[yay; music by one of my favourite young artists (who's now all grown up, but I just love the stuff he recorded when he was younger :P)]
The door slammed shut with thunderous force and a trembling form collapsed onto the bed, burying his face into the pillow. His hair splayed about, tangling itself momentarily with the blankets that he drew up over his shoulders.
The atmosphere was all at once warm and humid. His breath cascaded through his lips, soaked up by the flannel, until it returned through his nostrils. His cheeks were moist with the tears that, for no real reason, continued to seep from his eyes. His tongue traced itself over his lips, curving around the rounded scar from childhood. His eyelashes brushed against the blankets like feathers attempting to escape the clouds; and then he threw them back and allowed fresh air to race into his lungs. He felt the coolness expand within him, filling him up from the inside like a refreshing compliment.
His eyes immediately flicked upwards to that one sketch he should have gotten rid of; the familiar orange autumn leaves soothed the back of his mind. The smiles, the warm fleece overcoats, the hugs, the laughter…it all reminded him of the better days. The days where he inhaled the words of the people he loved. The days when he traced and retraced the backbone of sentences uttered…the times when he simply reclined in a chair and counted freckles on the faces of others. He tasted those moments in his mouth, as vividly as a daydream.
A choked sigh escaped his lips and he slumped down on the pillow, its warm white cover creased over his eyes and blocked out the sights he loved and hated.
The word was so bitter sweet: an emotion like none other he’d felt so deeply. He hated it intensely, yet he loved it…because it was a word. A feeling. Another blessing. Another curse.
He sat back up abruptly and shook his head, forcing out the cotton-like thoughts that sought to overtake his rational mind. Reaching up, he wiped away fresh tears. His heart was going to burst; and if it burst, it wouldn’t just burst, it would explode. It would explode into a million colours and shades and splatter all over the room. And his blood would pick itself up off the floor and dance over his carpet and out the door and onto the street and down to the town center where it would put on a show for the whole universe. Then it would slink back during the wee hours of morning and slip through his ribcage, stimulating his thoughts once more until he arose in the morning, weary with the heavy feeling of life.
Already his heart thundered violently, like a racing beast threatening to take over the shooting stars and shatter every wish and dream anyone had ever made. He pressed his hand against his chest and took a deep breath. His eyes combed the room until they spotted a sketch book. He never opened that anymore. All of his emotions sketched on several pages…it was too much; too much to ask of anyone, too much to ask of himself. He had burned the pictures; their ashes were placed in jars, but even those ashes scorched his fingertips as though they still carried the heat of fire from when they struggled to retain their complex form.
It’s all fine, he didn’t need them anyways. Let the autumn leaves fall. He didn’t rely on reality or the people it carved into his life; the seasons would offer him the things he desired. Summer’s lazy love and relaxed pleasures, autumn’s warm embrace and caresses, winter’s silence and joint-mourning, and spring’s rejuvenation of deadened limbs.
“I know you’re fine, but what do I do?” he whispered to the silence, pausing to wait for a response, and when none came, he bit his lip and frowned.
The image at the top of this page suggests perhaps a bit of this character's background. Yes he's a fighter, but he's also quite emotional. He might have a dark past, but he has a bright future.
We often find ourselves imagining the heroes or antagonists of a story to be stone-hearted and rather fixed in their ways (yes, even heroes, although readers often give them more lee-way when it comes to expressing emotion); however, in this case I think my character is rather soft hearted despite the cold and brutal image his persona portrays to those who see him.
I almost want to give him a name...but I'll refrain for now.
Honestly, the story that's forming in my mind is breaking my heart (in a good kind of author-falls-in-love-with-character sort of way). I won't divulge it now. I want to let it tumble about a bit more before I consider writing it down and giving him life. Muse all you like -- yay or nay for writing more on this man?
Signed with crunchy leaves,
p.s. originally this piece was written from a modern-day perspective and the character was female... I changed it around quite drastically but I fear some of those feminine undertones may have been carried over; forgive the emotional nature of my man :P