Curate, connect, and discover
The thing is—The thing is kin-slaying is a big thing.
Not a small big thing either—stealing from someone, marrying a rival, falling from social grace, even straight-up killing someone; all of that falls leagues beneath kin slaying.
It is the sort of thing that is abhorrent, never spoken about and yet understood. It is—well, there’s really no describing such visceral horror at the action.
It curdles the blood. Settles in the bones. It is something that is seen, known. There is no atonement for it. No repentance, no asking forgiveness. The doors of heaven—yours, mine, his, hers—are closed to you forevermore.
But the question is this. If kin-slaying—a crime that shifts the air, warps the world like it has been proven to do, forces you to bear the weight of Atlas (and then some); if this act is so monstrous, then why do I not feel an ounce of shame?
Why—do I look at the blood on my hands, the corpse at my feet, and feel nothing at all?
Here I lie, lost at sea,
dazed and lame as I can be.
The sky above is dark
as is the water below me.
How I got here, I scarcely remember—
when I boarded, when I left the pier.
The time as well, I could not decipher—
September, October, or November.
Alone in this vastness,
silence embraces me—
the great stretch of the universe and the sea
do all but eclipse me.
At times I start to wonder
what if instead of wander,
I let the waves take me—
pull me in and consume me.
I close my eyes and picture
my delicate arms and legs,
spread restful as they please,
sink into the cold water.
Visions of the starry sky peek through,
strings of faint light probing in the blue.
The stars shimmer above the mirrory surface,
far and out of reach, they peer with indifference.
But then I pull myself out
of my ruminative bout;
the spirit of life taking reins
to brave my impermanent pains.
My boat is a drifting speck,
a mote between infinite black;
so here I lie, lost at sea,
alone and numbed as I can be.
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Inspired by and written for the prompt "Cold water". Prompt credit to @the-kingofdoritos
Sleep, when you think about it, is like a false death or a little death. Unconsciousness extends to hours of bliss or nightmares, leaving one ignorant and inert, unaware of where one is. The awakening is what breaks the said 'death', pulling one out of the depths of their own mind to throw them into the real world. For a moment or so, I often think about it, the lines must blur; life and death, slumber and consciousness, real and unreal. From this moment rises a new you, one who is slightly different, slightly renewed.
I always understood sleep in that manner. You wake up with a bruise you didn't have before, you wake up with a new pimple, you wake up with more hair on your pillow than yesterday, you wake up feeling more tired than you did when you went to bed, you wake up from a vivid dream of a life so much better than your reality, you spend the rest of the day trying to forget it. I think of waking up as a door to a new day. What you'll find in that new day is shown when your eyes open, its symptoms etched onto you. I've lived through life enough to expect some things from how waking up leaves me feeling.
The 'mark' left me confused. For a good 5 minutes, I sat and recalled what had happened that night. Was I with someone? Was I drunk?
Who was I kidding? I hadn't been drunk in forever. That line of thought is for people who have friends to go out with.
I was sober. I came home alone, had leftovers and went straight to bed. Nothing that explained a strange tattoo that looked like a cursive 'U' or 'V' could have happened. I tried wiping it off, washing it out; nothing worked. It stayed there, dark and crisp, a part of my skin. It didn't hurt or even have any visible redness around it, almost as if it had always been there. But I knew it hadn't.
I might have been able to get it off my mind if I had anything to do, but it was a day off. All the time in the world to think about it. But what was the point? I couldn't get to any conclusion anyway. How did it get there? Who did it? What was the purpose of it? All questions hung before me like carrots on a stick too high for me to grasp.
I ate cereal for breakfast, even though I told myself to make something nice for once. I stayed at the table for way too long, staring blankly at whatever my phone showed me, locked in a hypnotic stillness until the clock threatened with hours slipping out of my grasp. I heeded, moving around to go about the chores that I had perfect excuses to avoid throughout the week in a lethargic pace. And when my mind found no place to rest, it wandered down to the mark on my wrist.
I wondered what it could mean. Maybe if I had known, I would have thought of something to do. Although, even if I did, there was nothing I could do.
Clouds took over the sky right around noon, just when the clothes were done washing. The gloom must have taken over me as all I did for who knows how long was pace around the tiny apartment I reluctantly called home before ending up standing before the window, staring out. Grey, wistful swathes hung over the big city; city of the future, city of dreams— all those names and a single, cloudy day dwarfed it before its sombre glory.
The longer I watched those clouds, the more anxious I grew. For what reason, I couldn't tell. Nausea rose upon me, sweat threatening to spill through my skin but not doing so, paralysed in a state of limbo, just like the weather. My insides felt corrupt, leaving an intense drive to spill it out somehow, erase it, cleanse myself of it.
The houses around were quiet, the only sound in the neighbourhood being that of some vehicles passing by occasionally. For once, I lamented the quiet. I had always wished so desperately for it, cursing the kids for all their screaming, laughing, crying, shouting, stomping and playing around the neighbourhood. I was never a bitter person. I never hated children. But the quiet I got to enjoy on days like these was something precious, and anyone to break it made my blood boil. And now, for some reason, I found the quiet nerve-wracking.
The clock seemed to tick louder in the deathly silence, forcing me to do something about the wet laundry festering in the washing machine. Like a marionette, I got to work, hanging and laying the clothes on whatever surface provided the passage of air around them. The clothing rack wasn't sufficient. I would've made lunch, but the nausea made me stay out of the kitchen. I never liked to cook anyway, but takeout was slowly eating away at the peanuts I earned. Going out with colleagues was no better. Somehow, it always ended with me paying for everyone. Fastest way to end my appetite. I was never a miser but constantly ending up with empty pockets after every outing would make anyone resentful.
I couldn't see the Sunset. All around me were tall buildings blocking the Sun at its best hours. Sunset to me was a splash of greyish orange towards the west. Today, it was dull purple, the kind that makes your mouth twist in a snarl, almost like a large bruise or mold sprawling across the sky. It made me want to reach up and tear it down, and the thought alone made my fingertips tingle with disgust. The sight of that nasty shade slowly fading as the dark veil of night spread should have made me relieved, but it only made the sense of doom settle further into the cavity of my torso.
How deceptive time is, rushing forward with no mercy when it wishes and slowing to a suffocating halt when it wishes. I didn't realise when the day passed, but when my eyes landed by chance on the clock proudly counting down each last second of my life, I could only beg for it to speed up. I didn't want to suffer, I didn't want to die— at least not so soon. But death was sweeter than the agony I was put through for reasons I couldn't dare ask about.
It came to me all of a sudden but not at the same time. I expected something, something bad, for sure, when the mark on my wrist began to tickle under my skin. Not long after that, it itched and burned. I scratched and scratched and scratched until blood came trickling out around it, but the mark remained unharmed, pristine. I knew it was over for me then, when my nails, all bloody and full of dead skin, would simply glide over the warm, wet liquid coating my forearm.
My vision was blurry from tears, which obscured the figure that seemed to manifest in the middle of my living room. I kept scratching, growing positively desperate to get rid of the mark. It stayed, pitch black ink engraved into my flesh. I broke down and slid to the floor as the looming figure, cloaked in white and gold, approached. It probably had a head and a pair of arms, but it didn't use them to lift me off the floor. I kept my head hung, even as screams erupted from my throat; I didn't dare look up.
I didn't realise when the lights went out— or perhaps I had never turned them on the whole day— but it was dark. At least, it was supposed to be. Besides the lightning that shrieked between the blanket of clouds pouring down rain, there was a bright, off-white glow so strong it could blind me easily if I hadn't been staring at my arm the whole time. Even in mid-air, I was below the cruel deity that inflicted that pain on me. When the mark burned so hot it began glowing through the bloody mess I had made of it, I gave up, dropping my spent hand to my side.
Why was it doing this? What did it have to gain from me? Why did it choose me? I hoped my eyes conveyed those questions as I lifted them to gaze upon it. I fought the light through newfound tears only to see indifference in the fully black eyes, a void so vast yet tiny enough to be held within the walls of my home. There was no malice in those 'eyes', only an aloof responsibility. For me.
My ribs cracked under the invisible pressure, the rest of my insides flaring up— muscles turned magma and organs, lava. My throat had never felt so raw before as it did in that moment until it was silenced on its own. I pitied myself for the failed whistling sounds my broken throat made, although I didn't have to bear it for long as my ears started bleeding along with my nose and mouth. There was something coming out of me, besides all the blood that splattered all over, something invisible but so very tangible. A part of me— how big, I could not tell. The bright one ripped it out of me, separating the ugly from the ideal.
I understood. I didn't want this to happen, but I understood. The corruption, the impurities had to go, to be thrown out. A horrid night would result in renewal, in the perpetuation of a better, purer form. I may have accepted it in those final moments. The sky had quieted down after a great storm, creating space for me to lament the tantalising click of the second's hand and the sparse, shallow breaths that leaked out of my respiratory tract. I wanted to let it all go, to go unconscious into the gentle arms of sweet slumber. My eyes shifted around to take in the sight of home one last time.
Soon, I would be renewed, perfect. But the stains of those removed impurities would be carried by the place, by the clothes soaking in my blood, and that would be all that was left of the me that existed before the blurring of the lines. That was enough. If I closed my eyes, death was a certainty, but so was the awakening of a new me. A renewed me.
A/N: This is a little something I wrote for a monthly writing prompt, it being "A character wakes with a strange mark on their arm." Credit to @the-kingofdoritos for the prompt!
when too much alcohol loosens their tongue
🌀 leaning heavily on your shoulder, they slur, “you have no idea how long i’ve wanted to kiss you,” and you freeze, unsure if they mean it or if it’s just the alcohol talking.
🌀 they’re giggling uncontrollably, cheeks flushed, when they suddenly blurt out, “you know, you’re the only person who makes me this happy.” the laughter fades, replaced by an earnest gaze that’s hard to dismiss.
🌀 stumbling over their words, they confess with a shy grin, “i think about you all the time.” their eyes widen like they didn’t mean to say that out loud, but there’s no taking it back now.
🌀 sitting together in the dim light of the bar, they lean in close and whisper, “i’ve been in love with you for ages.” you almost laugh it off, until you see the serious look in their eyes, even through the haze of alcohol.
🌀 drunkenly grabbing your hand and holding it against their chest, they mumble, “my heart always does this around you, you know.” you can feel the unsteady rhythm beneath your fingertips.
🌀 they’re rambling on about nothing in particular when, out of nowhere, they look at you and say, “i would give up anything just to see you smile every day.” it catches you so off guard that you don’t know how to respond.
🌀 as you’re helping them get home, they rest their head on your shoulder and murmur, “i’m not drunk enough to lie about loving you.” the words are soft and slurred, but the sincerity in their tone is unmistakable.
🌀 they keep repeating your name over and over, like they’re savoring the sound, before letting out a dreamy sigh and admitting, “i wish you knew how much i care.”
🌀 after a few too many drinks, they look at you with bleary eyes and say, “you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” there’s a hint of desperation in their voice, like they’ve been holding onto that truth for too long.
🌀 as they sway slightly on their feet, they confess, “i’d do anything for you.” you laugh and brush it off, but they shake their head stubbornly, grabbing your hand to make sure you’re listening.
🌀 they stumble closer, eyes half-lidded and voice soft, saying, “you’re the only person who’s ever made me feel like this.” their fingers graze your arm, like they need the contact to stay grounded.
🌀 leaning in a little too close, they confess with a shaky laugh, “i don’t want you to ever be with anyone else.” the words come out rushed, like they’ve been bottled up for far too long.
🌀 slurring slightly, they admit, “i thought i could get over you.” there’s a hint of sadness in their gaze as they meet your eyes, like they’re realizing the truth for the first time.
🌀 as they’re drifting off on the couch, they grab your hand and mumble, “promise me you’ll stay.” their grip tightens slightly, like they’re afraid you’ll let go if they don’t hold on.