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| I'm The Monster That's Under My Bed; Doug | |
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| Topic Started: Apr 24 2015, 09:40 AM (87 Views) | |
| Magik | Apr 24 2015, 09:40 AM Post #1 |
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April 22nd 2:45 am Grey. Everything was grey. The sky, crowded and already listless, forever a host to stagnant clouds pregnant with phantom rain, their unappreciated coat promising a volatile thunderstorm afflicting fear more than tangible punishment; the land, twisted and gnarled, suffocated by innumerable hills with summits so ragged they inspired unnervingly accurate comparisons to the mandible of a starving predator, and additionally occupied by intermittent plateaus interrupting nearly identical wastelands gradually introduced to aberrant and foreign wildlife reminiscent of titanic predators belonging to traditional Earthen soil or the nightmarish dimensions indicative of science-fiction or a hybrid world too realistic for belief; and the water, accumulated primarily in partially recognizable ponds of prototypical proportion yet holding an unusually tremendous volume. That grey, it was concentrated, resulting in an opaque liquid concealing vicious ghouls equally terrifying as their terrestrial brethren. Connecting the few ponds were stretches of wasteland traveling to fewer lakes, also opaque but victims to monstrosities rivaling even the most tremendous of the land beasts. Even she, so immensely detached from her unaccustomed environment, shared their absence of aesthetic vigor, although hers diverged from everything in its artificial nature. She did not belong. She was too human. Too human. Outside, on her native terrain, she was the ghoul, feared by everyone "normal" who preached a perverted, predetermined, and pontifical discourse emphasizing the rancor directed mutually by those fused from standard gametes and those presenting sullied chromosomes. Yet, here she was "too human" -- even with her nonhuman, almost preternatural gifts. Gifts. ... gifts? She wasn't supposed to know of her individual gifts. Suddenly, grey turned to white, then mercury, then nearly adamantine before concluding with a plethora of blues. And with it Limbo turned to Earth, from wastelands to hardwood flooring so immaculate she initially presumed everyone literally glided so as to avoid transferring dirt and grime. Home. Her home. A home where she was never "too human". In fact, never "human" enough. Blonde hair, blue eyes, yet she still did not qualify as "human". Finally, she was home. Greens, reds, yellows, purples, and... grey. Grey. Grey. She was grey. They stared, every one of them. Even him. Him, behind his ruby world, where everything was red, to him she was grey. To all of them she was devoid of color, devoid of life, devoid of emotion. Devoid of humanity. Smooth skin erupted into layered scales; slender fingers elongated, manicured nails extended and curled into diseased claws hungry for flesh (their flesh); and upper teeth descended and bottom teeth ascended until each pair almost touched, creating a prison constructed from sharpened bars ready to impale (impale them). Too human? Never again. Emptiness greeted her without remorse, showcasing absolutely nothing yet filled with absolutely everything. When it all converged black was born. Emptiness. The irony was all too apparent, and all too frightening. The universal marriage delivered everything into oblivion, claiming each particle and subatomic particle, taking everything and leaving nothing. Then was that Limbo? Was that it? Utter nothingness? Indeed it was. It swallowed her whole, took every piece that was Illyana Nikolaevna Alexandria Rasputin and replaced it with transparent shards arranged in a detrimental pattern. A glass sculpture designed to cut. To pierce. To shatter. They bled and she broke. She left the world of man and devolved into the realm of demons. Hell was her new birthplace, her new mother, and it reminded her whenever she applied its memento. Hell was always the interim. From Point A she departed, and at Point B she arrived, and in between she was afflicted by her brothers and sisters, that untouched sliver of her soul remaining horrifically ruptured and just as quickly reassembled, always ready to be torn again. Emptiness greeted her but it allowed a friend. She had traveled again unintentionally (or had it called to her, like it always did), and when she was finally capable of autonomous command over her eyelids she discovered another bedroom. From her bed to this bed. She had successfully avoided recognizing the in between but she undoubtedly felt it. A mother's touch was always distinct. Trembling, Illyana clumsily familiarized herself with the support underneath, identifying herself as occupying the left side of the bed, precariously near the edge. Even here it mocked her. Then, effortlessly, she reached out, entangling her intrinsic field with the occupant's, trying desperately to delve beyond the superficial, the materialistic, and establish an identity: a name, a face, a body. A threat. Remaining motionless, still situated on her back, eyes glued to what she felt as the ceiling but could not see as the ceiling, Illyana whispered, first in English then in Russian, pairing the second with a rough shake of their shoulder, praying to whatever glorious autocrat dominated the heavens that this time it was who she always searched for. <... mother?> |
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1:02 AM Jul 11