try not to breathe
#1
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I found this song ridiculously appropriate for this thread. :| Private for Laruku, dated for the night of November 30th.


     It had only taken a few hours. Ahren had gone to the city, walking in a dream. It’s all right, that familiar voice soothed. You know the way. He had smoked the whole way, and his throat was raw by the time his feet touched concrete. From there, something else had moved him. Through the abandoned streets, across broken pavement and past broken windows, following no direct trail. By the time he reached the hospital, he had nearly forgotten his purpose. It took a millisecond to recall this.

     It was not until he had gathered everything that the weight had hit him. Ahren had sunk to the ground, buried his face in his hands and broke down. He laughed until he was crying, cried until he was choking, and then there was nothing left.

     It took him fifteen minutes to regain his composure, to sling his bag over his shoulder and to leave. Ahren followed his own trail back, in a paralyzed, robotic walk. Then, as he had finished another cigarette (how many was it now? Did it matter?) something like an epiphany had hit him. Not five minutes after this, he had found Iskata. Not ten minutes after this he was walking along, no longer laughing, no longer crying because he could not stand the sound.

     It was at this point he reached the cabin. It was dark, and it was snowing. The cold no longer bothered him. Neither did the smell of kerosene, buried in that bag. There wasn’t much, but it would be enough. He advanced to the building, opened the door, and shut it behind him. It was dark in here was well, but that was all right. The fire had been reduced to embers, wavering with each passing breath. He stood there, hand on the door, feet bolted to the floor.




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#2
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It was cold. He was cold. There was no residual heat from the fire, and his fur was as thin on his slackened, neglected body. He shivered in short bursts, but mostly didn't have the energy or desire to, even if it was mostly reflex and instinct. There was snow outside. He could hear it, somehow. Perhaps it was only in his head, just like he could see it in his head. White snow against a black sky. Black shadows against the white ground. And whispers in the night, voices that only belonged in the past and that same dream, that same fantasy, those same words that didn't matter. If he could have died that night, he would have been happy. That night, lying between graves of people that had been stupid enough to care, he had been happy.


He smelled kerosene. It didn't belong in the memory of the dream of the fantasy. It didn't belong in the past. It belonged in the present. It belonged in his mouth and down his throat in his stomach, like poison. Was that how everything was going to end? A fire in a forest of snow? The wind howled. Another person breathing. He shivered again and closed his eyes, but other than that, had not moved in all the time he'd been left to lie there. His head felt heavy, like his skull and skeleton were trying to sink through the floor. He could still hear the snow. He wasn't so sure he wanted that to stop, but at least the present would be warmer soon.


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#3
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     For a long time, Ahren stared at the door, seeing but not seeing the wood grain that spelled out patterns and visions of a mystical world. This was not really happening, but it was. It couldn’t be happening, but it had. The blonde shut his eyes, breathed in, and exhaled in a breath of steam. They were past the point of no return. Both feet suddenly found motion, however mechanical it was, and walked forward.

     He covered the distance between them, and sat next to his companion. A chunk of his hair tumbled into his face, obscuring his eyes, and he realized he was no longer shivering. “I need your arm,” he said quietly, focused in the same intensity he had always been.





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#4
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The universe was curved and he could see beyond it. He could see death there, lurking behind the infinite expanse of space and time. He could see white skulls there, collected to rot for thousands of years; they were stacked on top of each other, and when the ones on the bottom finally decayed, they fell and became part of the nothingness, the space, the deep and profound singularity. It was quiet there. It was cold there. It felt like he was already there, really. His eyes couldn't tell him otherwise. His senses were too sharp and too numb simultaneously.


A friend's voice gave him an instruction, and he could only oblige. With some effort, the lanky hybrid rolled over onto his back so that both his arms lay loosely at his sides. He tilted his head in the direction from which the voice had come, the direction that heat was coming from. Even then, with the universe and death and everything shining in his eyes, all he really wanted was the dim heat, the meaningless warmth, the closeness that was only physical. But he didn't reach out because he knew he only deserved to die alone.


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#5
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     A black hole would perhaps be more appropriate. Everything was swallowed into that abyss, crushed by its own weight until it reached a horizon and then—poof!—vanished into nothing. Under his feet the earth was spinning, but he could not feel it. He didn’t feel anything anymore. Both eyes darkened and he looked away, unable to stare the blind man in the face. Something was caught in his throat and he imagined it might be the very last part of his soul, desperate to escape.
     “Are you ready?” He asked, startled by the tone of his own voice.






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#6
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Yeah, he said.


And he was cold, and he was numb, and he was scared because he knew that there would be no one to change it this time. No one to tell him no or to take away the knife because the only friend he had was the one sticking him with poison. He was scared because he was happy, because the happiness felt empty, because it wasn't really happiness or acceptance or peace or anything else that it maybe should have been. He wasn't relieved. He wasn't any slightly positive emotion he could attach a name to. Nothing would change with death. Nothing except he wouldn't be breathing anymore.


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#7
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     It was mechanical, the process by which Ahren worked. One hand sought out the needle, the other the morphine. Twin hands, one marked by a scar he had caused himself, cradled glass and metal. He could taste the steel in his mouth and brought his tongue to his teeth, bit down on the bar and inhaled. That was all it took, that carefully measured amount, and he exhaled in a breath of hot steam against the cold air. Nearby, the embers changed their hues, indifferent to the silent act occurring.
     Ahren took Laruku’s arm and hooked his own around it. He waited for the pulse, felt the rhythm under his fingers. Gingerly, he broke the skin. One ounce of pressure, then another. It was as simple as firing the crossbow he had long ago lost in another fire. At one pound, the glass would be empty, and all that would be left was the dark night so indifferent to their existence.





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#8
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Touch. Warmth. A prick that he barely registered. More warmth. More touch. He opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling. He could imagine the color there, hiding in the dark. He could imagine the rotting designs. He could imagine the blonde sitting next to him. He could feel Ahren sitting next to him. And then he could feel the numbness, which should have been contradictory, but wasn't. He could feel the nothingness, but it was warm, at least. Laruku reached out with his arm and groped blindly until he caught hold of his friend's shoulder. He pulled him closer before holding him in an awkward hug with both arms. Touch. Warmth.


Thank you, he said. Laughter in his head. He smiled. And he was sure that it looked sinister.


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#9
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     In this fragile little world, Ahren saw one color. Red; though this shade varied from one to another, it was singular. This was how he saw the blood trickle out as he withdrew the needle, saw it touch his fingertips, and known that something had broken a long time ago and they could not fix it.

     Then suddenly Laruku had grabbed his arm, startling him, and he looked up. That same shade of red was in his face, though it had long since faded and grown cloudy. He comprehended the motion, the touch, and the words offered. He understood the smile. He hated him suddenly, more then he had hated anyone before in his life. “Fuck you,” he whispered, hands trembling. The needle fell to the ground, crying out once before it rolled away from them.





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