Malilium_yoyo

Bird...

Johnny Vincent WIP, i did this on Medibang Paints, i think i prefer sketching on here, tbh, but doing the final product on it.... yeah, no. I think ill do the sketch on Medibang, and do the final on Ibis-Paints, if only there wasn't a time limit... :(

Finally finished this, I've been procrastinating this for a while now.. :( but I finally finished it! I was inspired by Alphonse Mucha style of art.. his art-style is so pretty :D

(Also decided to include the art sketch too :p)

New drawing of Beatrice and Zoe, I believe (headcannon), they're both good friends where Beatrice is just yapping Zoe's ear off about absolutely anything with zoe even putting in her two cents to the conversation; although with Zoe's rbf she worries that she's boring her, but that's opposite from what Zoe thinks.. lol..

tho, that's just a headcannon of mine :p

Figment; [ fig·​ment ] : a something made up or contrived, often associated with images or unreal constructs.

The air rushes my face, nose cold from the breeze, as my weight brings me back down heavily. My mind pulls back to the earlier moment of arguing. Shoes scuffing against the rubber soft-fall, stopping to a light swing. The smell of metallic breaches my nose as I lean to my side; it’s strong and heavy from the light rainfall.

I think of what my life has come too.

My mood is still sour from the argument. Glaring out at the trees trying to see through the rainfall; pulling up the hood of my jumper. I try distracting myself—my mind—with music.

I hate this, my life, it’s just I do know theres others with it worse, so my hate never lingers excessively; thanks a lot empathy.

The soft hum of my music begins to play. It makes me think of the argument with my parents, about school, about attendance, about responsibility, about life.

But what would they know how I feel. They don’t, at all. Though.. I think they can see how the light in my face has dimmed again. They never point it out—fortunately for me.

Maybe they’re thinking about making me do therapy again. I mean it wasn’t that bad, I just hated how I had to be.. opening, so the therapist can understand and help me..

Which, I mean I was, but not enough for her to understand the deeper depths to me.

I remember it vividly.

When they asked, “Have you ever thought of—”

No. I say defensively and vexed, why did she even ask me that, I haven’t shown anything in my words and body language to indicate it, have I?

I try to sway the conversation to something else—uncomfortable by that question; can she tell? I’m not too obvious, it’s worked for a long time, diverging conversations into my favour, well most of the time or it just goes unknown, to my fortune then theirs.

The session goes by slowly, or so that’s how I feel. I preen internally at her compliments of how close I am with my parent, most of the kids they help don’t have such confidence in being this close with their own. Good.

Sessions goes by as she says how I seem to be looking better. Am I? I never knew how one can tell that, she tells I’m “more radiant in the face.”

I just nod, wanting her to believe I’m good to go.

It’s not getting any good.

Nothing feels the same anymore.

My friends, they try to act like I haven’t been gone—how I like it. Though, it feels like theres some hinderance of being with each other.. I feel like they don’t care anymore, we used to be so close and now they barely reply. I feel like they think it’s just some phase. That I’ll go and ghost them when they reach out. It’s not my fault, I try, I swear…

Deep within, a simmer of hate bubbles, memories of their past faults fuelling it painfully.

Each passive aggressive comment I took as teasing become something else.

Each un-availability when it came to something special for me to do with them becomes more of an eye-sore for my hate.

Each interest I had with them, being splayed to another feeds my hateful jealous—i thought that was our thing?

I sit by myself thinking what happened, as my simmering hate and anger illudes my memories.

Though theres always this whisper—interfering with, “Thats possessive, they can have friends with the same interest as us, right.” or “Your being too clingy, if you express that, it will only push them away.”

Anytime I’m disturb, irritation, frustrated, resentment, is how I feel but never how I act..

I want to throw stuff out of anger—I never do, I know the consequences of potential ruin. I want to blow my nose loudly after sobbing—i never do, I don’t want to be asked why I am, showing such vulnerability, I hate it.

When someone does do the things I want to do, I hate them. Envy? I don’t know. I never liked it when someone was crying near me, even when I was younger, I thought such emotions was weak, pathetic; how could they be so vulnerable to cry in public, how humiliating—silly even—to be like that. Though, there was always a feeling of discomfort when they do, I always make sure I’m at arms length where I don’t—be seen—feel like I’m at fault for their emotions. Even if it wasn’t my fault, the thought of someone thinking I made the person cry makes my skin crawl, that feeling of dread.

The soft padding of my shoes to the wet concrete become the background of the nature around. The swing still swinging slowly as I leave it behind, it’s been long enough..

My temper-tantrum has been soothed very little, but enough to return home for the rinse and repeat.

I try to think of other things to diverge my mind from the oncoming tension whence I return home.

Staying up late in the night is my solace, no annoyance, no nuisances from my parents or friends. Just me, myself, and what I feel like doing that night. Though I know to be thoughtful of my noise, one loud giggle, one loud movement, one loud footstep, one accidental word, and I’m dead silence, listening, hearing for them. Incase they come check on my room and find me awake, to then lecturing me,

“What are you doing up this late, go to sleep!” They hiss, their tone annoyed and angry at me.

The next morning is tense from last nights commotion as I stay quiet acting like it didn’t happened, whilst they stay quiet annoyed from the disturbance on a school night.

You have to go to school, they say. You can’t stay home cause you don’t feel like it, they say.. Attendance is important if you want to graduate, they say.

And I tell them, I know.

They believe it’s just some.. phase, like I’m a moon cycle. That I have to just get through it, but how can I when I’ve never gotten through this before?

“Get a job if you don’t want to go to school.” my father gruffly snaps.

“Do you have a resume for me?” I’d say snidely, which leads to only a scoff as he leaves me to be in my room.

My lips frown more, feeling the sullen muscles in my cheek. My body feels like it’s burning even with the cold rain and wet jumper I’m wearing.

Just because I’m young doesn’t mean it’s a phase, I want to yell at them and their old stinking mindset. It’s not my fault you lived in an era of vigilance, now your angry that I’m doing the same thing I was brought up on—whether you meant to teach me it or not, I wasn’t dumb as a kid—emotionally at-least—I just followed those who where in my life and their habits—just twisting it to how I like.

Things I like… thing I truly loved now feel empty, no passion behind it like I once did. Exhaustion whenever I think of doing it. Why, why does this happen?

The only thing I feel joyful too.

The only thing I can express myself too.

The only thing that gets me too.

Why does the only things I love to put effort in, not fulfil it. I was so proud of doing it, now I can barely do it.

School doesn’t help with it either. I hate school and it’s curricular, it’s rules, having to attend for such a measly document of graduation.

All from people who say they care for your education, when only they care about the way they appear, having to fit their standards—good grades, good attendance, good obedience, all so they can groom you into how they want you too be for society. Sure you can have a choice of your own subjects, but oh, if it’s not good enough for their standards, don’t even think they care for you.

Too the school, your just a number, a statistic, someone if fallen too low, they’ll let you go without a heart of notice. Cause to them your just hit to their—status—number, and it’s their problem to try and mould you or drop you, or else they’ll fall in rank.

It ruined me.

My love for activities they push into stupid courses, lessons, semesters. Where you have to reach a certain point, no more, no less. “It has to be this way”, they say, “this is the adult world for you.”

I hate the adult world.

I hate it, but I fear it.

The thought of having to grow up now that your an adult. That the activities you once loved is too childish, and that you have to do adult things instead.

Stop dictating life—my life.

Reaching my front door, I pause. Dread, as I open the door as ever quietly to get in. I smell food being cooked, as I enter—quietly shutting the door behind me. The soft squeaky noise of my shoes is the only noise I emit, walking through the hall, the sizzling pan growing louder, with the noise of the tv present talking in the background. Checking the corner, I find my father cooking, and outside in the alfresco smoking.

Whether they heard me over the noise or not, they don’t make any comment. I take my shoes off before heading to my room quickly to get out of the tense atmosphere.

I don’t think I’ll eat tonight… self-punishment you might say.

I’ll probably stay up late tonight—doing something I like, I think to myself as my mind wonders around the house for something useful.

I stare at the object in the dimly lit room. My mind racing, should I? Or shouldn’t I?

If I were to do it then at-least it would be peaceful right? I wouldn’t regret it.. I wouldnt..

I can barely see now, my sight glazed by my regret, sorrow, worry. God guilt really knows when to strike you before doing what you want to do..

Sniffling softly, I cover my mouth, though I’m only brought back to how I truly feel; tears gliding down my skin like the rain outside. I try to blink fast, wiping at my eyes—it doesn’t stop them..

Hiccuping I sob quietly in my room—just like a big baby.

I lay on the floor—it was more comfortable there than my bed anyway.

It’s exhausting, feeling.

The guilt for thinking of evening doing this, the pain it will leave on those “close” to me. Yet I hate it, why do I, have to be.. feeling this.

Yet every-time I close my eyes, all I see is the out-come that might come if it weren’t for guilt; the only thing stable for me.

My sniffling soften slightly, as my tears dry—staining my face annoyingly. My trembles slow to the beat of my heart. It’s quiet, the only noise being from the spinning fan above me—making me shiver slightly. Looking around my room—the mess and world I created for me to only understand—i sigh lifting up myself up from the ground, quietly sitting on my squeaky bed.

Reaching out for my blanket I lay down, my head planting on the flat pillow I haven’t changed to a new—something I haven’t changed a-new.

The rustle of my blanket quieten, as I’m engulfed with the dark. I can now only focus on my breathing, my eyes closing—feeling them grow wet again with my exhausted regret.

Until it continues again, like a cycle. Only thing is, it feels more worse than the last. Maybe they were right, it’s just a phase.. just with a worser consequence.