better kept secrets ,

[josephine marla dixon]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 340px; background-image:url(http://i56.tinypic.com/20gfl1v.jpg); padding: 30px; border: #2D2729 solid 30px; ] better kept secrets WORDS 1501 TAGGED OPEN NOTES JOIN HERR She woke up before the alarm. She always woke up before the alarm. It defeated the purpose of having an alarm, but she had never considered being without one. It was the nightmares that shook her out of her slumber. Her breathing was shallow and ragged, as she rolled to the side and curled up in the fetal position, her arms tightening in a protective caccoon around her body. There was so much space. The air was too much, too heavy. It was on her skin and pressing against her face, and she suddenly found it very suffocating. As tightly as she kept curling up into herself, she could never make herself smaller. As tightly as she kept closing her eyes, she couldn't go back to sleep. She seemed to linger in a limbo between sleep and wakefulness, gripped in the clutches of the nightmares that seemed to fond on making love to her. She can feel the sick pleasure it derived from her misery, like it was something tangible she could touch if she reached between the seems of reality and grasped at what was haunting. The restlessness of her heart sent it accelerating, the heavy thumping in her chest bringing to the surface a hint of nausea. Her body was beginning to ache. She yearned to sum up tears that could somehow exorcise this sorrow that had a choke hold upon her soul, but she was incapable of it. She had to ask herself to breathe, tell herself to be brave, when she'd rather she didn't exist, when she'd rather she hadn't been born at all. But of course she'd never met anyone in her life that was that lucky. It was always tormenting in the morning. Her demons had a sick, twisted sense of humor. They always waited till sleep gave her blissful oblivion, before they attacked. They found her in the one place where she wasn't constantly tormenting herself with her thoughts, and her guilt. Sleep was the one place that could provide her sanctuary, until they found her, until they attacked her, until they stripped her down from oblivion and chased her with the tangible memories that were like claws upon her skin, creating tears in her tissue and rendering the flesh of her heart crushed and bloody. Sometimes it was almost as though they were toying with her, coaxing her onto an edge of a cliff while they danced their crazy dances around her and became the glee only nightmares and monsters can be, but never allowing her to take a step further and fall. It was frightening. Standing there staring at the abyss, and finding it looking back at you. The extent of the chasm was terrifying, to know that this great rift existed within her - something so vast, the Grand Canyon seemed small and insignificant in comparison. It was a wonder humans were able to go through every day life, while suffering as they did so, while breaking as they did so. Josie didn't want to. She was hopeless and human and holding on with the residue of bravery, but she was tired of being brave, she was tired of this hopeless existence. The ringing of the alarm breaking through the heavy silence was what startle her inner demons enough for them to momentarily relapse their hold on her, and she was quick to seize upon the opportunity and roll out of bed. The alarm signaled an hour for her to be at work, giving her time to take a long shower and try to scrub her body clean of her sins of the past. She'd been specifically requesting that she be given the morning shift at work, because she couldn't bear staying in that empty home on her empty stomach with nothing for company but nightmares. It was a truly horrifying thing, when nightmares became ghosts that you can see and interact with. She could feel their wretched cursing at having let her escape coming from her bed as she stripped her body bare of the cotton pajamas she always slept in, stepping into the shower and pulling the shower curtain closed. There, in that little space, with her breath coming out as fog as the hot water blasted from the shower head and beat down mercilessly on her skin, she tried to find a solace that was nonexistent. It was silly to choose a goose down the road when no good would come of it, yet she still needed the comfort of comfort, if not the actual thing. The water was scalding, punishing, but she didn't flinch, she didn't step out of it. So what if she was a little bruised and a little rosy attending work? There were girls with scars on their wrists from multiple suicide attempts, girls with scars on their backs from getting whipped. But it didn't matter if you took what you were given without a complaint and worked at pleasuring customers. The girls were just lures for money, even though where she worked at, the Mr. and Mrs. of the House always put the girls first It was one of the reasons why her job was the one thing about her life she didn't dislike. It mustn't come as a surprise, really, that she looked forward to her job. Once you step in through the doors of the 'massage parlor' into the world of human traficking, reality seems to have been displaced, so different is the aura in the business hours. The dolled-up girls in their clad-underwear walked around with poise with a cigerrate to their lips, the tired but stern receptionist would welcome you with a smile if she was not handling a particularly difficult customer. Walk through the waiting room where an air of anxiety hung heavy on the girls waiting to ne picked up by the horny customers, and you come into the kitchen area where the girls rest in between breaks, or, as she liked to think of it, home. Her skin was still burning as she clad herself in a towel and pulled open the door to her small closet - there was only a handful of decent clothes she could wear outside, as over the years she'd limited the amount of forays she had to make into the outside world, keeping her time divided between work and home, going outside only if she must. It wasn't only because she was in self-exile, but because working as a prostitute lead to the fear that someone on the street might recognize her, a customer might her and get to know her better, and bam, her cover would be blown. They were so careful with aliases at work, there were strict regulations that you never meet up with a customer outside work, no matter how insistent they were about it, and she had, for the most part, adhered to the rules and regulations. She didn't want the little comfort she'd found for herself taken away, she didn't want to risk anything that would get her fired, though someone accidentally recognizing her on the street didn't fall into the reasons why she must get fired. That was just the anxiety she had to live with, a perk of the job other girls experienced too, so that as days went by the girls began to dress as inconspicuously as they could in public - even if you were proud of the job that you worked at, even if you didn't think selling your body for money was indecent, nobody wanted to be found out, nobody wanted the world to know. She pulled a sweatshirt over her head and pulled on a pair of old blue jeans, standing in front of the mirror long enough to brush her hair behind her ears before leaving the apartment. She didn't like the mirror. She didn't like looking at her face. There was something so inhuman about the emptiness behind her irises, the sadness that was never there but was more than she could take. Tying up her sneakers, she pushed out into the sunlight, resting her hands in her pockets and keeping her eyes on the ground as she lightly walked towards the House. It was only as the parlor came into eyesight that she remembered - it was Thursday. It was the day she was given off from work. Taking a day off once every week was mandatory. As much as she'd liked to have worked in and worked for her wages, Mr. and Mrs. weren't going to hear of it and weren't going to let her. As the realization hit home, she felt more than a little lost. How was she to spend the rest of the day? She couldn't go back home, the demons were waiting. But there was scarcely any haunt that she could inhibit, any place she could hang out at. Without meaning to, her eyes welled up, that silly child wearing her emotions on her sleeve suddenly feeling very frustrated. waiting on a better day

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TEMPLATE BY KHRISTIAN @ CAUTION 2.0, LYRICS BY FALL OF TROY

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[flynn nolan rooney]

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---POUNDING VIBRATED THROUGH HIS SKULL, the sound sharply scraping against the inside of his head. startled, he sat up hastily, all but losing balance where he precariously sat on a stool. where the fuck was he? he looked around, groggy and disoriented, trying to find the bastard who had so cruelly awakened him. his vision was hazy, clouded by the excessive amounts of alcohol he had probably consumed the night before. it was a few moments before he managed to focus his gaze on a woman standing behind the bar counter. "what the f..." he began before a sudden pain jabbed at his right eye, infecting the entire right side of his head. the throbbing sent his head into his hands as he leaned over the counter, groaning, "what the hell happened?" his voice was raspy and broken, resembling a radio that was having a hard time retrieving a signals. something hard and cold slid into his elbow; a bag of ice. without much hesitation he picked it up and gently pressed it against the right side of his head, sighing with relief as it began to numb the pain. ironic that he had spent months perfecting the numbness that corrupted his very heart, and yet here he was, unable to numb his physical pain without the help of mother nature's most valuable substance; water. "don't move too much, you had a rough night," he reluctantly shifted his foggy blue eyes back to the woman behind the bar. she looked pretty young, rough around the edges, and oddly quite familiar. he tried to match her face to a name, but the throbbing inside his head was too much and he pressed the ice tighter to his face, looking back down at the counter. "where am i?" he slurred slightly before exhaling a gust of breath. "bad seeds," she said through a grin. that was why she looked so familiar. one of reed's girls. no wonder he was getting the special treatment, it sure paid off when the boss's little brother was your best mate. flynn nodded ever so slightly, waving his left hand briefly to signal that she could go on and continue with what had happened the night before. "well, you got a little too drunk. i'm pretty sure you were hammered before you even walked in. anyway, you got rowdy, and there was a girl and a guy. i'm not sure what happened, but it ended with you and the guy fighting, and he clocked you in the side of the head," she giggled a little at the end as she proceeded to wipe up the counters. well played, flynn.

julie, that was the woman's name. she let him sit around the bar for a few more minutes to gather his wits, but she had been there all night and needed to head home, so he stumbled out into the sunlight, wincing slightly. the side of his face was swollen, a shallow cut on it and bruises were beginning to form. he couldn't remember the last time he'd been punched for no reason. well, actually he could, considering carly had just punched him last week, but he had deserved that one. he was still torn up over how he'd betrayed his best friend, he'd betrayed her trust. granted, they had made up a few nights ago, but he knew this wasn't something they could get over easily. at least she had somebody to take care of her, flynn was glad sam was around to provide a decent father figure to lily, something he could only pretend to do himself. the idea of flynn settling down into a normal family, with a wife and kids and a labrador, it was unfathomable. he was never going to partake in the white picket fence life, the perfection of coming home to dinner and children who lit up when they saw your car pulling into the driveway. flynn had a wonderful family. he'd had wonderful parents. his mother had been the greatest woman he had ever met in the course of his existence, cheerful and bright, a light in a world of darkness. his father had been warm, but tough on them, he bonded with his boys, he cared about them more than anything. his family would have been ideal had it not been for the undulating current of crime beneath the blissful surface they portrayed. if that aspect of his life had been removed completely, he'd be living an easy life, one without struggles or deception or lies. he wouldn't be in the place where he was today, tormented by the past and dreading the future. guilt was an overwhelming feeling each and every day as he looked back at what had happened over the past six months. somehow he wasn't able to help anybody, only stand by and watch them fall from grace, or even be the torturer himself, inflicting pain on those he loved. they would have all been better off without him. he would have been better off dying as well, right alongside his family. why was he alive when they weren't? every single one of them had been killed, brutally, like animals waiting for the slaughter. he could still see his mother's curly red hair sprawled onto the wooden floors, her green eyes glossy and dead, no longer gleaming with warmth. her mouth was placid, stony and cold, blood dried at her lips. that image haunted him every time he closed his eyes, that coupled with the memory of the rest of his family lying lifeless on the floor.

he should have died with them. he should have bled out beside them. that, or he should have been able to save them. but this? this pointless mundane emptiness he was sauntering through each day? this was pathetic. he didn't deserve to waste away like this.

that was why he'd been so keen on the alcohol lately. he wasn't picky, not caring if it was expensive alcohol or the cheap kind. the poison was soothing to his body, however, it was the only relief he could find that made his mind stop running at a hundred miles per hour, replaying everything that had broken him, everything he had broken himself. sober it was nearly impossible to function because he was overwhelmed with self-loathing, it was almost physically painful, because few things were able to distract him. flynn rooney had always had a taste for liquor, he was irish after all, but tragedy only gave him a more powerful initiative to drown his blood in it. the ruby red liquid was polluted, tainted with the venom he willingly procured and injected into his body, welcoming the bitter, burning taste it left on his tongue and throat. it was soothing to wrap his hand around the neck of a bottle and realize it was his, it was something nobody could take away from him, it was like a warm blanket of assurance that soon the pain would go away. it was one of the few things in his life he could control completely, the one thing he held the controller to. he chose what channel he wanted to watch. he chose the color to paint the canvas. he chose the path to take. that was the sort of freedom he felt when he put the bottle to his lips. in a way he was killing himself, slowly destroying one of his vital organs. was that the intention? not necessarily. but did he care? no, not really. he would rather die slowly of liver failure than die over time because of a broken heart. it was a lot less painful, and he was able to be numb, to feel nothing. nothing was something he craved more than anything. once upon a time he used to be happy. he used to enjoy his life. he used to love his family. the key word was used to. now there was little more to live for than his friends, the last family he had. but even they would be better off without them. if he took one wrong step outside the public eye, one step into the shadows and let them pull him in the wrong direction, he could become a red target, and so would everybody he cared about. he had been laying low, forgetting about his life, for the sake of keeping the people he loved alive. nobody deserved to be put through pain for his sake, ever. the idea of it made him nauseous, he couldn't handle it. the world would be better off without him, but yet here he was, alive against all odds.

right now, however, his head was killing him. it felt like it was going to explode, like there was a miniature man with a war hammer inside his skull, smashing the steel into his bones. it was a miserable feeling, and what he really needed to do was wake up. there was a coffee shop down the street, and he decided to go get somewhat that cough wake him up and maybe lighten the scent of jack on his breath. he needed some painkillers, and while he may not have been gun-ho about his life, he wasn't quite suicidal, yet, and painkillers didn't mesh well with alcohol, so he needed to clean out his system. he held the ice to his head in one hand, the coffee in the other as he continued to saunter around downtown, not really paying much attention to where he was going. he still wasn't completely accustomed to valkyrie, considering he had spent very few hours sober within the city limits. he noticed some glances and stares as he walked by, people recognizing him. he was a famous dancer, and was in the limelight because his dance partner, carly sutton, was quite popular, and very recognizable. they knew him from magazine covers, or starring on saturday night live, he even played a dancer in a few movies, as well as starred as a guest judge on dance competition shows. he wasn't an a-list celebrity by any means, and most of the time nobody really knew who he was, but there were always the fans. but then it occurred to him that maybe people were staring at the puffy red flesh around his right eye and not him, per se. regardless, he didn't really care, continuing on his way like he hadn't a clue in the world where he was going. his secret? he really didn’t know where he was going. the ice was beginning to melt though, so he grudgingly threw it in a nearby trashcan before downing the rest of his coffee. what time was it? "god damn it," he muttered, throwing the coffee cup into the hollow trashcan as well. he spun in a couple circles, shoving his hands into his pockets. his head still hurt, but not nearly as bad as it had when he'd woken up, and he felt pretty alert, more so than he had in weeks. the pain wasn't tearing holes through his chest yet, and the memories were keeping themselves at bay. maybe he had finally built up that thick iron wall that would block out the past and only welcome the future, the wall that kept victims of horrible events strong and alive. he'd never thought the wall existed, that people were bullshitting it, but maybe it did. inhaling slowly, he noticed there weren't many people around. he really had no idea where he was.

his eyes scanned the perimeter, and finally rested upon a girl. she was pretty, if not maybe a little rosy, but the sun was up and it was summer, so what was a little sunburn? he squinted, looking at her a little closer. she didn't seem to notice he was there. it took him a moment or two to realize she was crying, or well, about to cry. well, that was his cue to leave. flynn spun around on his heels, ready to wander to the next street, maybe somewhere more familiar, but for some reason he couldn't make himself move. his ledger had enough blood on it, he was already a selfish ass, so why was he turning away from an opportunity to help? not to mention he used to have a soft spot for a damsel in distress. where had the chivalry gone? with a defeated sigh, he turned back toward the girl and hesitantly began to approach her. he warmed up a little bit, probably because she was even prettier up close, and she just looked so... sad. she looked lost. a part of him saw himself in her, which was not only frightening, but it made him want to reach out and hold her hand. what was this sudden compassion? he was still hung-over, it must have been the alcohol talking. he pulled of his hands out of his pockets, waving sheepishly as he got closer, "'ey love," he said softly, his irish accent prominent on his tongue, his lips curling into a crooked smile, "why the tears? it's a gorgeous day, and you're a lovely girl. take the world by storm, eh?" he probably sounded like an idiot, but he was doing his very best to be cheerful.

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(STATUS) finished. (TAGGED) josie<3 (WORDS) 2,215 (OUTFIT) click. (COMMENTS) couldn't resist <3 hope its okay. (CREDITS) lyrics; "run, daddy, run" miranda lambert.

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[josephine marla dixon]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 340px; background-image:url(http://i56.tinypic.com/20gfl1v.jpg); padding: 30px; border: #2D2729 solid 30px; ] better kept secrets WORDS 1495 TAGGED FLYNN NOTES WOOT XD She’d never been good at keeping a handle on her emotions. She didn’t think she could feel appropriately, to be honest. Her emotions were so unpredictable. They like to tumble up her spine when she wasn’t looking, grip a hold of her coordination’s, and wring out salty sadness from her soul. They liked to climb above the walls she’d hastily erected by jumbling together her best defenses and find a way to nestle in the all too human and all too hopeless rawness of her heart. It was almost as if they loved her too fondly to let go of her, yet sometimes when she looked for them she couldn’t find them, so completely did they abandon her. Apathy was the only emotion left in her then, and apathy was hardly good company. Apathy was tired and exhausted and stubborn in its refusal to find something to inspire and awaken her, but come morning when she woke up, apathy would be gone and replaced with this broken sadness that wept in her chest and rattled her ribs. She constantly fluctuated between feeling too much and feeling too little. Passion and passivity, she was used to them both. Passion and passivity, whichever one was inhibiting her, they were in charge. She was only a passenger on the rollercoaster she couldn’t control, and sometimes she took the cowardly way and didn’t try at all because she knew that there was a chance she might crash and burn the coaster, and she wasn’t brave enough to leave the world behind – yet. That was why as the tears welled up and spilled forth, she bit her lip and allowed them to. The sudden despair she suddenly felt crippled by could have been considered welcoming, after the ache and the yearn she had to cry in bed earlier but been unable to give into. But then, there were appropriate places for crying. On the floor of the bathroom, for example. Under your bed and balled up into the corner, for another. Not standing on a public street, pushing her fists desperately into her mouth to keep herself from sobbing, while there were probably faces at the windows of the identical houses lining the road watching her. She felt so alone, on the pavement by herself without company, with no place to go and no one to turn to. She hated not having someone to yearn to. She wanted a place she could come home to and rest her weary head – a home that was warm and open and welcoming, a home that was a heart that would swallow her in and refuse to let her escape. A home that would love her with an insanity that would close, if not completely heal, the open wounds in her soul that bled into the chasm inside her, each precious drop wasted another bit of herself she would never get back. It was so damning that she was standing in the middle of a street, losing herself inch by boring inch, and no one could see the toll it was taking on her, that no one knew that one day, she wouldn’t be there at all. She doubted very much that her death would make anybody look around and wonder where she was, or even miss her. She had never mattered to anyone, she had never been loved, so what was she to know? All she’d ever been is a dull color in the background. And one day, she’d disappear completely. She was fading away, and she was almost convinced that if she kept still, if she never moved, she’d cease to exist. But then the tranquility of the moment was upset by a voice that broke through to her, a gentle one that unbalanced her heart enough for her to attempt to see through the tears falling down her chin. How silly it was to have a break down in the middle of the street, and how silly it was to be found out just when you were going to fade away. Through the salt and the soreness of her eyes, she could make out a face. It wasn’t necessarily a pretty face – there was an abnormal, pink flush on the flesh. A mutation? She blinked, and her vision cleared to show that it wasn’t a mutation after all, but a man who’d probably been beaten up recently. He was watching her. Why must be watch her? The reason why she hadn’t faded away must be because he noticed her standing there. She wanted to tell him to go away. She wanted to tell him he defeated her purpose and that he was unwelcome, but the words were pushed back from her throat by the sorrow that encompassed itself around her esophagus. She had to remind herself to breathe as he spoke again, the accent in his voice brushing against her tender heart and causing her to wrap her arms tighter around her body, as she noticed the beautifully crooked smile on his lips. His scars were physical, but so was his beauty. She liked beautiful things. She was happy just looking at them. An unpredictable little happiness stole beneath her sorrow and tried to put a smile on her face too, but it was weak, and the task was too heavy for it. The smile ended up unbalanced before being stolen off her face completely again, as fresh tears raced patterns down her cheeks as she hugged herself together. “What tears?” She wasn’t in denial. She was only hoping her false bravado wouldn’t make him think any less of her. He’d already found her in such a mess, and she hadn’t let anyone see her that way since Annabelle, her one and only friend. She wasn’t good at dealing with this on her own, and she knew she’d only be worse dealing with someone else worrying about her. She didn’t allow people to worry about her. When Mr. and Mrs. of the House attempted to, her false bravado and stubborn insistence that she was alright, that she was going to be fine, had pushed them away. Eventually they’d contended themselves on letting her deal with it on her own, even though their eyes occasionally betrayed their worry for her. She never told them of her past, but they had seen enough in their time to recognize that she must have had a horrible time, and that though years blended into years and time kept moving forward, she still kept carrying the same old burdens on her back, she kept pulling along the same old nightmares by the chain on her ankles. Maybe she wasn’t even aware she was doing it, or maybe she was unable to outgrow it, cut it out of her life and away from her, but it was no wonder she grew so weary and dreary, there were too many skeletons in her closets with ghosts too, to sum it up. “I’m trying.” What she said next came out betraying the frustration and hopelessness she felt, because honestly, she woke up every day and battled her demons, even if she was never able to kick it to the curb. She went to work, she earned her wages. She lived. Her constant, daily struggle and accomplishment was that she lived, but then she must be so very weak and so very pathetic to fall apart this way. He probably thought her incompetent and childish. It was better than he walked away, better that he never looked back at the mess he left behind, even though a part of her hoped, yearned, to be held and comforted. “It’s not about being lovely.” She wasn’t crying as much anymore, even though the tears still leaked, as though the faucet behind her eyes could not completely be turned off. Her voice held a quiver and her eyes were suddenly open to the complete and broken mess that she was, as she looked into the man that stood beside her and wondered whether he’d ever sleep with his daughter. The thought made her smile. Not because she liked the idea, but because she didn’t know what else to do with the thought and she didn’t know what else to make of herself. She wanted to tell him to walk away, but she didn’t want to be deprived of his company now that he was here. She needed him to stay so she wouldn’t be so terribly alone, but she wanted him gone so she wouldn’t get used to the novelty of someone else’s company. It was all so fucking messed up. And so was his face, that sore flesh and the broken lines of torn tissue that bruised blue. It looked so inviting. “Did it hurt?” she whispered, her eyes leaving his wounds to catch his, a part of her wanting that physical wound on her skin, wondering if it’d make the ones in her soul seem any smaller or any less painful. waiting on a better day

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TEMPLATE BY KHRISTIAN @ CAUTION 2.0, LYRICS BY FALL OF TROY

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[flynn nolan rooney]

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---FLYNN HAD ALWAYS HAD A SOFT SPOT FOR WOMEN. he probably had his mother to thank for that. she was always so stern about the way her sons treated the opposite sex, enforcing a chivalrous attitude. she was very persuasive, and because she had been the "mother of the neighborhood" she was something of an all-knowing eye when it came to her children. she knew what all of her boys were up to, and if they treated one of their dates or girlfriends badly, the traitorous broads didn't hesitate to tattle to sweet mrs. rooney. well, sweet mrs. rooney wasn't very sweet when she was tugging her boys around the house by the ear, hollering at them about why they'd treated so and so in this manner, because she had taught them better. rooney boys were trained well on how to handle girls. of course, flynn had fallen astray lately due to the storm that had wreaked havoc upon his life, tearing apart the green trees and colorful flowers that had once taken root there, clouding the carefree lifestyle he'd grown so fond of. after the incident, he'd fallen into an abyss of shadows that had swallowed him whole, consuming every good thing about him. every once in a while, in the right circumstances, the old flynn was able to fight his way through and make an appearance, but more often than not it was a shell of his former self, hollow and unmoving, cold as a stone. the icy countenance he had taken up was easier, it erased the pain and made him forget. but the good things about him were forgotten as well. women were now nothing more than a passage of time. carly was different, she was like his sister, nothing romantic, there never had been anything romantic between them, but the rest of the female population was fair game. he didn't care about their names, or their feelings. he didn't want to sit and talk, or take them out to dinner. when they woke up in the mornings, he didn't bother to walk them out. he didn't even bother to say goodbye. he'd become a real jackass.

but for some reason his heart was touched by this sad girl on the street. granted, flynn had never been entirely good. he'd killed people, killed somebody's son, or brother, or husband. he was dark, and maybe that was why everything had suddenly gone so bad for him. karma, perhaps. but flynn wasn't very religious. he didn't believe in god, or buddha, or karma. attributing it to karma would by default make him religious, which he wasn't. so he was just the most unlucky guy in the world, clearly. but he had been good, deep down. he could have been a golden boy in another life, the picture of perfection. in some alternate reality, flynn rooney would have been that guy every girl wanted, and every other guy wanted to be. he could have been great, successful, admirable. yet here he was today, broken and bleeding, bruises shadowing his soul as he wandered aimlessly through life with no purpose or conviction in what he was living for. he was a waste of oxygen, and yet the small things kept him going, things that proved to him this world wasn't entirely twisted and awful. he had a soft spot for children, especially. they touched him in a way adults couldn't, being so innocent and oblivious to the despair around them. flynn wished he could have that bliss back. ignorance was bliss, right? he would rather be ignorant and blissful than all-knowing and miserable. because he was, he was totally and completely miserable. whatever was left of him had been washed away with the midnight tide, pulled out into the dark, black waters of the ocean. it sucked him under, beneath the surface, tossing and turning his battered body so he couldn't decipher which way was up. it enveloped him, consumed him. claustrophobia would take over, and he'd realize he couldn't breathe. one gasp for air would be a mistake, the black water rushed in, corrupting his dry lungs with moisture, slowly suffocating him in the darkness. it was inescapable, something he couldn’t fight because it left him so disoriented and forgotten. it would be too long before somebody found him, struggling to stay alive as he choked on the icy water, unable to spit it out and breathe in the fresh air he craved so dearly. by the time the rescue party arrive, he would be blue and purple, frozen. his skin would be cold to the touch, his eyes lifeless. he would be dead.

flynn wouldn't let other people shatter him, however. if he was going to break, he was going to break himself. nobody else would have that power over him. he refused to give them the sick satisfaction of watching the light leave his eyes by their own hand. the only thing he still had control of was himself, and there was no way in heaven or hell that he was going to give that up. he wasn't willing to give himself to another person, that would give them the euphoric ability to take a hold of his life. power corrupted people. it was like an infection, it wiggled its way into the brain, planting itself there and sprouting roots. it corrupted, making a wholesome person diseased and twisted, gnarled with ugliness and malicious intent. when in power, it was easy for somebody to abuse it, forming a god complex. flynn couldn't give himself over to somebody for that reason alone, they would feel empowered. it was easy to break somebody, but it was difficult to fix a broken person. broken people were shattered diamonds, the particles tarnished with soot and grime, fading away until nothing exists anymore. they were once beautiful and full of value, desirable, but that wasn't the case any longer. nobody desired a lost soul, a fragmented reality that was hidden beneath an asphyxiating smog that corrupted the lungs, tearing the pink flesh apart until it was bleeding a bruised. it was as infectious as cancer, and almost as uninvited. the only person who could empathize with the ruined souls were the ones who had been ruined too. but it wasn't often that people found their way home, was it? flynn wasn't sure, but he had little hope for himself. he didn't expect to live past twenty-five at this rate.

he hardly felt human anymore. genuine human interaction was foreign territory as he toed the line of soberness and his shattered haze. the interaction he was sharing with this girl, the human interaction, was bizarre, taking him aback. he felt awkward and lost, like he hadn't spoken to a real person in a long time. what was he doing? the pretty girl denied that tears were obviously streaming down her face. crying was one of the rawest human emotions, something flynn had never been able to do. yes, he had cried before, but it was like his heart turned off when his family died. it was a defense mechanism, better to feel nothing than to hurt all too much. he welcomed the numbness with open arms. yet, here he was, obviously feeling something for this stranger he'd never seen before. what was it? pity? compassion? he didn't really know, he couldn't describe the feeling in the pit of his stomach that was pushing him to try and make her feel better. he wasn't used to this. talking to a woman without the intention of having sex with her. "eh, love," he sighed with a brief smile, taking a slow step closer to her. for some reason she reminded him of a skittish deer, ready to bolt at every moment. the expression on her face was plagued, and he couldn't tell if she wanted him to leave her alone or not. was she that hard to read? or was he seriously out of the game when it came to human interaction? tears streamed down her face, an endless river of sorrow. her arms were wrapped around her body like she was trying to hold herself together, and flynn could just... relate. he hadn't talked about his family to anybody, not even his closest friend. but for some unfathomable reason he had the strongest urge to stop and tell this girl everything, to explain he understood how it felt to fall apart, and he understood what it felt like to tear another life apart. he wanted to stop and confess everything he'd ever done, to finally wash his hands of all the blood he'd spilled, and all the blood that had been spilled upon him. for some reason he wanted to tell her every damn thing. he wouldn't though. he had some extent of self-control. "what're these then?" he did his best to grin, lifting one finger to her cheek to scoop up a tear before pulling back and holding it at eye's height right in between them. he wanted to make her feel better. maybe it was because he wanted to feel better himself, and if this girl could find solace, maybe he would be able to as well. someday. "crying, love, means you've been too strong for too long."

by this point he was sure he wasn't human anymore. he'd been twisted and turned into some faded entity, a ghost of his former self. he wasn't a creature seeking solace in the afterlife, however, but stuck in the limbo between moving forward and the real, tangible world. he had been misguided, wandering without a cause or a direction. this girl he'd run into, maybe she was another ghost, stuck in the same position he was. but then she told him she was trying, and he believed her. unlike himself, she probably desperately tried to be normal, to live happily. she probably clawed at the raw edges of the world, hopelessly attempting to catch on somewhere she was welcome. then again, what did he know? he was nothing. he was a faded entity, a spirit waiting to die completely and be taken away to hell, since there was no way he was going to heaven. he was almost ashamed of his inhuman status, how weak and shallow he had become. "i believe you," he said quietly, for lack of anything better to say. he jammed both his fists into the pockets of his pants. a part of him was screaming to just turn around and walk away, and leave the straying beauty on her lonely path, but a bigger part of him said no. a part of him wanted this, to be with another person who had no idea who he was. he liked not being hated, or being looked at with pity or disgust. a stranger was perfect. he had lied to and deceived so many people he cared about, creating an illusion to sell the person he'd wanted to be, but it had only caused more pain and grief in the end when the web of lies had been burnt to ash and the truth was discovered. with this girl he couldn't be judged, because she didn't know. it was almost relieving. "but you are lovely," he insisted, despite her protesting. he didn't know what point he was trying to prove, lacking tact and eloquence, but he was trying. he words were jumbled the first things fired off his tongue. the girl smiled, but it wasn't a smile of elation, which was a little disconcerting. he ignored it though, remaining stone-faced. her next question took him aback. "did it hurt?" he'd almost forgotten about the sore wound on his right eye, and at the reminder his fingertips unconsciously moved up to touch the flesh, torn and beaten. it still throbbed, but he'd been so distracted he hadn't really noticed. he wasn't sure how to answer, but she was looking at him so intently that he couldn't help but chuckle. a natural laugh. he hadn't naturally laughed in a long time. "aye, love," he answered with a grin, "got clocked in the temple, i did," he explained briefly. he couldn't really give her any more details than that because he couldn't remember them.

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(STATUS) finished. (TAGGED) josie<3 (WORDS) 2,040 (OUTFIT) click. (COMMENTS) i'm cheating and replying to this instead of all the other posts i owe. oops. (CREDITS) lyrics; "run, daddy, run" miranda lambert.

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[josephine marla dixon]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 340px; background-image:url(http://i56.tinypic.com/20gfl1v.jpg); padding: 30px; border: #2D2729 solid 30px; ] WHEN EVERYTHING IS SELF-DESTRUCTIVE WORDS 1796 TAGGED FLYNN NOTES flynn is wonderful. and aha, i hope you keep cheating because i love this thread. XD She’d been kind to herself, that she was sure of. She’d never taken a blade to her skin nor punished her body to an extreme exercise. She’d never taken pills or even abused substance. She ate her meals regularly, and condemned herself to sleeping even though it tormented her to wake up in the morning. She was good to her body. It had never occurred to her to act otherwise. The scalding she’d taken in the bathroom, that was incidental. She hadn’t intended to on such a hot shower, but because she’d stepped into it, she took the beating. That was how she had gone about life. Taking what she was given without a fight, without a complaint. Accepting the things as they came and putting up with it. Even if it burned and bruised her, the pain was hers to bear and she bore it well. She was far from stoic. How easily she could cry was proof enough. She’d never been one to demand more than what she was given or even complain about it. Maybe humble was the word that could describe her, if a word could sum her up. But she was far from being summed up, so distorted and disconcerted and disorientated had she become. She couldn’t remember a feeling that had ever set her soul at ease; she’d forever been left washed ashore with the tides beating mercilessly upon her body after the currents were done with raging at her. Sometimes in the middle of the night when she’d wake up from a particularly terrible nightmare, she’d sneak out to the beach. Some might say that it was reckless, the city was hardly known to be a safe haven, specially to young women, but she lived in a universe inside her head, for the most part, oblivious to what went around her, effectively staying out of it. Maybe it was because she tended to keep so still and silent that people hardly noticed her. There was a stretch of beach, a little isolated from the rest beneath a hanging cliff that she’d curl up in. Drawing her knees to her chin, she tried to stem the fire within her by focusing on the way the waves chased and teased and raged against each other to the shore. She knew it was beautiful, but she couldn’t feel it. She couldn’t derive any pleasure from the natural wonders taking place around her. Even the stars, distant and aloof in the comfort of the sky, couldn’t move her. They watched her from the seven skies, bundling up their memories of her in the heat of their heart, so that maybe one day if they ever came across a loner as sad as she, they could tell her story in the hope that there’d be some comfort. The planets, though, they understood. She felt it so, because they were alone in their orbit, spinning on and on simply because they were on their destined path, and occasionally, two of them would cross each other, and for moment it wouldn’t seem so lonely, but the parting would be inevitable, and you continue to spin on even though you’re all alone again. It was beautiful how the ocean kept kissing the shore, no matter how many times it was sent away. That was why she snuck out, she could on the sea to be there. It was silly and illogical, but nothing had been rational or constant in her life. Nothing had been human, too, with the exception of Annabelle. Or maybe the problem was that we were all too human – and her father, where was she to even begin to explain him? He’d only wanted to love the wife who’s life had been stolen from him, and Josie was the one who had killed her mother. Maybe it was only the debt she owed to her father that he took from her. If Annabelle was here, she’d tell Josie it wasn’t so, not to reprimand herself. Annabelle was under the misguided impression that Josie was a martyr who’d sacrifice herself without a noise, who felt she deserved whatever end of the stick she got. Maybe Annabelle wasn’t far from the truth, but Josie didn’t think of it that way. In her world, right or wrong couldn’t so easily be distinguished, there were so many shades of gray, and her heart held so much love, even for the one that wrong her in every way. Maybe she wasn’t completely oblivious to the fact that she’d been wrong, though – she genuinely attempted to be there for people. She didn’t want anybody else to experience the horror she experienced, she didn’t want anyone else to be left to their own devices. She’d always will to rescue somebody else; though she couldn’t even begin to pull herself out of the pit she was in. And what a pit it was, for the scars on his face to look so inviting. She found herself craving for bruises on her skin, too, wounds that would rip apart her flesh, maybe blood that would spill and ease the tornado of emotions inside her. What she felt instead was his skin on hers, touching her for a second or less as he brushed a betraying tear from her cheek, and suddenly she felt so scared as so vulnerable, he was so tangible, something she could touch, and move, something she could throw herself against but could probably hold her up when her knees gave away. He was holding the tear up between them, and she tried to focus on it, even though it was hard enough, holding a universe in her mind, the boundaries of which she couldn’t see. Sometimes it grew so heavy, and she wanted to rest her weary head. She felt confused that he’d stolen her tear. He’d touched her sadness. He could probably feel it on his skin, could probably notice the poison in it. What if it started to leach the life from him too, as it did to her? But he was grinning. She couldn’t tell if it was genuine, his grin was against the backdrop of her tear that he was holding up. “Then what is this, then?” He’d asked, and the answer came to her naturally. “My sadness. You touched my sadness.” Her voice was strangled. “Crying, love, means you’ve been too strong for too long.” He said, and she found a laugh escaping her, bubbling forth unexpectedly. The idea was so ridiculous. Strong? She was far from strong. She was tired and exhausted and broken and… far from strong. Far from brave. She didn’t deserve such an analogy. “Bullshit.” It came out fast and abrupt, falling short of amusement, more like a punch in the face she wanted to give herself. But just as quickly as the laugh had come, it was gone, and she found his eyes and tried to communicate her bewilderment, even though she had no clue what she was or what she was becoming, and she couldn’t have told you what was left and what was center.”I shouldn’t be crying, you know.” Her voice held an apology, but at the same time it came out self-reflective. “I didn’t remember not to, it just..” the words didn’t come. They were on her tongue but they weren’t spilling. She didn’t know where the manual on feelings was. That might be her problem, right there. “I believe you.” he said, and it threw her off all the more. If he didn’t, would it make it any less real? Would the pain go away? Could he stop believing in her? What if she had the ability to become a myth, and fade away into people’s memories, a story to be summed up like Santa on Christmas? But no, Santa was a symbol of hope. If she could stand for something, it would be for sadness. Nobody wanted a symbol of sadness. Children didn’t want to hear about the sadness that walked, that talked, that lived. Sadness should be killed, murdered, raped. Sadness should be eradicated, there should be fighters on the street with guns at their hips ready to be taken out to be shot at sadness and nightmares. Then the world would truly be a better place. “But you are lovely.” He insisted, and she had to remind herself to focus on her words instead of the soothing irish lull of his accent, sort them through her mind so that the words made sense, instead of letting it pass through her into netherworlds as she did with most of the people she communicated with. She always stayed with one foot firmly stitched to her delusions, so that she was never completely present in reality. It was a coping mechanism. And here was someone telling her that all that she was was lovely. He must be kind, and such a nice man, to tell her so. She owed him more than a vacant stare. “I..” She didn’t know what to say. Her words kept hesitating at her lips, so used to being jumbled up inside her that they’d grown afraid of leaving her. She was curious to know how they’d sound in the air, and yet they must be coaxed out slowly. “No one.. has ever told me that before. You are truly kind. I’m far from lovely, but maybe – maybe we can just pretend.” Her eyes held the hope of a child, reaching out to a secret friend, asking to play dress-up so they wouldn’t have to live in their reality. When she brought to his attention the bruises on his face he seemed to have forgotten about, he chuckled, a sound that rifled through her collarbones into her lungs, a breath of fresh air that she’d inhaled that for a second, made her lighter. “Aye, love.” He said, and this time she couldn’t question the sincerity behind the grin, “Got clocked in the temple, I did.” She wondered why he was so happy at having been beaten up, so apparent his complete ease once she’d asked him about the bruises. He seemed lighter, too, when talking about it. So maybe getting beaten up wouldn’t be so bad. The physical scars might raise a few loud voices at the House at first, but whoever died without any scars? Her eyes, lingering on his wounds, was greedy. “Do you think you could clock me one?” Her tone was serious, a delusional hope being born from what she conceived to be an escape plan. “I won’t tell.” She added, in case he’d have any qualms about beating up a woman. And she wouldn’t. It would stay and die between them, he’d be doing her the favor she wanted. She wanted a bruise just like his. I CAN'T EXPLAIN MYSELF AWAY

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TEMPLATE BY KHRISTIAN @ CAUTION 2.0, LYRICS BY FALL OF TROY

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[flynn nolan rooney]

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---THIS GIRL WAS LIKE A BREATH OF FRESH AIR. or well, unfamiliar air. he was having a hard time deciphering whether this was a healthy encounter or not. this girl was childlike in a way, and he was under the impression she was so much younger than himself, but she was probably about his age in reality. yet she seemed so sweet, genuine. she looked like a victim of corruption, lying in the street to waste away as people passed by, unaware. she was so upset over something, and yet she hadn't told him why despite him asking, only deflecting his inquiries with statements that were sloppily laced together with denial and fatigue. maybe he was projecting his own emotions onto her. maybe there was just a part of him that wanted to believe she was just as messed up and tangled as he was. he wanted to believe her heart was gnarled and broken, shattered by the demented workings of the outside world. he wanted to believe she suffered the same sort of dementia he did, tarnished with rust and soot, dirty when placed next to the rest of the world. he wanted her to be as corrupt and lost as he was, because he felt like nobody could possibly understand what he was facing, all the emotions that tormented him and tore apart his insides, leaving him raw and bleeding to death. he wanted somebody to die with him and be buried in the same forgotten graveyard, somebody who wouldn't getting any visitors either. misery loves company. it was all too true. he wanted her to be miserable, he liked believing she was. it made him feel better, it helped numb his own pain. all he craved was to feel nothing, to be nothing, to not care anymore. he wasn't supposed to care about the rest of the world. why did he care about this girl? damn it, he didn't even know her name. it was almost infuriating that he was taking time to talk to her, to sit here and listen to her senseless ramblings. she meant nothing to him, she was nothing to him. he should have turned around on the sidewalk when he had the chance, he should have walked away and left her alone to fall apart by herself. how was he going to help her? he couldn't. it was that simple. he couldn't even help himself, he couldn't even make himself forget, so how the hell was he supposed to make this girl feel any better? you couldn't save somebody from the black waters of the ocean when you were drowning yourself. he was trying in vain. if he tried to help her, they would both drown in their own sorrows.

but that was the darker half of him speaking, the half of him possessed by demons and devils. that was the part of him that had been corrupted by the venom of loss and betrayed and guilt. he was ashamed to have even wished such a terrible fate for a girl he hardly knew. nobody deserved to feel how he did, and the other part of him genuinely hoped she was okay, that it wasn't all that serious. maybe she lost her favorite necklace, or her dog ran away. he hoped it was that simple, for her sake. but deep down he knew, because there was an overwhelming sadness in her eyes and weaving through her voice. of course it couldn't be that simple. nothing was ever that simple. he had a feeling she was hurting as much as he was, if not more. when he was plotting her demise, his head was reeling over how to save her. he couldn't explain his attachment to this strange girl he'd just met. he wasn't sure why he felt so drawn to her, but he did, and he couldn't help himself. he tried to make excuses, that it was her beauty, or that he had a weak spot for a woman in tears, but those were shallow, mundane reasons. he was aloof when it came to new people, he didn't want to trap them in his world of webbed lies and the constant oppression of possibly being pursued by some very bad people. he didn't introduce himself to people unless he was looking for a quick leap in the sack with a dazzling dame, but to make real relationships and attachments? he avoided those at all costs. he was the ass who walked passed people in distress, he wasn't the helpful type. that wasn't flynn. he didn't spew pretty words, he wasn't aspiring to become some sort of consolation prize to a broken spirit. yet, here he was. doing just that. he looked like an idiot, trying to help this girl. they were both drowning, but maybe he could save her and forfeit himself. he wasn't naturally the self-sacrificing type, but he also wasn't afraid to die. he had nothing left to live for. well, that was a lie. he had carly and lily, but he knew they would be better off without him. they would be safer. but this girl didn't look safe, standing alone on a street, holding herself together like she was about to fall apart. she didn't look like she would be better off without him, but then again, who was to say she would be better off with his presence. he wanted her to smile, a genuine smile, not the empty one. why? he couldn't have told you, but he craved it. he wanted to touch her, to comfort her, but he wouldn't do that. she didn't deserve to be corrupted by his blood-stained hands. touching her cheek was a mistake in itself.

so was this girl clean air? or was she cancerous, corrupting his lungs? the thought reminded him of ireland. he could remember one day in particular. he'd only been about seven, innocent, secure in his life. he'd been happy and carefree. he could clearly remember the sun, the cool breeze. he would run through the allies and along the roads, covered in dirt. he'd never felt more free than he did exploring dublin. of course the air was worse in the city, though not awful, but it was worse than when he visited the countryside. the green hills called to him like family, inviting him to embrace their vastness, to bask in the beauty of mother nature. he loved ireland. it was his favorite place on the planet. he could remember the taste of the air, how liberating it was. it was clean, fresh. it made him feel like he was unrestricted, like the sky was the limit, and the horizon was his goal. freedom had beckoned to him. happiness followed him. he had been seven years old that day as he stood on the hills alone, staring down into the vibrant green valley. the greenery was different than it was here. it was bright, and unique. it was like being on an alien planet. it was incorruptible, desirable. people traveled from all over the world to witness its majesty firsthand. he could remember the way the clouds would roll into the sky, dark and menacing. they always seemed to have the intention of tearing the beautiful land apart. yet when the rain fell, it only made everything more gorgeous. and the smell? it was overwhelming, fresh and clean. it was like the sins of the world were being washed away, baptized beneath the drops of water falling from the sky. it was intoxicating, and he never wanted to go inside, even if he was soaking wet. it made everything even brighter, even more lovely. the aesthetic landscape was something he had fallen in love with, the only thing he had ever fallen in love with. and there was an irish blessing his mother always told him, and he would always say it out loud when he was there. seven years old. he held that blessing dear to his heart, and he'd held that memory dear to his heart. in a way, this girl was like ireland. it was an odd comparison, but it made sense in his head. because she was beautiful even while being tortured, because he could tell she felt tortured. he was perceptive, despite everything. even through the storm she shone, and he had a feeling that she couldn't see it at all. she didn't understand what she symbolized for him. she didn't see it.

maybe he was going crazy, because his thoughts were so scattered and disheveled. why was he even thinking about his childhood and his home country? those memories were poisoned with guilt. they were plagued with the face of people he couldn't save, people he could no longer see. he never wanted to witness any of this. he didn't want to see his house cease to be a home. but it had. and he had been there for the whole post-production process. he watched his childhood become diseased with a venom he couldn't cure. it would be with him forever, as long as he lived. he was a lost cause. his entire world was enveloped by haunted skies, an inner war waging behind his outer skin, his heart set ablaze by the crossfire. he must have still been drunk, that or his body was going through serious withdrawals, because when he woke up in the morning there was usually some easy alcohol close by for him to begin the entire process over again. this was the longest he had gone without drinking in a while. he was pathetic, and alcohol was his crutch. he knew that though, and he knew that everybody else could see it. there was no use in fighting off the inevitable. all he knew was that his throat was parched. it craved the burning sensation that would numb his heart and clear his head.

the girl claimed her tears were her sadness. he had touched her sadness. it was odd to consider that her emotions were tangible, something he could affect with a single touch. she had been so genuine though, her words coming out smoothly, like she hadn't even thought about the response. it simply spilled from her quivering lips. he wasn't really sure how to respond. to apologize? he didn't know, but he was beginning to feel extremely awkward. he wasn't cut out for this, he was too messed up to be able to healthily react to her. it was a good thing he was somewhat sober, because otherwise who knows what sort of mess this could have turned into. she called bullshit on his corny little saying, and he couldn't help but snorted, laughing briefly before shrugging, "yeah, well," he smiled coyly at her, "i never quite believed that one myself," hiss jaw flexed slightly, "but it holds some truth, i think, you don't hafta agree," he pursed his lips slightly. it was somewhat true, he figured. flynn never cried, but he was pathetic, he drank away his emotions. they never even had a chance to touch him. but this girl? she didn't look like a worthless drunk. she looked like somebody who had been through hell and back yet was still standing here in front of him, looking perfectly normal aside from a few tears. that to him was strength. she could probably kick his ass, metaphorically. "i shouldn't be crying, you know." she continued. flynn raised his eyebrows, making an expression that read 'is that so?' he listened as she attempted to explain, but she ended up choking on her words, it was like she'd forgotten what she had wanted to say. "aye darling, there's no need to explain to me if ya don't want to. sometimes ya cry over somethin', and it's really not 'bout whatchya thought it was," his lips curled upward on one side, pulling his mouth into a half smile. he wanted to understand what she was feeling, truly he did, but he just couldn't. he didn't know a damn thing because he didn't know this girl. she baffled him, which was odd because women were typically simple to read. they wanted affection love, or something expensive. they were sad for typical reasons, and usually a joke, or a present, or an embrace could make them smile and forget their woes. yet this girl was different. he didn't really know what to do for her, he was at a total loss. he wanted to comfort her, but he didn't know how.

fuck this. why did he care? why was he so preoccupied by this? he was on an emotional roller coaster between compassion and infuriation. he hated himself for caring because he shouldn't care. it didn't make any sense. "what's your name?" he suddenly blurted out. well, if he was going to sit around giving a shit about a stranger, he may as well know her name. it was good that he had the self-control to be able to contain the anger inside of him, instead of taking it out on her. even if the urge slapped him across the face, he wasn't sure he would be able to be blatantly rude to this girl. she was childlike, and he had a soft spot for children. by default, he had a soft spot for her. he figured he might as well tell her his own name, if they were finally getting to the introductory problems, "i'm flynn," he said casually, his voice more gruff than before, somewhat strained like he didn't want to talk, but it was more like confliction. he wanted to talk to her, but he didn't want to fall into something where he ruined everything around him. everything he touched didn't turn to gold, it was quite the opposite. everything he touched died, it became twisted and black, poisoned with perpetual disease. if he touched this girl's life, well, maybe he would be injecting venom into her, making it harder to heal. he had killed people. killed them. he wasn't good, he wasn't the person you would seek after for company. it was actually kind of ironic to think that here he was, a cold blooded killer, and yet somebody had managed to punch him in the eye. he wondered who the rat bastard was, but it wasn't like he was in any position to remember. but it definitely hindered his pretty face. he wondered if women would be harder to seduce because of it, or if maybe it would make it easier because they would pity him. he was hoping for the latter. when he called her lovely, he hadn't been trying to seduce her. which was also a strange concept considering he was a womanizer, but he was being genuine, and making no real point, but at least he'd meant it. she didn't believe him though. he was surprised to hear nobody had ever said it to her before, and that she thought he was kind. what? flynn kind? wasn't that some sort of oxymoron? he smiled weakly as she finished, cocking his head to the side, "i think you give me too much credit, but yer not givin' yourself enough," he looked at her briefly, making eye contact, his blue orbs meeting her own, "if nobody has said that before they're blind, lass. ya haven't met the right people yet."

flynn didn't quite understand her infatuation with the bruises and swollen flesh around his eye. then again, it must have looked a lot worse than it felt. he could feel blood crusted around it, a weak scab covering the gash on his temple. the attention she gave it made him curious, he wanted to find a bathroom and look at it himself. he was beginning to notice the throbbing again, and he squeezed his eyes shut. he had a strong feeling that the guy who had clobbered him hadn't done it just once, that the fight had been a bit more intense than julie had made it sound. she hadn't given him much details, he got the feeling that she hadn't really been the one who noticed it or broke it up. but then the girl parallel to him took him by surprise yet again. "do you think you could clock me one?" she asked. for a moment he thought she was joking, poking fun at him. his expression remained stone cold, completely neutral. "i won't tell." what the actual fuck. she was serious? her expression seemed to say so. this was the proof flynn needed to confirm she was just as broken inside as he was. she was just as messed up. he understood the self-loathing, the insatiable desire for physical pain that would numb the inner pain. he took a step closer to her, tentatively lifting his hand to hold her chin between his index finger and his thumb. he lifted her head, then turned it from side to side. he ran his curled index finger down the side of her cheek before tapping the bottom of her chin again and shoving his hand into his pocket, "love," he said slowly, "listen, i'm not goin' to hit ya." he was very serious, a sad expression in his eyes, "there're better ways to feel nothing. i'm a professional," he chewed on the inside of his lip for a second, before turning his back towards her and taking a few steps away, "look, you and me, let's get ourselves something to eat. i can't go drinkin' for a few more hours, the alcohol's got to wear off so i can take some pain killers. but obviously you've never drinken liquor the right way. numbs ya right up," he grinned, trying to make it convincing. why was he doing this? he'd probably regret it. but then again, maybe he wouldn't.

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(STATUS) finished. (TAGGED) josie<3 (WORDS) 2,997 (OUTFIT) click. (COMMENTS)i can't help myself! i love this! plus, my muse is very limited right now. and sorry this one ended up kinda weird xD also, sorry i ramble so much. (CREDITS) lyrics; "run, daddy, run" miranda lambert.

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[josephine marla dixon]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 340px; background-image:url(http://i56.tinypic.com/20gfl1v.jpg); padding: 30px; border: #2D2729 solid 30px; ] it's as bad as bad can get WORDS 2083ish TAGGED flynn NOTES sorry for the wait, had exams. hope this is good enough! MUSE caught up by fall of troy, wonderful song In ways, she knew she’d always been loved in her life. Not in the ways you’d expect, but she’d been loved, and that was why she didn’t like to wear her emotional scars as something everyone else could see. She didn’t want to be the type of person who brought down the hues of blue from the sky and constantly walked around with a storm cloud above her head that not only soaked and drenched her, but those around her too. She knew there was enough suffering in the world, had experienced the raw and biting truth of it first hand, that was why she constantly tried to be the light that would break through another person’s storm, being the firefighter who rescued others from metaphorical burning buildings when in all honesty, her own fiery fire had been eating away at her flesh and bone for years. If anyone were to peel away the layers of skin she wore, they would be terrified to see the burned and charred remains left behind by the wreckage of life and assault. But that was why she wore the smile, however broken – people didn’t need to know, people didn’t need to see. As long as she could ease someone else’s burden, she was distracted from the screaming bundles of history of her own that demanded every last bit of her attention, pain that demanded to be felt lest it cleft her body in two, destroyed her in way mortals would be traumatized to see. But her façade had slipped up, and someone had seen the ashen debris left behind by the taste of the fire. Hell, maybe he could even hear the crackling of the ever consuming fire that still burnt, that still stole from her. But he was still standing next to her, which she found very brave. He’d stolen her sadness and felt it on his skin, he’d watched her break and there he still stood, slightly awkward but very much present and willing to continue this interactions, this communication that was slowly easing her back into her comfort zone of apathy, though the fact that she was communicating with someone who’d witnessed her break down placed her well outside her comfort zone with people. But he was laughing, the sound an intoxicating lull when combined with his irish tone, and she found she wasn’t as terrified as she normally would be, even though his presence, now that her sadness wasn’t as apparent anymore, pressed heavily into her space like an unfamiliar boulder on the wrong landscape. It was perhaps good thing, because she wasn’t going to get used to this easily, and the last thing she needed, really, was to let someone else familiarize them with her. She’d learned long ago that if you opened up too much, people tended to fall in and hurt themselves. And the last thing she wanted was to inflict pain or misery on somebody else, especially when they were more deserving of happiness and the added of bliss of ignorance. She wasn’t going to allow anybody else to be dragged down with her, she didn’t want anybody else to suffer because of her. She wasn’t worth the suffering. She was just an insecure little bundle of thoughts and emotions that was better left discarded and forgotten about, lost at sea where no one could find and no one could care about her. “Yeah, well, I never quite believed that one myself,” He was saying, “but it holds some truth, I think, you don’t have to agree,” A ghost of a smile flickered on her face, as she murmured, almost as an afterthought, “Preaching a religion you don’t entirely believe in.” The air around her was heavy. There was too much of it, pressing down on her. Weights on her skin that pushed down upon her, and she wrapped her arms tighter around herself so that she didn’t have to feel how small and unconventional she was, to be living in this atmosphere that didn’t seem to want her there. Even oxygen felt like poison sometimes, but she lived knowing that each breath was taking her that much closer to a better world. Sing me to sleep; I don’t want to wake up on my own anymore. Don’t try to wake me in the morning for I will be gone. Don’t feel bad for me, I want you to know, deep in the darkness of my heart I’ll feel so glad to go. A tear hesitated at her lashes, remorseful at having been shed, before falling down her cheek, onto her lips. It tasted so wonderful, her sadness. The taste of it had become almost perpetual in her mouth, yet it always tasted beautiful, her body refusing to tire of it in any way. “ aye darling, there's no need to explain to me if ya don't want to. sometimes ya cry over somethin', and it's really not 'bout whatchya thought it was,” He didn’t get it, not really. There was nothing that justified her crying, nothing except that she was so weak and pathetic and didn’t have a place to go, didn’t have a place to be. The loneliness of the realization struck home, but maybe he was more spot on than she realized, because she couldn’t really explain her break-downs either, she only kept using them to punish herself, as though she never quite suffered enough, as she should. She shook her head, a mild no. She found herself taking a step back, torn between the desire to run from him, to find herself a vacant place where she could curl up into a ball until the heaviness of the atmosphere pushed her into oblivion, but then, she didn’t want to be alone. His odd tone and their odd conversation, she wasn’t ready to leave it behind. His presence, it was both a balm and a bruise. But she didn’t get to have balm often, she went without balm for such a long time, she was surely allowed to indulge herself, a little moment of his stolen time, and then she’d be gone, lost into the wind where he hopefully could never find her. He should never find her. And there it stood, her conflict resolved. It was going to be the most selfish thing she’d ever done, jeopardized the time he could be having by himself or with anybody else but her, by not letting herself walk away from him yet, condemning him longer into her sad, demented company, for her temporary peace of mind. Her skin prickled, irritated at her for wanting and demanding so much, but surely being human meant that was inescapable. “What’s your name?” The question left his lips and hung in the air, threatening, and suddenly she found herself unsettled, waiting for words that wouldn’t come. What was her name, that single entity that summed up this disembodiment of flaws and oddities? Was it enough to quench he asked, stop it from squeezing her heart muscles with its tiny claws? “I’m Flynn,” he said, and the question was no longer as suffocating, his name wrapping itself around her like a comforter, a safety and warmth that was not necessarily unwelcome. “Josie.” She gave herself away in a whisper, trusting him to lock it up in his heart and keep her safe. She felt shy, awkward, like this exchange of names was an initiation of some sort, whether she was indebted to be his friend because of this transaction. She didn’t normally mind being a friend, it was an opportunity she jumped at. But it was usually because someone else was in a mess. With Flynn, she was the vulnerable one, he was the one who stood fully-functioning and normal. It was an unusual spot to be in, the one with the bruise everyone else could see. “I think you give me too much credit, but yer not givin’ yourself enough. If nobody has said that before, they’re a blind lass, ya haven’t met the right people yet.” His words made her nostalgic for people she’d never met, places she’d never be, and she smiled little sadly, looking down at her shoelaces. She’d named them once, her shoelaces. The one on her right shoe was called Serendipity, the one on her left shoe was called Giggles. It had been on another Thursday, which she’d spent by herself, curled up inside her tiny closet after she’d thrown all her clothes out. Once she was finished with sobbing, she noticed her shoes on the floor beside her, probably a witness to her tears, and she’d asked them not to tell anyone, she was hiding in the closet because she didn’t want the world to know that she was sad. She shouldn’t be sad. Serendipity and Giggle had been her companion that lonely afternoon, and on the occasional afternoons that followed. They weren’t the most conventional of friends, but they were there, and they listened to her. “Maybe not the right people.” This time her smile was real, a light in her eyes from the knowledge that at least she’d met the right shoelaces. “But I’ve had good company.” She told him, pleased to have good bearings she could tell him, so maybe he wouldn’t think she was so sad after all. She almost expected to be patted on the head, be told she was a good girl. But then it doesn’t always happen the way you expect it to. It doesn’t always happen the way you want it to, too. She yearned for his handprint on her face, bruises on her skin from his hands. Maybe she was just using the boy after all, for her own twisted diseased soul. But the answer he gave her was far from reassuring, drawn out as he slowly spoke “Love –” A term that made her flinch, an inner part of her recoiling as she recalled the years spent with her Dad, after he was just starting to get better from his sickness and started to call her Marla, only Marla. It had been the point when he stopped seeing his daughter in her at all, and saw only his dead wife, whom he loved very much. “-Listen, I’m not goin’ to hit ya.” he said, his words contradicting themselves by acting as a blow that hit her lungs and left the bitter taste of disappointment and bitter sweetness of hope gone awry. She swallowed, trying to keep down the sudden lump in her throat, as she nodded and looked away from him, so that he wouldn’t see that tears were brimming her eyes again. Her hands fell away from her body, having never truly completed the purpose of what she’d intended by tightening them around her, and standing there with her arms lose by her sides, the loss nibbled at her conscience, hungry and demanding. “Okay,” She said softly, her voice toneless, her demeanor hopeless, a child who’d given up. She felt him shift, turn his back on her, move a few steps away. So this was it, he was leaving. Her inferior heart needed to stop wailing so, needed to stop aching with the urge to heave with sobs. Her tears escaped, his retreat upsetting them. Then he spoke, “ Look, you and me, let's get ourselves something to eat. I can't go drinkin' for a few more hours, the alcohol's got to wear off so i can take some pain killers. but obviously you've never drinken liquor the right way. Numbs ya right up,” She looked up, surprised at the offer, that he wanted to continue to spent time with her. And here he was, offering her an escape, alchohol , which she’d never chosen to drink. Was it really as simple, a few bottles down and none of this would matter? She was quiet for a long time, pondering the possibilities, her conflicted soul raging in an eternal battle. How she ached and how she burned, and how hopeless this sadness was. How she yearned to sob it out, but knew how it couldn’t help – as much as she scrunched up her face, she couldn’t cry in a way that was cathartic enough to rid her body of her sins, of her past. What she needed was oblivion. He was offering oblivion. “Please, just make it all go away.” She was crying again, as she unwittingly took a step towards him, seeking a comfort she’d never allowed herself before, instinctively trusting him, another novelty she'd never allowed herself before. is anyone listening?

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TEMPLATE BY KHRISTIAN @ CAUTION 2.0, LYRICS BY FALL OF TROY

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