Comments an criticisms are welcome.
I apologize in andavantage for possible grammatical mistakes.
Warning for gruesome scenes and language.
First writing completely dedicated to my character Ariel.
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Hi there, you awesome living. Do you know me? If yes, probably you already hate me ...
But come, come closer stanger, and follow my trembling steps throught the fog, one by one ...
This place makes me sick.
But I don't give a fuck, because, who will ever come here to visit me?
I know only unpleasant people.
I feel depressed, again.
It's odd. It's like a quiet despair. I hate feeling so lucid. I have to accomplish a mission tonight, but in this state I can't even think about going out of my 'house'. House. It looks more like a lair, actually. Is composed by a little room and a moudly bathroom, at the sixth floor of a colorless complex of flats, in the outskirts of the city. That kind of place where everyone is deprerate in a different way, and each one minds its own business.
That's good for me.
The living room/kitchen/bedroom it's tumbledown at least. I admit that most of the fault is mine. There's a big window with glasses so dirty that it seems there's always a bad weather outside. The wallpapers should have had a cheerful color once, but now they're filthy and half unstuck ... It remembers me vaguely pieces of dead skin coming off slowly from flesh and bones, showing the bricklaying of the supporting walls. There's a bed permanently unmade in a corner, and near it a dusty bedside table. On it, lay the only shining objects in the room: it looks almost like The Twins, my pair of beretta 92 fs, are blinking at me from the shadows, with their disturbing reflections.
Probably they are the only clean things here.
What's missing? Oh, yes, a wardrobe with a broken door, full of rats and some old dresses, and a splintered table complete the forniture. On it, empty bottles lay forgotten, togheter with some worn cards. On the ground I've traced a crimson pentagram, always because the only visits I could ever wait for are unpleasants. In theory, I should be wise and cover it with a carpet, but I lack both the money and the will to do it.
And that is all.
I must go out.
I must accomplish my task, even if I'd prefer staying here on the floor, motionless, pretending to be dead. I can almost see each single hour passing over me, twirling in the air ... That feeling, the feeling that the word goes forward without you.
Okay, okay.
I just need to ... Wash my face. I'll feel better after.
The bathroom's door creaks at my passage. I put my tired palms on the washbowl (which is dirty as the rest, I never bothered about cleaning it).
Here's the mirror.
And ... Is that my face?
Maybe it wasn't a great idea ...
My long red hair hung down in a mess over my right side of the skull, leaving the most of the left one bald, on which was glittering an horizontal, silver scar, which plows my skin. I'll never forget the demoniac claw which struck it, which stole me part of the ears and the whole right eye. I keep a sidecut because of that. So everyone can see, remember, and fear.
Fear me.
My face contracted, making the eye even more supernatural: if you look close, it appears so clearly different from the left one, which is dark and humanoid, in spite of this which is unnaturally reddish, without synch with the other one.
I'm disgusted by myself, I can do nothing but turn my face.
Here she is, on the right, the fragile and attractive girl, Ariel.
But here she is, on the left, the monster, the ruthless demon, The Porcupine.
Divided into two parts.
This idea ... Makes me me going mad.
I just ... Just ... Can't stand it ...
I've let them all stealing my memories, my life, my eye and my freedom.
And ... And you dare to wonder ... How monsters born ...
Do you want me to be a monster?
You want me to be a monster, right?
So I'll give it to you immediately, the abomination, the butcher.
... It is the only thing I could be ...
... Nothing else ...
... Nothing ....
Please, let's stop this sorrow ...
This neverending anguish ...
But what if I kill myself? Right now, here.
Shut up! Stop thinking, now! It makes you feel bad!
All this is senseless!
Look at that face ...
YOUR FACE.
LIAR!
I WANT TO DIE.
SHUT UP!
I'LL KILL YOU!
MURDERER! GO AWAY!
EVERYONE MUST DIE!
IT IS THEIR FAULT!
YOU'RE CRAZY!
LEAVE ME ALONE!
It's with an animal-like exasperated impetus that I bang with all the strenght I have my head against the mirror.
Every single crack just created is filled by crimson blood.
I look at the reflected image. There's some blood dripping from the brow all over my face, even more distorted by the broken surface and flashes of madness runs in my eyes.
A light but fierce sneering tortures my lips, again blood which stains my white, clean teeth.
Yes.
It is much better now.
I dry the blood and hide the beastly eye with my usual black eye-patch: certainly I don't want that anyone gets upset! The two guns find their place on my belt, I lace up tighter my red boots, the leather greatcoat covers my shoudlers and it's a moment: I'm out.
Someone must give in or die tonight, and indeed it's not me.
I love your writings so.
Avatar & signature by Shimmyshimmy. ♥
Pfff thanks a lot Laiia! ç_ç
<3