s main source of “spontaneously generated income”: mugging the tourists who didn’t know any better.

It used to be a train station. It was a pathetic sight, a terminal hardly befitting a grand close to any trek across Washington. The boarding platform was a meager four hundred square feet, already becoming corroded and falling apart upon itself.

The inside that had once been the station itself, however, was in a bit better shape. The gang had fixed it up, making living in it possible. Many did so. Amin was not one of them, however. He merely made his appearances when necessary, or hung around when there was nothing better to do.

But today, there were better things to do.

I don’t have time to wait around for fuckin’ Perra to show up. Sissy ass probably ain’t ever coming back, either.

Amin expelled an irritated sigh, finding that the pictures in magazine before him weren’t helping any. He disposed of this, too, casting it somewhere near where the other had landed.

He wasn’t alone. This was the congregation room, of sorts. It was adorned with an assortment of stolen furniture, and at the moment Amin occupied a bean bag chair on the floor. He looked about the area, examining its inhabitants. There were only a couple people around. Two guys talking in hushed Spanish, some girl and guy he didn’t know the names of sharing the loveseat.

He could probably jerk off to them. They looked like they were getting into it—already at second base, to use a euphemism.

There were other people around besides these four, however. The train station was small, but it had other rooms. If you wanted to get high or binge, you went into the bathroom. If you wanted a fly girl, you went to where the candy and soda machines used to be. All these rooms were accordingly decorated, now.

But I don’t want a fuckin’ fly girl.

“Anyone wanna go out bustin’?” Amin asked suddenly, startling the other four members of the room. There was a mumble of uncertain agreement with the idea. No one appeared as if they wanted to go out. And so, uninspired by the lack of enthusiasm, the gang leader sighed again. “Fuck, never mind. Pussies.”

That said, Amin stood, and went to the bathroom. A couple people were rolling in there, but he ignored them and examined his face in the mirror. He needed to shave. Stubble was beginning to show through.

Amin admired himself for a moment longer. He liked to think he looked good. His shoulders were appropriately broad, his skin was olive, and he had an angular face. Maybe he was due for a haircut. Often, he wore it slicked back into a ponytail, and he felt it had always suited him. But as of late, his hair had almost become synonymous with the word “maricón,” one of the few Spanish words he recognized instantly.

Fag.

But that, apparently, wasn’t far from the truth—was it? Amin swore, bringing his hand in a fist down to the counter. The druggies paid him no notice.

I could have any damn girl I wanted. But no, instead I gotta go dick around with this shithead wanna-be.

Amin groaned, digging his fingers into his temples.

Shit’s gotta stop. He ain’t ever comin’ back, because he’s a fuckin’ chud, so I just gotta get on with my life. Can’t sit around waiting for Perra.  I’m stronger than this.  Shit.

With this resolve, Amin left the train station. He was surprised at his own briskness. It was almost as if he was trying to run away, but having trouble convincing himself he really wanted to. If he really wanted to, he would have bolted, completely avoiding the situation that surrounded the train station all together.

Mind clouded with confusing thoughts, pace quick and pants practically at his ankles, Amin tripped. “Fuckin’ a!” he swore, scrambling to his feet and instantly tugging his pants back up. He looked around frantically, afraid that he had been seen. When the coast appeared clear, he released a sigh and momentarily hung his head to observe what he could see of his feet.

“Stupid to wear pants this goddamn low,” he told himself, “especially without a goddamn belt.” Convinced it wouldn’t kill him to do it once, Amin pulled said pants securely over his hips, walking a little awkwardly.

“How the fuck do they walk like this?!”

lambda lambda lambda

That day was cold and dreary, not entirely unlike any other in Washington. A light drizzle fell from the sky, having tapered off from an earlier downpour. A lonely child could be seen walking down the street, carrying an umbrella but refusing to use it. He was soaked, Salvation Army clothing sticking to his skin to reveal an emaciated form. Water dripped from brown hair into a dejected face.

The hell is he doing out in the cold?

A Prius skittered by in some apparent hurry, inadvertently tossing water onto the boy’s already shivering form.

“Asshole!” someone shouted.

Whether the driver was remorseful or not, no one knew. The car moved too fast to give any onlookers a good glimpse inside, and thus the driver’s expression could be neither determined nor identified. No, the Prius merely rumbled on, coming only to stop when a red light dictated it should do so.

A blue Ford Taurus came up, adjacent to the Prius. Inside it sat two men, having both been witnesses to the mitigated, but wanton travesty. Only the male on the passenger side really saw it, though, and so only he bothered to look into the offending car and catch a glimpse of the driver. Said driver was talking on a cell phone—no surprise there. He looked new into his thirties, well dressed, clean shaven.

A classical example—the bourgeoisie has trounced the proletariat yet again.

The light turned green. A hospital could be seen in the far distance.

“Almost there,” the driver of the Taurus announced, pressing his foot to the gas and proceeding forward, leaving the Prius behind. The passenger looked in the rearview mirror, watching the Prius make a left in due course. When out of sight, his eyes travelled back to his own mirrored face, and he promptly glared at the reflection.

Said reflection duly glared back.

My name is Gavan Fabrizio. I’m seventeen, Caucasian, and like pretending I’m a not ethnically confused and am, in fact, a member of a gang. I’ve got the walk down, I’m good at tagging; why the hell not? I’ve got friends there. They help keep me alive.

Within that circle they call me Perra—I don’t know what that means, but they seem to think it’s funny—but sometimes it’s Gavvy, or Febreze.

I’m pretty pissed off right now.

The passenger made a show of sighing exasperatedly, resting his cheek in his palm. “This is stupid.”

The driver seemed to take offense. “It’s not stupid, Gavan,” he said, taking his eyes away from the road a moment, to look at the other male. His expression conveyed worry, but also mild annoyance.

“I do not have HIV!” the passenger shot back, vexed, as he tugged at his dark hair.

“You don’t know that, Gavan,” was the calm reply.

I recently admitted to myself that I’m most likely bi—or maybe gay, I don’t know. One of the two.

“It’s not like anything really happened!” Gavan returned effortlessly, inadvertently telling the blonde haired driver that he was lying. He realized this long after it fell from his lips, however.

“That’s not what you told me over the phone, nor what I saw.”

Annoyed at the blatant faults in his argument, Gavan scoffed, and turned to looking out the window. Rather than seeing what he would have liked, however, he took note only of a parking lot. They were almost there.

It’s ‘cause I had screwed around with this guy. Or, well, I don’t know if I can call it that. I wasn’t exactly—uh—aware of what was happening, you know? I don’t know if I was willing or not. I can’t remember much. But the evidence is all there, I guess.

But the bruises are fading.

The car found its shelter under a slanting elm tree. The windshield wipers ceased their movement, the keys turned, the engine was silent. Both passenger and driver sat in awkward silence, the former wondering if he was supposed to get out of the car and go by himself.

“Listen, Gavan.” The driver suddenly spoke, turning to look at the younger, his blue eyes flashing with a comforting danger. “Don’t make a big deal out of this. I just want you to be safe. I made your brother get tested, too.”

My brother died a year or so ago. It’s still hard to believe. But I won’t ever forget him. He kept me sane. I’ve never once took off his dog tags since we got them in the mail.

But like me, now, he was also bi—er, gay, I guess. He taught me early on that being with another guy was okay, even if our parents didn’t agree with it. Nah, they liked to pretend they didn’t notice that my brother was a flaming homosexual. It made them feel better, I guess, because it made their flawless son complete, perfect. After all, queers are weird and not normal, right?

According to the doctrine of their shitty religion, anyway.

The driver appeared physically bothered when Gavan laughed at his reply, only to say with reason: “But he was your boyfriend.” There was logic behind the statement. “It’s not like I’m gonna fuck you, too, Zach. Gross.”

Saying no more, Gavan opened the car door, not caring that the rain now gently caressed him. Typical idiot teenager, unaware that invincibility was only a myth of the naïve-intoxicated mind. Gavan shut the door, lingering around the trunk of the car as he waited for the other male to get out.

Zach, an adult, however, had long ago realized that he was far from invincible. He knew that lesson would take Gavan a while, but eventually, the youth would come to realize it, as well. And so, the former driver withdrew an umbrella from some unknown confinements of his car, and opened it.

Shutting the door and locking the car, the two began silently their pilgrimage across the parking lot.

Gavan was fairly suspicious he had upset Zach, but he couldn’t make himself apologize for it. When he had gotten out of the car, he saw that the blonde’s eyes had narrowed—but that was all. He could have simply annoyed him—again—not necessarily done anything more. Besides, he didn’t want to be here. He didn’t need to be here.

I’m pretty sure I don’t have HIV. I mean, yeah, I’m scared that I do, but… It’s really unlikely. I mean, not that many people have HIV, right? I think we only had sex, too, so Amin probably used a condom. He’s a responsible guy like that, right? Yeah.

Shit, wait—

“Umm… they’re just testing for HIV, right?” Gavan asked, sounding suddenly worried.

Zach glanced at him quizzically. “Unless you want to get tested for something else,” he said, folding up his umbrella as they finally reached the building’s façade, and its convenient overhang. The blonde shook the umbrella to rid it of excess water.

“Right, but,” the raven haired male began, but couldn’t finish. He got another weird look from his companion, but ignored it and turned his eyes away.

My heart is starting to pound. I feel like I should be scared. But why? I don’t have HIV, and they’re only analyzing that. They’re not gonna find anything, no trace of anything. I’m going to get a clean bill of health, and they’re not going to find any, uh… residue.

They entered the building. Zach went to the receptionist’s desk, while Gavan sank into a chair the waiting room offered. He didn’t want to have to talk to that bubbly girl at the counter. Besides, Zach probably knew her—he recently started working as an intern here, Gavan thought he recalled.

Trying not to bother himself with unnecessary thoughts, however, Gavan picked up a magazine that had been left sprawled out on the little coffee table before him. It was CosmoGirl! or Seventeen or something that was supposed to pertain to teenagers. Of course, it was probably directed towards girls rather than…

Well, if I’m gay now, I should enjoy this, right?

Gavan tried to look at the guys in the magazine and tell himself they were “cute” or “had a nice butt,” but it ultimately proved fruitless. Eventually he gave up and flipped to the back to read his horoscope.

“Today is not a good day for you,” it read, “nothing seems to be going your way and you’re having a hard time communicating. but do not fret, the–”

“They’ll be ready for you in about five minutes.” Gavan looked up from the magazine, watching Zach sit down in the chair beside him. “Eh? What are you doing?”

The raven haired male looked back down at the glossy pages and made a face. “I don’t really know.” He glanced at the date in the corner of the magazine and noticed that it was nearly two months old, anyway. No point in continuing to read his horoscope if it was supposed to be his state of mind sixty days ago.

He set the magazine back down on the coffee table. Not ten seconds after he had done so, however, Gavan almost wished he hadn’t. He’d forgotten that it was supposed to be his distraction, not give him something worthwhile to read.

Besides, he’d barely been reading it, anyway. More like looking at the words, but not absorbing their meaning as whole. A lot like when he was in high school, and would be assigned reading for homework. He usually just copied somebody else’s response to the reading the next day. It was easier that way. He got to spend more time with Dafydd or jacking off that way.

Gavan shivered, glancing around the room at the other inhabitants. Were they getting tested, too? Or did they have other problems?

Shit, I don’t want to be here. It reminds me of my dad. I don’t have HIV. I don’t want to know if I have it. But I don’t have it, so it doesn’t matter—does it? I should just leave. I have enough money for a bus ticket back to Amin’s. He’d tell me if he had HIV. He would have used a condom.

Zach placed a hand on Gavan’s shoulder, mistaking the trembling for cold. He looked concerned. “You okay? Maybe you should take your jacket off, it’s all wet,” he said, aware that the hospital’s cold environment along with the damp clothes wasn’t a good combination.

Gavan shrugged the hand off, however, and shook his head. “I’m fine,” he insisted, managing to keep his voice from cracking.

I don’t want to admit it, but I’m scared.

Once again trying not to think about it, though, Gavan turned his eyes to a child tapping away at the buttons on her Gameboy. He vaguely wondered if that child was here because she had been dragged here with relatives, or because said child was ill in some way.

But if that girl was sick, why was she so nonchalant? How could she sit there, just playing her game, and not give a shit? Why wasn’t she sitting there, looking like a frightened deer and quivering like a douchebag?

Right, that’s exactly what I’m doing.

A door opened. “Gavan?” a voice called.

Gavan felt a new coldness hit him, directly in his spine. His heart began drumming again, and shaking still, he got to his feet. Zach looked up at him, prepared to stand as well.

“Would you like me to come with you?”

“J-Jesus Zach, I don’t need you to hold my hand through everything!” Gavan returned sharply, though his words did not express what he was truly thinking.

Yes, I want you to come with me. Come on, stand up. I’m scared as hell, Zach. Get off your ass and come with me.

Zach looked a little shocked, but settled back into his chair and nodded. “You’ll be okay,” he said, replacing his expression with a small, reassuring smile.

Gavan lingered a moment longer, as if expecting Zach to read his mind. But when he did not, the raven haired male looked helplessly at the nurse holding the door open for him, and walked towards her.

“How are you today?” she asked, allowing the door to shut with a loud thunk as Gavan had made his way in. The hallways were expectedly white, with many rooms branching off the sides. Gavan pretended to be interested with the walls, trying to tell himself all the while it would be okay, and that he was definitely not HIV positive.

“I’m—I’m okay,” he responded, and she led him into one of the other rooms.

“The doctor will be with you in a moment,” she then informed him cheerily, setting a file folder down on the desk and leaving the room. Gavan felt helpless, unsure what to do with himself. Hesitantly, he took a seat on the recovery couch, noisily crinkling the paper that covered it.

That bitch. How could she be so cheery when I am potentially…

Gavan stopped his thoughts there, and studied his dirty shoes.

I wonder if I can get Zach to take me shopping after this.

The door opened suddenly, the Gavan tensed. His head turned, observing whom he assumed to be the doctor. It was a short, bald guy. He was a Pacific Islander from what Gavan could tell.

“Hello, Gavan,” the man said, inviting himself in and taking a seat at the desk in the other corner of the room.

Gavan found it slightly disturbing that everyone seemed to know his name. Though, it had always been like that, hadn’t it? He wasn’t sure. He hadn’t been to a doctor in a long time. His parents usually found a reason not to take him.

“Er, hello,” he returned awkwardly, afraid to keep his eyes on the other male. Stealing a glance, however, Gavan noted that the doctor was studying the folder.

“Seventeen, huh?” he asked. Gavan nodded numbly, realizing that the folder must have contained information about him. Zach likely supplied that.

“Gotta start thinking about college soon.”

College… Yeah right.

Again, Gavan nodded a little. “Yeah, I do,” he lied, a little bothered by the small talk.

“Where are you thinking of going?” the doctor asked, glancing up from the folder to make eye contact. Rather than keeping it, however, Gavan’s gaze immediately fell to his shoes again.

“Uhm, I… uh… I don’t know yet,” he said, having honestly never thought about it. Even when he was in school, he had never thought about it—though for different reasons. Back then, he was just scared of moving away from Dafydd. But, now… well, to get into a college, you needed both: a.) money, and b.) a high school diploma. He had neither of those things, so even community college wasn’t a choice.

But he had no ardent desire to go back to school, either.

“Might want to start thinking about it,” the doctor said, though Gavan could hear the smile in his voice. Before he could reply, however, the doctor continued: “Let’s get started then, shall we? You can come sit over here, if you like.”

Gavan glanced up, watching the Pacific Islander gesture to a chair on the opposite side of the desk. Suddenly taking on a diffident appearance, the raven haired male shook his head. “A-ah, no thank you…”

The doctor nodded understandably. “So… you have a couple of options.”

Gavan looked at him blankly.

“We can take a blood sample, an oral sample, or a urine sample.” The doctor went on to explain each one, and the procedure required for each. And though he had a mild fear of needles, Gavan agreed to have his blood drawn for the test. The doctor had told him it was the most effective, after all.

I have to be sure.

There was a bit more discussion after that, but Gavan wasn’t entirely listening. He wafted in and out of the lecture whenever a word that was familiar to him was brought up, but otherwise, his thoughts were elsewhere.

Amin would tell me. But… what if he doesn’t know?

“It is crucial that you tell your sex and/or drug partners if the results indicate an HIV infection…”

Gavan tensed. The bastard said it so easily. He could have at least sugar coated it a little, couldn’t he have?

After a bit more talking, the doctor wrapped things up. “Are you ready?” he asked.

No.

Gavan felt himself beginning to tremble again. “Y-yeah, I’m ready,” he said, his fingers gripping the paper he sat on, his toes curling inside his shoes.

The procedure was just as the doctor had described. He simply pricked Gavan’s finger, collected a blood sample, and deposited the vial somewhere. Gavan was given a Band-Aid featuring Hello Kitty, and he forced himself to jokingly brandish it as he was directed back towards the waiting room.

“We’ll have your results back within a week,” the doctor told him with a smile. Gavan forced one in return, and wandered over to Zach who was talking with the receptionist again.

“Oh, you’re done!” Zach said with a smile, pausing his conversation with said receptionist. “How was it?”

“It… it was okay,” Gavan responded, beginning to feel his heart slow. He paused a moment, and then spoke up again: “Um… I think you should take me shopping.”

“You mean buy you a bunch of shit?” Zach asked, raising a brow and exchanging amused glances with the receptionist girl.

“Yes?”

A bit of hesitance. “All right.”

Zach smiled, and Gavan returned it.

He felt like he was liberated. Because he had gotten tested, somehow, he felt as though he could no longer be possibly infected. Rather, he felt like this was the cure. The knowledge that he had gone through with it was like medicine in itself.

Everything would be okay. He definitely didn’t have HIV.

Really—he was invincible.

… it will be followed by death within three minutes

… don’t you just LOVE IT WHEN I POST CRAP?

I’m trying.

_{Only Savvy will get it.}

~*~

Has it really been so long? Has time skirted before my eyes in such a way, to shape you as you are now? You are an adult, but still a child in my memory. You’re so far from home, so far from where I remember last beholding you. My eyes are open, but I want to shut them; I want to go back to that time, that time when we still knew each other.

Everything seems to move in slow motion.

I remember when you were young, when we would explore the world together in your curious innocence. Nothing was limited to our travels; the sea, the sky, the backyard—it didn’t matter. If you wished to go there, then I would take you with no hesitation.

How it pains me now, to know so many loose ends are left hanging. You’ve forgotten me, but I remember your smile. I could never forget it, even if you, perhaps, find solace in pretending I don’t exist.

“Daddy,” you said to me, “can I sit on you?” I picked you up and offered you my lap, but you laughed and corrected me.

“No, Daddy, there,” you said, pointing to my shoulders. I lifted you—you were so small, then—and placed you on your perch. You wanted to see the stars. You wanted to think that you could touch them.

I held onto your legs, and I took you to the top of the hill.

“Over there,” I said, gesturing to a cloud of stars. “That looks like a—”

“A castle!” you said, tugging on my hair as if you wished to get my attention, incorrect in assuming you never fully had it. And though it hurt, I could never be mad at you. Perhaps I was foolishly in love, so blindly devoted I could never find fault in you. But for all its hidden flaws, wasn’t our world perfect?

You told me you wanted to go to the stars one day, just you and I. You told me that I could tell no one else about it, because you wanted it to be our special secret. I promised I would take you.

Yet I still have not. And, gazing at you now, I want to mention it. But you won’t remember, will you? That was so long ago, so distant from your mind, blocked from your conscious.

Though I wonder, when you look at the stars with him, do you ever remember me? Even the faintest memory would warm my heart. But now, as things stand, to know you remember nothing of me is too hard to bear. Even if you haven’t vocalized this yet, I know it to be true. If you recognized me, you surely would have said so.

Or do you not want to remember me?

Our world was so perfect then.

das abendmahl

It was a quiet day in summer; breathless, motionless. Only the winds, as volatile as the sea, whispered faintly against the delicate precipices of the house. Only the oaks of pretty faces dared caress the eaves.

When I arrived, I felt like I knew no one but him, and everyone but him.

Through the gates of time we crept, stealing past boundaries of the imagination, skating along the lines of reality in recollection. What once was, what now is not. She is gone, and I lost you; but do you think we could work out something?

I smiled. This house, of so many and so little memories. The day was still taciturn, walking on wooden nails.

I began to look for you. I found you in your usual spot: upstairs, nursing a book as you reclined on the bed you shared with your new lover. The sun dappled from the exposed rooftops, sheltering you in a sacred life that no one felt we deserved.

You looked up as I entered the room. Your eyes had moved from your pages, and you looked inquisitive—but you said nothing.

Nor did I, as I crawled onto the bed and laid down on your welcoming arm. You didn’t ask if I wanted to be read your story, but you spoke the words aloud anyway. I listened, softly, as the winds from above floated towards our faces, carrying tiny vicarious granules.  I’m not sure that you knew it, but I was happy then.  Your voice, so much smoother than silk, so much warmer than the air outside.

I have so few memories of these times, when you would enunciate the tales of text as in a bedtime story for me. Yet having no recollection of these things, I still miss them.

The life I could have had, had you not left.

But I can forgive you. There is sadness and regret in your eyes. I see it when we look at each other, wordlessly, in a state of detachment. I see it when you speak, feel it when we touch.

Life eludes logic. You are not at fault. Never forget that.

Let us raise the egg of the phoenix.