#yeah writing

I remember... a female voice... but no words; the drone of an engine; a brother.

"I don't ever want to leave"--a different voice, a distant voice. "The city never sleeps." 

I remember my voice.  "When are we there? I'm so excited!" 

I remember... my birthday. Ha. 

But it all comes together at the crash.  Another car hit ours. My brother was no longer next to me.  My mother's soft voice became desperate screams.  My whole body felt as if I had just stuck a fork into an electric socket, like I was electrocuted.  As my mother's screams faded, sirens... replaced them... her.

And then I woke in a cold room, in a cold bed, with white light blinding my eyes.  I tried to move my arms to rub them, but they were heavy, unresponsive.  The vision in my right eye was blurry and refused to focus, even after I should have been used to the light.  My left eye was worse.  Breathing was a challenge.  All of this lasted until doctors came to my room and flipped a switch--my... switch.  

My arms were gone--replaced with mechanical ones. My right eye was useless, so it was replaced as well.  My respiratory system was... upgraded.  My memories were repressed to ease the process. 

I was an orphan--an empty vessel. At the time, I listened to everyone and everything.  I craved knowledge, skill, acceptance, a purpose. I could have been molded into anything.

Since then, I have been upgraded--I have grown, and so have my mechanics. But, even though I went through many changes in the past decade, one thing stayed the same.

1. Fantasy/Science Fiction!! 

2. JK Rowling, duh. THE QUEEN. Also I like JRR Tolkien, CS Lewis. The people with initials for names are always the best.

3. PLOT HOLES PLOT HOLES PLOT HOLES PLOT HOLES

4. If I get really into a scene, I can describe things really eloquently and it sounds really cool.

10. OOH. Well, for my current story, the antagonist is actually a mix of the elements, society, and other little challenges that come by our protagonists. Most often it's the police.

11. I'm on the fence about the romantic subplot here. The female half of the protags has run from an abusive relationship with her dog, picked up by the male half while on the road. (Female is innocently naive, but thankfully the male is a nice guy who's not a total creeper.) I'm debating on having them develop feelings or keeping it platonic. (leaning toward the latter.)

12. I've always had a soft spot for Ariel King (a lion tamer) and Evoxine (a thief/mage-ish character)

  But then there was a day that changed my perspective, and suddenly, I did not mind giving my life to another.

  I was exhausted.  Mentally, utterly exhausted.  My mind was breaking at its seams.  I missed my mate dearly; it was only eight days since he had left, but oh, I missed him.  He had come home to me in a half-dead state and I was glad.  Glad to have him home!  It was ridiculous, selfish, even, but I was glad that he was hurt.  He seemed happy to be hurt.  He stayed with me for two whole months.  How could I ask for anything more? 

  I tried to convince myself that this time I would not miss him.  I would be happy with the time I had with him, and respectful of his own responsibilities as an army general.  All of my attempts were in vain.  I missed him.

  This longing to have my mate near me was natural, and that fact brought upon many conflicting emotions around it.  Along with that, the kingdom seemed to need me more than ever.  My advisors were worthless and everything in my home seemed to be falling apart: including me.  So I thought to myself, “I deserve a break”.

  So I took one.

  I left through my bedroom window, the way I did when I was a prisoner in the same bedroom.  It was reminiscent of when I would sneak out to see my mate in the middle of the night—when our love wasn’t love, but was forbidden anyways.  At that time, it filled me with childish joy, but this escape was far from that.

  I can’t be sure how long it was that I walked.  I was never good at keeping track of time with the sun.  But, at some point, I came across a clearing—and in that clearing, a cry.

“Mama”.  It was such a small voice, little more than a squeak.  I almost thought it wasn’t true, but it sounded again.  This time it was choked with sobs.

  And there it was—a white patch of fur, a tuff on the end of a dark tail.  Being a very instinctual being, I listened to my curiosity, but I could not have imagined that a child could have been attached to the tail.  But there he was, an infant with white curly hair and amber eyes that were red and puffy from tears.  He was dirty, and I could tell this even over his dark skin.  His chubby cheeks were wet with fresh tears.  He looked to me with a horrible fear in his eyes, then he spoke that awful word again: Mama.

  The child crawled into my lap and clung to my coat.  He looked at me and held onto me as if his life depended on it, and he buried his dirty face into my clean coat and continued to weep. 

  I was, to say the least, terrified.  There was this infant, helpless and alone, clinging to me and calling me his mother, something I was not and did not want to be.  Where were his parents?  I asked him dumbly, expecting a response, but I only got more tears.  I asked him where he came from, but he shook his head and rested against me with no answer.  It seemed like the only word he knew was ‘mama’.

  With nothing else to do, I stayed with him.  I spoke to him—mostly to calm him and myself.  I pointed out to him that his clothes were, literally, nothing more than rags.  I told him that his parents would get in so much trouble for leaving him alone, but they would come back.  I told myself that they would come back.

  When they didn’t, I had to make a choice.

  Well after the child had calmed, I put him on the ground and I stood.  I wrapped my coat around him—a king’s coat, worth at least 60 gold pieces, lines with fur and embellished with intricate designs of gold thread.  I gave a child my coat!  I wrapped him in it like he was a bug and I set him down carefully in the middle of the clearing.  He looked at me with fearful eyes and began to cry again.

  But I was not his mother.  And I told him.  The words flowered from my mouth in a stern tone, “I am not your mother”.  The fear in his eyes urged me to speak again in a lighter tone.  “But she will come back for you…”  My fingers ran through his tangled hair and assured him that he would be okay before I left.  I took a deep breath and steeled myself against his whimpers and sniffles, and I did not look back.

  It didn’t matter where I went in the next few hours, because my mind was full of thoughts of the little boy.  That night I would think to myself, how could I.  I left him alone in the hopes that someone else would find him.  But I began to worry.  What if someone else did find him—someone not as kind as me, someone hungry, someone cruel?  What if no one else found him?

  How could I, a king, ignore something so important?  How could I leave such a job to someone else?

  The skies clouded over and it seemed as if it would rain.  I tried to go straight back to my castle, but I could not.  I turned back to the clearing and I found him exactly where I had left him.  I could only see his hair and his tail under my coat.  I could see that he was breathing, and relief flooded through me.  At least he was still alive.

  I hurried to him, kneeled next to him, and carefully moved the coat away.  He opened his eyes from his slumber, his eyes still irritated from crying.  When he saw me, he immediately reached for me.  His small voice was hoarse and weak when he called for his mama yet again.  I looked around frantically.  No one was there.  There were no signs of anyone being there aside from me and him.

  I had another choice to make, and this time, I would not leave him.  I scooped him into my arms, cradled him close to my chest, and returned to my home.  I gave him to a servant to bathe and care for, and I spoke with one of my most trusted friends.  Centuries older than me, he knew much more than I, and certainly would know what to do.

  As if he were all-knowing, I asked him why the child was left there.  I asked why his parents left him.  I asked why I had to be the one to found him.

  And he told me, “Sometimes, we do things not because we want to, but because of necessity.”  And I decided that I was not this child’s mother, but he needed me to be, and deep down, I wanted to be.  So, at first out of necessity, and later out of want, the child became mine.

I found him in his favorite place

his neck stained

and bathed in blood 

his wrists bruised 

his skin ashen

and his mouth open

from silenced screams

I did not weep

for it was not the time

instead, I took him

I bathed him and

dressed him

in nice clothes 

that covered the bruises

I buried him in his favorite place

in the nice clothes

and my favorite jacket

wrapped in my blankets

and covered him

in the flowers he loved

I did not cry

for there was no need

I gave him dignity

and all my love

and they gave him

what you did.

Every poison touch,

tainted kiss,

broken whisper;

I remember.

The way it felt,

as my love for you,

twisted and turned,

gripped at my groin,

at my heart.

I remember that love,

as it fell from so many,

stories above our heads.

As it bent and finally broke,

snapped straight in half,

tearing scars over my flesh.

I still remember,

all the coarse words,

and cigarette burns,

littered like kisses on my skin.

I remember the knife,

as you held it up for show,

as you screamed at me,

all the things,

I already know.

I remember the pain,

unbearable pain,

as that knife dug into me,

driven by your hand,

driven by your love,