bun's story dump

Casting fragile shadows on the floorboards, the dim light of dusk filtered through the moth-eaten blinds and into the small room. Illuminated like iridescent snowfall, dust particles floated dreamily into the air, settling on the scarce furniture of the room. They danced and danced, like a thick, unbreathable mist. The mixture of poor lighting and dust made the room look like an unclear oil painting, the small amount of shades, the beiges and the aged, green wallpaper, mixed together by an unsteady brush.

The stillness was only disturbed by the figure laying on the floor. Their copious amount of hair, tangled and messy blonde, that had slowly but surely caught the same tinge of green as the walls, covered their face. Crouched and concealing their arms from view, the bony figure was still, occasionally shaken by frivolous spasms. They grunted and moaned, but behind the locked door, no one seemed to answer back but their own, miserable echo. In a puddle of black, watery substance, they cried on and on, begging for help at first, and then simply for the merciful release of death. They were sure this time the old man had decided to let them wither, and that their drug wasn't coming again. Locked up in there forever, starved of the only thing keeping them alive, they would rot, forgotten. The thought was almost pleasant.

Silence broken by footsteps, the child's body trembled again violently, and they used the last figment of energy they had left to spare to lift their head up, just enough to catch sight of the lower half of the black, wooden door. They murmured something under their breath, a look half of immense pleasure, and half of fear, cutting across their face. Forcing a smile to greet the person that was currently trying to open the third lock on the door, the rusted one, they looked like they had been pulled from a nightmare. Skin stretched thin over their protruding bones and a grin that looked like a cruel slit in their face, they watched the door, eyes glinting every time the intricate mechanisms clicked. Finally, the person who had been outside the whole time stepped in.

An immediate look of disgust wasn't hard to spot as an old, wrinkly-faced gentleman walked in. His suit was expensive, dressed in a formal, and even rather sombre way, from head to toe. Grave expression to match the outfit, he cleared his throat and took a sip out of a little flask he held close to his chest. 'Good evening, Wren.' the man spoke in a deep voice, edged by a British accent. His dark eyes avoided fixing into the sunken ones of none other than his grandchild, fixing themselves on the expanding dark puddle on the floor. He kicked at it with his leather shoes, swallowed hard, and moved away, pacing around the room an avoiding it. With a sigh, he allowed himself to slide into a rocking chair that rested by the bed. 'Let's get this over with.'

From the pocket of his black vest, the man pulled out two things. The first one, a bright, colorful plastic container, its half-transparency revealing oblong pills inside. It had no label, no information on its undoubtedly strange origins. Throwing it across, the box landed with a short splash in the dark water, rolling up until it was inches from Wren's face. Her eyes, widened with excitement, blank white eyeballs contrasting with the tired gray rings around her eyes. The second thing fell heavier.

A silver gun, it clanged to the floor heavily, almost hitting the dying child over the head. It shone even in the dim light, revealing the intricate pattern that snaked up and down, flowers and in the middle of it all, in seamless calligraphy, a name.

Clancy Blackburn.





killmepleasethissucks

She recoiled at the smell of burnt toast. Careful, she plucked out the blackened piece of bread with her fingertips and discarded it onto a plate. She had been spacing out again, examining her cracked nails and humming an old rock'n'roll tune. The woman that seemed to be only in her late twenties, looked around the room, almost as if she was searching for someone. Then she pressed her lips together, her hand shaking as she reached for the plate of breakfast she had prepared. She dropped limply on the couch in the living room, her dark brown eyes fixed on the small, box-shaped TV.

The morning news were on, just an avalanche of tragedies that had happened during the night. She hated the morbid feeling that the news gave her, so she switched channels. Her eyes moved from the screen, to the clock on the wall, and back, as she chewed on the toast, absent to the bad taste. Finally she paused her surfing when one of the channels greeted her with a familiar scene from an equally familiar movie.

She had grown up with that movie, and there was nothing that she loved more than the heroine. Brave, beautiful, with flowing black hair just like hers. She always knew what to do, how to make everyone feel better, and she always saved the day. It was all she ever aspired to be as a child. Often, her late grandmother, in the nights that the two had spent watching hours upon hours of movies together, had told her she looked just like the main character. "You're both smart and beautiful. And you always brighten up my day, Paula."

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. After a couple of seconds it began playing the same tune she had been humming in the kitchen. She put down her plate, a half-finished slice of burnt bread still on it, and got up from the leather couch. Brushing the bread crumbs off her lap, the woman grabbed her phone with a quiet sigh. It was an alarm she had set up, just in case. It figured. Few people but the hospital staff called her these days. Her mother had found an enticing new life with an aspiring movie director abroad, her former boyfriend had deleted her number years ago. And she could never afford a phone for her son. He was the laughing stock of seventh grade, but she had been putting aside so much money lately, just for him. Just to bring a smile to his face.

The traffic outside was terrible, but it didn't affect her. She didn't have a car, but she was rapidly overtaking the drivers with her second-hand bike, speeding on the sidewalk and narrowly avoiding pedestrians. Swung across her shoulder, a bag she was holding on to fiercely, as if inside there was the most precious thing she had ever owned. It was a game console, wrapped up in bubble wrap. She couldn't spare money for proper packaging. Finally, she pulled up at the hospital, panting and chaining her bike to nearby lamp post.
Taking in a deep breath, she walked inside.

Staff was so nice, so pleasant. They all wore white, looking like angels sent from Heaven just for her. They offered her a glass of water, but, even if she was exhausted from pedaling, she denied, instead her brisk pace took her in another direction. Up two floor, to the right, then to the left. The second door, the one next to the large houseplant. The second floor was where all of the long-term patients were located. A serene ward. There was no sound on the entire floor except for the soles of her flats, clicking against the tiles. She stifled a grimace, hid her face behind her palm, and when she finally opened the door and stepped in, her face looked brighter than ever.

"Jules!" the woman faked a cheerful greeting, her eyes scanning up and down the person lying in the hospital beg. She heard the sound of shifting, and he hid his face away from her.

There was silence.

"How have you been doing?" she tried again, her voice cracking.

Still no answer.

"I got you a little something." she fiddled with the small package she had in her bag.

She walked forward, unsure of whether she should sit on the bed. She wasn't sure about anything, right now. Except that she wanted to see her son's face again. From under the bed sheets locks of ginger-brown hair peeked out. He had that color from his father.

"Jules, dear, please look at me..." she whimpered, the pain no longer concealed. There was a slight movement under the covers, perhaps a change of heart. But it stopped midway and the child remained hidden beneath. "I'm hideous." a voice answered, sounding almost girlish, but it brought a sad spark in the mother's eyes.

"You're not hideous. You're perfect. Just the way you are."

The blanket lifted, revealing the face of a thirteen year-old boy, small for his age. His long, ginger-brown hair fell straight around the curves of his pale cheeks. His face was dappled with patches of red-black skin, his lip pressed against each other and his large, brown eyes welling up with tears. He winced when she reached out a hand to stroke his cheek, and a large tear rolled down his cheek, pulling back.

Jules had been at friend's house, the two boys home alone when the power went out. They had tried to lit a candle, since they couldn't find the flashlight, and poor Jules was scared of the dark. But they didn't manage to lit it. The lit match, falling to the floor, set the entire living room carpet slowly on fire, and Jules was trapped away from the door, backed up against the wall, slowly consumed by the merciless flames. It was by pure chance, and luck, that they found his body, curled up in a corner, when the house was extinguished. He was still breathing.

She covered her mouth, resisting the urge to burst into tears. No. She had to be strong, she had to make him feel better. She had to be the heroine.

"You're not hideous. You're brave. Every scar, whether it's visible or not, is a symbol of how brave we were in the past."

Jules had been conceived when she was only seventeen, drunk, at a party. Dropping out of high school in her final year, she cared for him as best as he could. Friends, family, they were judging her, and she started growing distant with most everybody in her life. Jules was the only light she had in dark times, her beacon of hope that brought her close to the foolish hope that they would live a normal life. But what fragile tower they had built was crumbling down now and she wasn't standing next to it. He was. "And you Jules, you are very brave."

The boy's sunken eyes seemed to lit, and he lifted them to look at his mother. Large pools of innocence, brimming with tears. She brushed them away with her index finger, avoiding his burnt skin, her expression as loving as ever. As if nothing were wrong.

"Do you have scars mother?"

"No."