played by NANCY
with 27 for
// APP
& PLOT
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Mar 12, 2015 4:22:22 GMT
KANYE and TYLER like this
Post by BEAU FLANDRES on Mar 12, 2015 4:22:22 GMT
bright lights sinking into every pore of your skin (tell me more) eyes stained, eyes strained, eyes overused and under rested they'd go on revolt if they were people (tell me more) can't sleep, won't sleep, can't stop, won't stop, what's this thing? insomnia? no, not yet, it's not real. nothing keeps you up, you keep yourself up. social media is a sickness, but you're not looking for the cure, yet. but when will you? look for that piece of you that sleeps at night, works during the day and doesn't-
doesn't what? you don't know, when did you ever know.
what you know is so different from all this- all that you surround yourself with. what you surround yourself with is fake. fake, fake, fake, fake, these people are fake, those tans are fake, these anons are fake, but what's real to you right now?
close your eyes and picture it. what's real?
one thing, one thing is real and you reject that image. it's not important. it's just a small part of your life. it's not something you love, you know that deep in the pits of your heart, but that doesn't make him less important. he is not a piece of yourself you can pick off and throw away, but the question is.
when did he grow in the pits of your heart, when did he wrap black tentacles around your red, bleeding organ when did he find a way to beat down your walls with bare fists and when did you stop referring to him as it. when did this become personal, when did the writer of your story start to develop you, when did she say:
he's important to you, you need him, and this is unhealthy.
but you don't want healthy, you don't want sane, you want fights fighting, your feelings fickle. you want something you can't have because feelings in your hands and your fists have been put down, like turning a dog to a rat when put into a corner and abuse for so long.
but it's okay, you don't have to acknowledge this. just avert your eyes, blind them with light and pretend that 'hey, i'm perfectly fine.'
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DRAKE
sinner of drake ★ superstar
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played by NANCY
with 108 for
// APP
& PLOT
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Post by DRAKE on Mar 17, 2015 3:25:44 GMT
ADVENTURES OF CEREAL BOY
AND FASHION WEENIE GIRL
THE CURIOUS CASE OF A YOUNGER BROTHER
you were about four at the time, barely old enough to understand the concept of not peeing yourself in your bed. which you happen to do a lot, despite protests from you and your large group of stuffed animals.
at four, your parents graced you with a small child wrapped up in a blanket in a large, white room that smelled like medicine and prickly stuff that hurt your nose. your oldest brother held him first, looked at it, whispered a few words and then passed the baby along to your second oldest brother. this one smiled, coo'ed and played along until the baby cried, and then the baby was placed in your arms.
this is your little brother, beau. you were told. take good care of him.
the crying little boy stopped crying, he smiled, giggled and started to shift around in your small arms. you laughed too, and your parents couldn't find a reason to deny the obvious bond that had formed between the two of you.
FIRST TIME FOR FALLING OUT
age is but a number at the ripe age of fourteen. that's how old you are when ezra is ten years old, it's also how old you are when you get into your first fight. your parents wonder why it's taken so long (you threw your first fit with your eldest brother at seven months and threw a fit with your second eldest brother at a year and a month)
no one wonders if it's the fact that you are similar enough to get along, but different enough to know distances. which is the truth, but no one likes the truth. everyone just wants to find the easiest way to entertain themselves.
for you, its dressing up your youngest brother in your cutest outfit and dragging him along to a fourteen year old girl's birthday party, where he will proceed to spend the night curled up between growing breasts and gossiping girls. no will notice he's a boy not because it doesn't show, but because you spend most of the night hiding the seemingly ever-present tent in his pants.
something you will scold him for greatly when you get home, but will evidently get over in three years time when you realise that he was a ten year old boy. he, however, will not get over it for a couple more years, say four or five when the girl whose birthday party he attended all those years back asks him out on a date and he can't stop thinking about how close he once was to her still-growing breasts at the time.
but the falling out doesn't happen in the future, it happens now. when you are fourteen and he is ten. when you are his big sister and he's your little one. when you're still learning about each other and both willing to make mistakes. when you're not the one responsible for his actions, but the one who causes his actions.
you're lucky the falling out doesn't happen in the future, because if it did - and you know this for sure - you wouldn't be able to laugh at him for mentioning being at the girl's birthday party all those years back.
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played by NANCY
with 51 for
// APP
& PLOT
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Mar 22, 2015 3:29:53 GMT
KANYE likes this
Post by VIRGIL MARION on Mar 22, 2015 3:29:53 GMT
context
his last memory is a gritty club and him worshiping isa in his thoughts, corruption of whatever his former religion was and isa filling him and re-creating him to fit an image that falls apart when they're done. the damage is done, the fight is finished and fucking doesn't fucking fix it.
he leaves for a while. there's no message to isa, it doesn't matter. nothing fucking matters.
he remembers dark streets, footsteps behind him and then someone with a gun. but he's trained, ingrained, lessons learned from a strict teacher.
he's got the gun in his hand, pointed at the former mugger. it's an old man, shaggy looking and drug-addicted. the gun doesn't shake, he doesn't quiver, but the old man does. virgil opens his mouth,
'here's the deal old man, give me what you take, and i'll let you live.'
the old man empties his pockets, virgil throws some cash at him, but pockets the gun. the man runs off without another word. his blood settles, he doesn't remember the rush to be this real. he hates himself for a moment before heading into the nearest club. he counts the pills as he walks. he's got three.
one.
he drinks, dances, enters temples but never lets anyone read his scriptures. he pops a pill and everything's fucked, but no one ruins his temple. he touches, tempts, teases, but he's always in charge, in power. he holds a girl carefully, softly, slows his pace to make it last. another wants it fast, hard, a quickie in the bathroom. one boy - he looks barely legal, but virgil's too far gone - asks virgil to be gentle, he rocks teh boy in his arms, worships him like a god and when the time comes, reads his bible slowly and carefully, page for page and word for word.
he does not see his god in the morning, he sees a fake prophet and he leaves the fake alone in a bed with some cash. he supposes that's him repenting for his sins.
two.
house party, closed, but virgil gets in with a smile and a well-placed hand on a pretty person. they're popping pills and virgil pops one of his own. and then he smokes.
one blunt, two blunts, three blunts, four- wait.
sirens, blue and red, blue and red, blue and red, blue-
EVERYONE STAY WHERE YOU ARE
virgil flees, instincts take over. fight or flight, but he cannot fight authority, it goes against everything, but he will not be taken now, not now, never now. never in a wrong state of mind, never worshipping a god he's not supposed to, never like this wreck of a boy.
sinner. saint. progidy. failure. hope. despair. he's walking opposites and he prays to whoever to someday make sense of himself. what he's here for, why he's here, why his heart hurts and he's constantly bleeding from unseen wounds.
three.
pop the final pill, sit on a park bench in the dark and close your eyes. bottle in your hand, blunt in the other, silence is defining, but relaxing. there are no words to read, no temples to visit, no sirens to run from there is only him in his loneliness.
you take a swing from the bottle, drag from the blunt and then wake up within white walls in a bed unfamiliar and people in white yelling at you.
god has taken you, you've been accepted to heaven, finally, finally. you want to get up and scream to your parents, YOU WERE WRONG. YOU WERE WRONG. YOU WERE WRONG, GOD LOVES ME, HE HASN'T ABANDONED ME. but god's name does not start with doctor.
you are still a non-believer tainted by thoughts forced onto you by parents during childhood when you kissed that boy behind the school. you're released rather fine, don't do drugs again, it's not good for you.
same lecture, different people. you return to the crumbling shrine of the one person important enough to be a static part of your life.
apologies sit on the tip of your tongue but you cannot allow the syllables to fall out. all these fake prophets you've seen and heard force you to relearn the scriptures and worship of this ruthless god. however, you do not mind.
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