#loss.

I am fucking reeling. I think this is probably the cleverest thing I've read in years, if not my entire life. It's practically poetry. I picked up an anthology from the bookstore tonight and this was the first story in it and holy fucking shit I think I need to sit down and stare at a wall for a while.

Inboxes should be opened again, and art/writing should resume on a weekly basis for these two-three blogs.

these r like my 9/11s

You escape.

You are in a room. You are in a room. Seated. In a short, blue chair. There is a long, tan chair to your right, against a wall with a window. There is a blank wall in front of you. The window is closed. How long have you been here? How long has it been since you've done terrible things? You have done terrible things. You do not know. Something is walking towards you. You seem to remember this. The Beast. Yes. You remember. Yes, certainly you remember. The Beast walks towards you. That terrible, terrible sound emanating from the jaws of the Unholy. It steps. One-two. Three-four. One-two. Three four. The reverse pendulum that rises from Its spine swings back and forth. An otherworldly clock ticking down the seconds until It reaches you. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. One-two. Three-four. You feel toes curling into soft shag carpet. Stained shag carpet. Slightly crusted from years of feet, your feet, resting there. Your feet? No. Yes. Your feet. Yes, certainly your feet. It is coming to you now. The Beast. It stops. Rests the pendulum. The countdown is cut off. Tick-- One-two. -- Your mind whizzes; the pattern must be complete, it must be complete, it must be complete, it must be complete, it-- The terrible noise snaps you out of the trance. The Beast stares at you with Its damning eyes, black as night, ringed by soft amber. It stares. It stares. It stares into you. It knows what you have done. The terrible, terrible things you have done. It stares. It waits. It watches. The noise, the terrible noise! Hands lungs and tighten around Its throat, closing in and holding, holding their position while the Beast flails, appendages struggling to defend their host to no avail - their natural weapons have been removed by you, that's right. You-- You have nothing to fear. The hands free the Beast. No. The hands free the creature. No. The hands free the cat. The cat. The cat falls from the grasp. It makes a terrible sound. A different sound that makes your eyes squint shut. Its chest heaves and it suddenly remembers what happened. It looks at you with its scared eyes, amber like honey, pupils narrowing into paper-thin slits. The cat escapes under the long, tan chair. Your chest -- your chest? Yes, certainly it is your chest -- heaves like the cat's. Your hands shake. Still strangling the air. Your vision blurs and a pressure builds in your throat. Air pushes forcefully out of your mouth, foreign but impossibly familiar. Then warmth leaks from your eyes and another gust of air explodes from within you, carrying a wounded sound with it, and it becomes familiar again, oh so familiar. So terribly, terribly familiar. The cat cries under the long, tan chair. You cry in the short, blue chair. You try to escape. There are tears still rolling down your cheeks. You cannot control them. You are not in control. Yet you try to escape. Escape. Escape. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Your eyes drift to the wall to your left. By the icebox. A clock. The waves in your brain weren't quiet enough to let you hear it before now. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. You hate clocks. Tick. You hate clocks. Tock. Your body rises and you are by the icebox. Only this time the hands don't open the icebox. They reach up. Tick-tock. To the clock. The terrible clock that reminds you-- tick. That reminds you-- tock. That reminds you-- tick. That reminds you-- tick-tock. That reminds you of all the terrible things you have done. Tick-tock. The hands rip the clock from the wall by the icebox. One hand holds the clock. The noise is louder. The other hand balls into a fist. Tick-tock. The fist drives itself into the glass. Tick-tock. The fist drives itself into the glass. Tick-tock. The fist drives itself into the glass. Tick-- You escape.

unfortunately, klaus' fear of abandonment and losing people is a vicious cycle when it comes to lashing out and constantly trying to push people away. more often than not when he allows himself to get close to someone in some way, one of three things happen: they die, they choose another over him, or they simply change their mind about him and no longer care for him. he feels these cuts deeply each time, and they serve as a reminder of why he avoids connection in the first place. each loss proves why it isn't worth it to get close to people, and justifies ( to his own mind ) the way he behaves in attempt to keep others at arm's length. the cycle goes: comes to care about someone despite his misgivings ➝ loses them in some way ➝ withdraws into himself and start lashing out at others to keep them away ➝ repeat. it's a cycle that's been going on for practically his whole life, and he has no idea how to break it, or if it'd even be worth it at this point to do so. it's so much easier and safer to be a monster and the big bad wolf who doesn't care about anything or anyone, and a large part of him wants to hide behind that veneer forever.