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stories-to-tell-by-lantern-light · 3 years

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Who Am I Really?

(Eyeless Jack X Reader)

Iron was all he could taste, as he hugged his arms close to his chest. The white snow that speckled the forest floor contrasted greatly with his newly acquired ash-grey skin. He could feel blood crusting under his fingernails, he could feel the sting of the cold snow underneath his bare feet as he walked. Whatever they did to him, he was no longer human that much was clear, his feet turned more animal-like and had ripped through his old shoes. If he was being honest with himself he knew that from the moment he awoke and could still see that he was no longer human.

Jack Nichols shivered as he caressed the hollow sockets where his eyes should’ve been. They were dripping with the black tar that was mercilessly poured in there by Jenny and her cult.

‘That absolute fucking bitch.’ He thought, and an animal-like snarl tore through his throat. He could feel the stretching and popping of his jaw as he ground his teeth together. Killing her and her stupid friends was therapeutic to him, remembering the taste of their blood as it filled his mouth when he tore out their throats made him feel euphoric. Pausing his steps only for a brief moment he let those memories of eating their flesh and organs consume him, it only served to make his mouth water.

What was wrong with him? Why did that memory, which happened only hours ago, make him so god damn hungry? What exactly had they done to him, as much as he tried not to dwell on that thought the hunger that ate away at him even after the slaughter was almost too much to handle. All Jack wanted when he woke up this morning was to go on a date with a cute girl, get a little drunk, and maybe get lucky (though realistically that was just wishful thinking). The true college experience one might say, even for a med student. Especially with a schedule as busy as his...that was as busy as his. He knew he should’ve just stuck to focusing on school and studying his brain out, god why did he have to listen to his friends as they urged him on the date.

‘What’s the worst that can happen?’

This. This was clearly the worst possible outcome.

What he really couldn’t believe, however, was that he allowed one of the cultists to get a hit on him, and a bad one at that. Turning his head to glance down at the tear in his thigh, it was a deep gash that desperately needed to get medical attention and fast. The only problem the former medical student faced was that whatever was pouring out of his leg wasn’t blood. It was a deep black ooze that stained the white snow that littered the forest floor. In fact, Jack wasn’t even sure if normal medical supplies would even heal his wound. Jack grit his teeth trudging onwards into the forest, a faint buzzing reverberated around in his skull like flies buzzing around a corpse that he couldn’t seem to shake.

He placed his hand against a tree the world spinning around him. Whatever the blood-like substance that was pouring out of his leg was, he was losing it fast. Jack heard the crunching of snow in front of him and a small gasp. It took most of his strength but he picked his head up and snarled. Jack bared his teeth and tried to make himself look as dangerous as possible, he felt like a wild animal that was cornered by the hunter. There was a girl in front of him, she had (h/l) (h/c) hair that was stuffed under a furry winter hat. She took a few steps back, her brown snow boots making giant footprints in her wake. He could hear the blood flowing through this girl’s veins, as her anxiety levels seemed to spike. The anxiety caused her heartbeat to quicken drastically, hearing the sound only served to increase Jack’s seemingly ceaseless hunger. Jack tried to take another step towards her, flexing the sharp nails on his hands but collapsed under his own weight, his fucking leg. He really couldn’t catch a break, could he?

“What are you?” The girl’s voice held a slight quiver to it and Jack could feel her sharp eyes burning holes into his body. He watched as she hesitantly took a step closer, her (f/c) parka standing out against the muted colors of the forest.

“I don’t know.” He responded with a raspy breath, she smelled divine but he had no strength to attack. Something in his bones told him that he was beyond human, something so much more, a god perhaps? What a silly thought that he couldn’t shake away. Through his quickly blurring vision, he swore he could make out a pair of fancy dress shoes a little bit behind the girl. He saw the girl drop to her knees and cover her ears, his vision went black and the sound of static accompanied the darkness.

---

Jack was expecting to be dead. He expected to be accompanied by beautiful white light, maybe an angel or something. However, it caught him very off guard when he suddenly awoke in a rather plush bed. He threw the plaid covers off himself unceremoniously and moved to swing his legs over the side of the bed. The baby god never got far because he let out a howl of pain as a sharp sensation traveled up his thigh. Shit right, his entire upper thigh was practically ripped open. He forgot all about that, glancing down at his wound he noticed it was wrapped tightly in medical bandages and he assumed it was stitched up underneath the dressings. Whoever fixed the wound seemed to have done at least a semi-decent job, at least he wasn’t dead. Sniffing the air with his newly acquired sense of smell he could make out the distinct smell of humans and...was that lavender?

Jack felt his stomach growl and he doubled over clutching it. They smelled delicious. He could practically hear their organs singing out to him, rip open the human, steal us, devour us.

He was snapped out of his thoughts by the door opening, in the middle of the doorway stood the exact girl he’d seen in the forest. Immediately going on the defense he bared his teeth opening his jaw as wide as he could, he heard the popping sound of his jaw as it extended, he felt something swirl around in his mouth. He felt a chill run down his spine at the unwelcomed sensation.

Did he have more than one tongue?

Shaking the thought away Jack didn’t move to attack, he was never the type. He would always rather listen to rationality before getting his hands dirty, the only issue was he was starving and the girl would absolutely make a fine meal.

“Don’t try demon.” The girl scoffed eyeing Jack up and down, if he was still his old college self he would’ve gotten flustered at the gesture. A girl showing him attention? Unheard of back them. However, after Jenny, he was almost positive he’d never let that happen again. His sockets looked down at what the girl held in her hands, it was a plate, a plate that had kidneys on top of it. He was only mildly aware of the fact that he was drooling all over himself. “Oh gross.” She scrunched up her nose placing the organs on the bottom of the bed.

Without hesitation, Jack attacked the cold meat shoving it in his mouth with vigor. He knew blood was all over his face and hands but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Jack knew the girl’s calculated eyes were watching his every move, even so, he couldn’t help but let out a groan of pleasure as the food slid down his throat. Once the meal was finished and Jack was satisfied he finally felt he had enough strength to start asking questions.

“Who are you?” He rasped, whipping his mouth with the back of what was left of his sleeve.

“Really? You’re asking ME that question.”

“I’m not a fan of your attitude.”

“I’m not a fan of you bleeding out on my property.”

Jack growled low and guttural.

“Don’t make me hurt you.” The girl had the audacity to laugh in his face was she not aware of what he was capable of now?

“Nice try but I’m not scared of you. You’re not allowed to hurt me as long as you’re under my care.” She pointed to herself with her thumb, puffing out her chest a little however he could hear her pulse increase just the slightest bit.

Jack only scowled.

“What pray tell is exactly stopping me?” He raised an eyebrow watching carefully as the girl lifted up her sleeve to her sweater. Scared into her wrist was a symbol that Jack had never seen before in his life, but for some unknown reason, he felt dread wash over him. Carved into her wrist was an O with an X slashed through it. “What’s that supposed to prove exactly? That you’re into weird tattoos?”

The (h/c)-ette let out a loud sigh like this conversation was boring her. Oh he’s sorry it’s not his fault he was turned into a fucking organ-eating monster by a cult at his local college! If he still had his eyes they would be rolling so far back into his skull, yet he still waited for the girl to explain.

“My name is (y/n), I’m a medical proxy under The Operator. Currently one of the only ones he has left because we keep getting killed off by rogue killers.” The girl, (y/n), clicked her tongue in clear distaste at the mention of said killers. “Since I’m under The Operator it means if you kill me, he’ll kill you, that’s the deal Jacky boy.” That put him on high alert.

“How the fuck do you know my name?”

“You’re certainly full of questions for someone just waking up out of a coma. If you must know The Operator gave me a brief rundown of your file after we found you in the woods.” (Y/n) crossed her arms over her chest “It’s your lucky day because you just got hired to work for him.” She gave him a round of applause, but it sounded more mocking than serious and he only grew more confused.

“This doesn't make any sense to me. I hope you’re aware.”

“I’m sure it isn’t. It’ll all be explained in due time. For now, all you have to focus on is getting better so you can begin your training. Lucky for you, I’m your registered nurse and caregiver, so enjoy your stay at castle de la (Y/n). Trust me when I say you should value your time here while you still have it.” A thousand more questions ran through Jack’s mind and his little question and answer session with his self-proclaimed nurse didn’t really help.

“So you’re a med student then?” She made a noise of affirmation picking at the strings of her sweater.

“Was a med student Jack, that pretty much came to a screeching halt after I was scouted by the boss man. That, however,” He watched as (Y/n) put a hand to her lips signaling him to stop asking questions, “Is a story for another day. The first order of business now that you’ve eaten is a shower. Cause no offense but you smell like dried blood, and coming from me that’s saying something cause I smell blood all the time.”

Jack still didn’t trust this stranger fully and it got under his skin that she seemed to know everything about him and he knew next to nothing about her. Yet, a shower did seem nice at this moment, he glanced down at his hands and noticed his nails were caked with dry blood. He could only imagine what every other part of his body looked like, (y/n) clearly didn’t bother cleaning him up aside from dressing his wounds.

“A shower sounds good.” Jack nodded in confirmation and the girl gave a relieved smile.

“Oh thank God you agreed, it took me a week of convincing to get Jeff to go take his first shower.” Jack decided it was best not to ask who Jeff was deciding that that was a can of worms he shouldn’t open just yet. She reached out to touch him and he immediately recoiled back almost biting her handoff, the smile that appeared disappeared into a frown.

“Don’t touch me.” Memories of Jenny’s friends holding him down while he pleaded for his life flashed across his mind. The blade coming closer and closer to Jack’s crystal blue eyes before making contact and-

“Alright, cannibal boy snap out of it. Can’t have you succumbing to blood lust just yet. You don’t wanna injure yourself more.” (Y/n) snapped her fingers next to his ears and he couldn’t help but feel a little grateful that she snapped him out of his stupor. “I was going to help you to the bathroom because you really shouldn’t put pressure on your leg. Is that okay?”

Jack felt himself nodding reluctantly. She was right, he really shouldn’t put stress on his leg or it could cause more harm than good. Especially since he didn’t know the extent of the injury yet, for all he knew he was lucky they didn’t hit the femoral artery. Her arms went around his waist as the god and the human girl hobbled to the bathroom together. On the short walk there Jack was trying to get a feel of the house, in case he needed to make a grand escape in the future.

“I’ll put some fresh clothes outside the door for you, call for me when you’re done so I can help you back to the bedroom.” (Y/n) explained as Jack hobbled into the bathroom, he didn’t feel the need to respond to her as he shut the door in her face. He heard a faint click of a tongue from the other side of the door and listened to the girls retreating footsteps.

Jack leaned against the sink putting most of his weight on his hands. The sink creaked at the newfound pressure and Jack wasn’t sure it was because it was an old house or because he had newfound strength. He glanced up at the mirror, it was weird somewhat seeing when you had absolutely no eyes. It was the first time since the incident he got a good look at himself, he looked about as good as he felt.

Terrible.

His auburn hair curled around his now pointed ears and was caked in mud and dirt. He was almost grateful that (y/n) didn’t touch him aside from the wound while he was unconscious, Jack couldn’t imagine what he might’ve done if he felt anyone go near his face. Speaking of his face, he opened his mouth and saw his teeth were shaved into razor-sharp fangs. His stomach turned as he remembered the exact reason why they were like that, organs. They were like that so he could eat organs. The thought wasn’t nearly as nauseating as it should’ve been.

His skin was unnatural and sickly grey color, as he lifted up his shirt the color seemed to spread all the way down his body. He glanced down at his hands and saw his nails were long and black, almost like those girls who wore acrylics, except he was sure their nails couldn’t rip into people's chests with a single swipe. Continuing down his body he lifted up one of his padded feet, he was correct in his assumption from earlier. They were much more animal-like, he wondered if they made him faster, what purpose could they possibly serve other than that?

Gently letting his footfall back down on the floor he shuffled to the shower and turned it on, the water sprayed out in a burst and he patiently waited for it to heat up. Eventually, he was able to step inside, not before knocking his head not only against the curtain rod but also on the showerhead.

“Fuck!” He snarled glaring down at the showerhead. Jack did a little double-take, okay he was also super tall, at least he got one blessing out of whatever the fuck was happening. Jack had to kneel on the ground in order to let the water roll down his body, with a deep breath he enjoyed the warm water pelting his skin. He fumbled around with the shampoo trying to figure out how to open it without popping a hole in the container. As the lid popped open he was hit with the calming scent of lavender.

~~~

“We’ll send someone to come back and check on him in about a month give or take, see how he’s adjusting and healing.” A figure spoke from the kitchen shaking a cigarette into an ashtray, as (y/n) stood across from him. The man ran a hand through his messy brown hair “Then we’ll reassess him, give him a test and see if he’s fit to come to the mansion.” Meanwhile, the girl heaved a sigh of her own and leaned against the cool tiles of her kitchen wall.

“So it’s gonna be my responsibility to explain everything that’s happening to him? Isn’t that supposed to be your job Tim?” (y/n) raised an eyebrow “You realize he’s, like, almost seven feet tall, has no eyes and eats organs right? I’m not even sure WHAT he is.” She muttered, “The rundown I got really only gave me his background and his clear trauma.”

Tim clicked his tongue like the girl in front of him was wasting his time, it made her ball up her fists subconsciously.

God, the main proxies really got on her fucking nerves sometimes.

“You won’t have to worry about that, The Operator will handle all of that throughout the coming weeks. No need to worry. You also don’t need to worry about harvesting organs for him, and hopefully, once he’s healed he’ll work on doing that himself. But for now, someone on a kill close by will be dropping off organs.” Tim’s nose scrunched up a little and the (h/c)-nette’s did the same, she normally prided herself on her strong stomach, but this was a lot even for her. “The only thing you have to do is monitor his eating, see how much he will need on a weekly basis, and obviously keep him alive.”

“Obviously.” They both seemed to have a mutual understanding about that at least, she fucks up and he dies they’re both in deep shit with The Operator. Tim reached to the side where his porcelain mask sat against the countertop.

“Don’t fuck it up.” He pointed to her before slipping out the door leaving the women alone with an organ-eating monster. (Y/n) mimicked ‘don’t fuck it up' in a nasal voice before kicking off the wall and heading back in the direction of her guest's room, she pulled out a pair of crutches from the closet and rested them by the bedside. She gently scratched at the faintly buzzing symbol on her wrist, this is going to be a long month.

#creepypasta x you #creepypasta x reader #x reader #x you #x y/n #eyeless jack x reader #eyeless jack x you #proxies #proxy reader #horror #fanfic #ej x reader #ej x you

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cancer-man-speaks · 5 years

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Cancer Sucks But You Live

My punctuation sucks because I haven’t evolved thumbs.

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Sometimes I put things off so long that I feel ashamed and in turn try to bury it even deeper in the pile of things to do. As far as excuses go it’s not the greatest but most fall short of that. A great deal of that lost time is laziness but there is also a part of me that doesn’t want to look back, that doesn’t want to remember what it was like to be where you are at.

Always obsessed with outward appearance, I cracked a joke when the doctor told me that my PET scan lit up like a Christmas tree on crank. I cried in my sister’s arms when she ran to me across the snow dusted parking lot of the clinic. I smoked a pack of cigarettes on the car ride home, trying to keep my hands busy, to do something other than think about what this all meant. I calmed down before walking in, steeling myself to be as stoic and stone faced for my family as I could. In my head I thought that I couldn’t feel this for the sake of others around me. The moment I walked in the door, I saw the tear streaked faces of my mother and sisters. The dogs milled around their ankles not sure what to make of all their sorrow and their inability to help (or in our beagle’s case, his inability to get fed.) All my bluster, all my hubris fell away when I saw my loved ones, the things I had to lose all in one place. They embraced me one at a time then we came together as a group and I lost it. All motor control lost, my legs felt like jelly. They as a group, as a family supported my weight until I could stand on my own two feet again. The beagle, ever caring, bit me in the ankle for being too far into my mother’s person space.

When I got home from the biopsy, that confirmed the doctor’s suspicion of cool case of type b small cell non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, I took to sleeping on the floor. I told myself it was to keep my bad back comfortable but the truth was it felt good to have something solid underneath me as everything was changing. The days passed and the face in the mirror grew ever more foreign. The bone under my flab carved itself out in my cheeks and jaw. Hollow pockets formed around my eyes that gave me the look of an upstairs basement dwelling gnurdsferatu. The only thing that didn’t change were the patterns on the pitted hardwood of my floor. I’d take off my glasses, lay my head on the cool floor, and follow the whirls in the grain with my weary eyes until they lead out of blurry site. There was a comfort in knowing that just because I couldn’t see where the rich, brown lines ended it didn’t mean they were done travelling.

Either through pity or not being able to read the signs of chemotherapy I’d occasionally get compliments on my physique. Over a beer or two somebody would ask, “You look really good, man. What’s your secret? You been going to the gym or doing heroin?”

Nothing beats the satisfaction of the anti-joke that is responding with an off handed, casual, “I have cancer. It beats the hell out of doing palates.” After you explain the sitch to people a million times explaining it one more time is mundane and boring. They will stumble a second on their words; not sure if you are telling the truth or a joke in poor taste. It’s the ultimate, “Gotcha,” moment. When your diagnosis becomes blasé your spirits soar.

From a few days after I was diagnosed letters poured in by the boatload. Friends, family, friends of family, people that had passed me once at the mall and paid a compliment to my shoes all wanted me to know that there was hope and that I was not alone. I’d read them and be dumbfounded by the amount of care people could express for a stranger. I was even more dumbfounded by the amount of care the family could express. No matter how hard I tried to blend into the background, to continue my weird, self-isolation from my family they kept firing salvo after salvo of cards and gifts. They’d send me gum, stickers that said, “Fuck Cancer,” (Because as we know cancer is terrified of strong language.), and all manner of sweet, sweet candy treats. There was no way for me to stay off the radar of the people that loved me.

I held it together through my first few rounds of chemo. It really didn’t bother me until my hair fell out. Until my fourth round I was feeling like a million bucks. I was getting skinny, I lost a few stray hairs, and I had an actual license to smoke pot. What 24-year-old wouldn’t love that? I was driving to the store to grab a drink and I ran my hand through my hair and it came back in tufts between my fingers. Pulling off the road into an abandoned store’s parking lot I started neurotically, compulsively picking away at my scalp and beard. Handfuls of the stuff coated the front seat of my 03’ Accord but still I couldn’t stop. I watched in horror as my reflection warped in the rearview mirror. I just couldn’t stop. After a half hour of what scholars refer to as, “Going bananas real manic like,” I regained my composure. I drove myself over to a friend’s house and had her shear my head with the clippers her dad used to shave his back. From that day on I was bald. It wasn’t so bad when I got used to it. Every now and then I would get a weird phantom limb sensation, as though I still had a rugged mane of hair, when the breeze blew on my naked scalp.

I was in and out of the hospital all the time. My guts exploded one time when a tumor responded to the chemo and disappeared. It was what we wanted with the tumor, not so much what we wanted for my intestines. They cut out ten feet of my goop and stitched me back up. I was locked up in the cancer klink for two weeks after that. They had me on a tube and all of my food and fluids came from an IV, except when family or friends were around. They would sneak me a small cup of ice cubes, a rare sip of water, or even, once, a whole bottle of tangerine Bai over a whole night. Even when I was being a real grumpy cancer boy my friends, family, and everybody else would stick it out just to let me know I wasn’t alone. In that exact same stay, a friend of mine actually saved my life because he was able to understand my garbled speech through my nose/mouth tubes. I’d been trying to explain to my nurse that the bile vacuum they had in my guts was pumping my green-black bile back into me but she may have been one of god’s special people. When my friend confirmed that my gunk was being pumped back into me, he snagged somebody. Without that kind of support, I’d have either been dead or in the hooskow weeks longer. Not every situation is bubbling gut ooze but when it is remember to trust those people around you enough to say, “Hey, my bubbling gut ooze vacuum feels like its acting weird. Can you go look at the container the ooze is collecting in and tell me what it’s doing?”

You’d think that with all this gut busting and chemo I’d be taking it easy. Wrong. I’m a big idiot so instead of resting I kept smoking, went to the bars regularly, and tried my hand at in the DIY rock n’ roll venue game. My nights before chemo were full of putting anything and everything I could inflict on my body. Jumping through tables, mosh pits, and drinking beer bongs to Jean Claude Van Dame flicks were everyday occurrences. I’d been dumb before cancer. With the ability to live a bohemian, YOLO life I did just that. I’d burn the candle at both ends because I didn’t know if there was going to be a tomorrow. Tomorrow always came; usually with a Jimmy Buffet grade hangover. Dumb. I was dumb. I did seven rounds of chemo then stem cell and not once did I let off the gas petal of stupidity.

But you know what?

I survived. Against all odds, against odds that I was actively trying to stack against myself, I survived. Was it a miracle sent down from the heavens? Maybe. Was it aliens? I’d like to think so. Was it the constant support of my friends and loved ones coupled with cutting edge, state of the art technology in the hands of the most competent doctors and nurses in the industry even though I was hellbent on dying young and beautiful because I’m an idiot? That’s a run-on sentence. It’s also a pretty good idea of what kept me alive, what will keep you alive. I was full to the brim with cancer while dancing on the brink of self-immolation. If I did everything in my power to give myself the odds of a three-legged horse at the Kentucky Derby what do you think yours are? I bet you take care of yourself at least slightly better. I’d like to think that if I beat cancer there is an infinite amount of hope for you, who is not an idiot with a death wish, to go into remission.

There will be moments in the dead of night where you doubt your own survival. There will be bright days that you will sleep away. There will be moments where you lay on the floor in the fetal position bathed in hot tears and cold sweat. You will think of what a life without this hell would be like. You will feel like the cards are stacked against you. The, “What if’s,” will mix a cocktail of fatal fear in your skull eating away at your resolve. You will walk into your kitchen and forget for half an hour that you came in there for soup. You will throw that soup up and lay hunched and miserable over the porcelain for an hour. You will wonder who will carry your name? Who will see your babies walk across the stage at graduation?

The answer is you. This may be the worst moment of your life but it will not be the one that defines you. What defines you will be all that comes after this nightmare. With your two hands you will make great works. Gardens resplendent in their rainbow will call your master. You will see the white sands of far off beaches, will feel the artic chill of the frozen wastelands allegedly known as, “Canadia” far to the North. Mortal peril will be replaced with picking up the kids from karate and a gallon of milk. You will watch your children grow and cover this earth like that brand of paint I can’t mention for copyright reasons. As you watch them cross that stage or walk down the aisle you will have at your sides the same faces that did their best to make you smile from your bedside during your weakest moment. Trust in them as you would have them trust in you. They will be your guide when you cannot find yourself, we will be your guide.

#cancer #survivor #chemo #cancersurvivor #hope #advice #lymphoma #non hodgkins lymphoma #lifewithcancer #lifeaftercancer

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quasarlasar · 7 years

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Penguins and Pupfish: A Short Story, Based on a Dream

In the pitch blackness of the slot canyons, she slid her hand down the side of the rocks, unthinkingly. They were still damp from the recent rains. She could smell the intoxicating fragrance from the blooming dryland flowers.

But under the clouds of pollen and perfume lay another scent. One far less inviting.

“What do you mean...triggered?” the geologist asked her. “There are remotely triggered earthquakes, but you seem to be looking for something else...”

“Triggered. Yes. Triggered by...someone...” she replied, focusing in on a strange sensation her hands got as she stroked the canyon wall.

“Do you have a blacklight on you?” she asked one of her team-mates. He handed her an ultraviolet lamp. She flicked it on, and the walls came alive with fluorescence. “But...that doesn’t make sense!” the geologist exclaimed increduously. “These minerals do not fluoresce under UV light...”

“That’s because it’s not the rocks. It’s blood...”

The recent magnitude 7.2 earthquake was a nightmare for most people, but for the earth scientists, it had been a godsend. Like moths to a flickering flame, they were drawn to the fault zone to investigate the surface rupture, to record the effects of each and every aftershock.

In the throngs of the curious, she had slipped through. Nobody bothered to give her a second look. At least, they didn’t until she started laying down on the earth, putting her ears to the ground, and whispering, like she was somehow having a conversation with it.

She recalled the last moments of her sleep, before she had been woken up the night before by the shaking.

What is this?...Such anger...Disgust...Panic...It’s too much! It’s all too much!

And then she screamed herself awake as the P-waves entered the room, and the rest of the shaking followed....

Gunfire rang out, echoing across the canyons. The geologist dropped to the ground, caught by surprise. Fortunately, he hadn’t been hit. He simply had been frightened by the cracking of the guns.

“He is here...” she said. “The poacher.”

She scrambled her way up the canyon, onto a smallish bluff. The clear desert sky flickered with stars, twinkling above her, with the mountains silhouetted as dark shadows against the background.

In the distance, the red glow of fire.

She crept towards the firey glow, her shoes crackling on leftover garbage. Cans of food, emergency supplies, littered by someone who had been hiding out here a long time before the quake.

Dark pelts hang from the branches of the desert shrubbery. She touched one, smooth and silky. The feathers of the coastal penguin, native to the cold waters offshore. Fish bones crunched beneath her feet. She scooped up a handful. The bones of the desert fishes eking out a last living in the sag ponds of the fault zone.

Both endangered species. Both animals whose homes had been destroyed by man.

Finally at last she saw him. His hair was a wild, tangled mess, blowing in the wind. His muscles burly, his clothes ripped. His hunting rifle was raised, but he lowered it when he saw her. Not another law enforcement officer. Just some random woman.

“You know what you did last night...” she said with the slightest hint of anger in her voice.

The poacher raised his gun again. “It wasn’t my fault.”

The burly hunter had fled into the desert, on the run from the law. The state had passed an ordinance forbidding the exploitation of the penguins. He thought the science they had used to determine their numbers was bunk, and continued to ply his trade, now illegal. The authorities gave him the chase. But he had other plans, and drove his boat into the river mouth, upstream into the desert.

“Stupid thing. Wouldn’t stop talking about how this ground was sacred. Since when was anything in nature sacred? Wild animals just kill and eat each other, and predators drive their prey extinct all the time. Who was it to judge me for that, given it had destroyed so many of our homes?”

She got him to lower his gun once more, and eventually, he recounted to her what had happened.

“The river had ended at a spring. I had been hauling the last few penguin carcasses out of my boat. I couldn’t travel any further on water, so once I got my supplies out of the boat, I decided to blow it up. That way they wouldn’t be able to piece together my story. I decided to make my camp out on this bluff. I began to clean the penguin carcasses. I let the blood drain into the valley nearby...”

“But after a while, I heard...screaming. Screaming coming from the valley.”

“I climbed down, thinking that there was somebody trapped there. But there was nobody. I must’ve gone down there at least five times.”

“Then, on the sixth time I descended, the screaming came back, but now it was all around me. The ground started shaking. I turned around to see the penguins’ blood, now all dried up and forming a thick crust on the rocks.”

LOOK AT WHAT YOU HAVE DONE!!! the voice had said. SMEARING THE REMAINS OF YOUR VICTIMS ALL OVER MY BODY!

“Victims?” Said the poacher. “What are you, some kind of vegan or something?”

I AM THE SPIRIT UNDER THE DESERT, THE ONE WHO CARVED THIS VALLEY AND UPLIFTED THE BLUFFS.

“Spirit? So you’re like some sort of hippy then.”

NO. I AM THE ONE THAT SHIFTED THE RIVERS, EON AFTER EON, BIT BY BIT, AND BROUGHT THE WATER TO THE SURFACE.

“An aqueduct engineer?”

MUST A LANDSCAPER BE AN ENGINEER?

“No, but why are you-”

YOU HUMANS ARE ALL THE SAME. INCAPABLE OF COMPREHENDING THINGS BEYOND YOUR SHORT AND FRAGILE LIVES. HOW SELFISHLY HAVE YOU STREWN YOUR WASTE ACROSS MY CREATIONS, DUMPED THE TOXINS OF YOUR SHIP INTO MY WATERS.

“You’re not human then...”

MUST A LANDSCAPER BE A HUMAN?

“Well, I’m hard pressed to think of anything else that can completely change the structure of the land on such a vast scale....”

The ground shook again, like a darkly humored, rumbling laugh.

IS THAT WHAT YOU THINK? THAT YOU ARE THAT POWERFUL? THAT YOU ARE ABOVE IT ALL, EVEN THOUGH A SINGLE SHAKE OF THE GROUND CAN SEND YOUR PRECIOUS CREATIONS CRUMBLING INTO THE DIRT?

YOU HAVE TAKEN LIFE FORMS THAT TOOK MILLIONS OF REVOLUTIONS ABOUT THE SUN TO EVOLVE, AND WIPED THEM ALL OUT IN A HEARTBEAT. THE DESERT FISH THAT I HAD SHELTERED AND PROTECTED WITH MY SAG PONDS FOR SO MANY YEARS--GONE! THE PENGUINS THAT HAD FED ON THE SHRIMP THAT GATHERED AT THE ESTUARY OF MY RIVER---GONE! AND ALL IN THE NAME OF YOUR CREATIONS, YOUR FANCY DISHES MADE FROM THE FLESH OF LIFE, YOUR BRIDGES AND BOATS AND SKYSCRAPERS MADE FROM THE FLESH OF THE EARTH.

“WHAT ARE YOU?” the poacher shouted. “Show yourself!”

Then he instantly regretted it as vaguely serpentine forms moved from within the canyon walls, before linking together, weaving like cracks in bathroom tile. The shapes came together to form the floors of the canyons and valleys, until he realized the ground was like a giant keloid scar.

I AM THE FAULT ZONE THAT SNAKES BENEATH THE VALLEY. THE ONE THAT HAS BEEN QUIETLY SITTING AWAY, A CLOCK TICKING LIKE FATE, A SWORD OF DAMOCLES HANGING BENEATH YOUR CITY.

“Oh great, a talking fault line...yeah, I’ve definitely seen it all,” the poacher said, rolling his eyes. “Next thing you’ll tell me the ground will just rear up and punch me in the face.”

And then the ground lurched up a few feet, and he faceplanted, just like that.

I AM THE FURY AND VENGEANCE OF THE LAND. THE LAND YOU TRY TO TAME, BUT THAT WILL ALWAYS BE WILD AND FREE.

The poacher got up and spat dirt from his mouth. He stomped on the ground, annoyed.

“Who are you to give me lectures?! A fault line, daring to lecture me on my own so-called ‘destruction?’ You have destroyed countless of our cities, killed thousands of people! How dare you lecture me on destruction when you have caused so much of it more than me?”

NO. YOU ARE MISTAKEN. IT IS YOU YOURSELVES THAT HAVE TURNED WHAT I DO INTO DESTRUCTION. BEFORE YOU CAME, IT WAS CREATION. THE CREATION OF MOUNTAINS AND VALLEYS, SPRINGS AND SCARPS. NOW THAT YOU HAVE BULLDOZED THE SCARPS, HOLLOWED THE MOUNTAINS AND PAVED THE VALLEYS, IT IS DESTRUCTION.

“EXACTLY! You have destroyed our homes!”

AND WHAT DID YOU DO? YOU POISONED THE SPRINGS SO THE FISH CAN NO LONGER LIVE HERE. YOU LITTERED THE DESERT WITH YOUR GARBAGE AND TRASH SO THE DESERT BLOOMS WON’T TAKE ROOT.

YOU HAVE CLAIMED A TOLL ON THE LAND. SO...IT IS TIME I CLAIMED A TOLL ON YOU.

He saw footsteps up in the distance. The wildlife patrols. He got out his gun.

“I don’t have time for this...” the poacher growled. He fired. One. Two. Three times. The bodies of the wildlife officers rolled into the valleys.

“Here’s what I think of you, ya stupid crack in the ground!”

And he scraped and smeared the blood and guts of the penguins and pupfihs all over the rocks of the valley.

The screaming came back. And this time, it turned into a rumbling, and then a roar.

#not webcomic #text #short story #earthquake #seismology #geophysics #fish #penguin #wildlife #endangered species

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archiephd · 7 years

Text

Hollow Lungs

Spoilers for A Lie Guarded, 4x04. Just some good ol agony from Bellamy's perspective after the end of A Lie Guarded because I am not okay and I needed an outlet for these horrifying emotions.

Fandom: The 100 Words: 1170 Chapters: 1/? Characters: Bellamy Blake, Marcus Kane

On AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9896435/chapters/22184660 On fanfiction.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12379348/1/Hollow-Lungs

A/N: I am not okay.

No.

It begins with a swell, a swoop deep in his chest, a cavity opening to the frigid air. He feels reality wobble at his fingertips.

It was a good death.

Muscles refuse to cooperate, stiff yet weak, sick, unsteady, but he manages to swivel away from their faces, their unreadable faces. The waves crash one after another, cold, hot, deep aches spreading over his body. A rushing in his ears. A keening sound deep in his chest, knotted, tight, heavy. An explosion without means of escape. He knows more than feels his body drop to the floor, fingers curled around rusted bars until they creak.

The world fades with a high pitched ring as something splits deep inside, shattered glass in his throat, gravel between his teeth, fire and ice in his veins, swarming like bees. Violent expulsions of the chaos beneath his ribs wrack his entire frame, dry like wood, bones scraping together. A fuzziness, clouds hovering, he's hovering, floating, simply existing and nothing more. He feels disjointed, sliced into pieces and scattered in the wind. He distantly registers hands seizing him from behind, pulling. The world is a blur, nothing save the vice gripping his chest, constricting his airway.

Limp like a puppet with its strings cut. Wooden, hollow, cold, dead. Pain sprouts goosebumps over foreign skin, tracing a pattern, carving loss into his being. Etched by an angry claw, tattooed over his heart. Where the burning ache is. Where a gaping hole is. Emptied. Numb.

What was the last thing he said to her? Her name? Did she know, as a simple fact of reality, how much she means to him? Simply by existing? Did she know?

Death feels like a tangible force looming against his spine.

No.

A rushing glow of pain, twinging across his collarbone down to the pit of his stomach, curling and twisting, all-encompassing, overwhelming.

Octavia—small fingers, wide eyes, head nestled in the crook of his arm.

Octavia—sad smile, genuine laugh, petite body crammed beneath the floor.

Octavia—bright features, excited, awed, feet shuffling to the beat of a crowd. Octavia—scared, tear-stained cheeks, too far for him to reach.

No.

Octavia—bold, ambitious, reckless, embers in her eyes and in the quirk of her smile. Octavia—dirt and grit, strong arms, fierce, coordinated, deadly, worn but standing tall. Octavia—thick-skinned, eyes shadowed, shielded, angry, still strong as her knuckles dig into his face. Still strong as she fights alongside them, as she moves forward, as she protects. Tears gathered but not falling. A clench in her jaw. Blood on her hands, but he's got blood on his too.

Octavia—his sister, his family, his support, his strength, his inspiration. His everything.

Octavia.

His sister. His responsibility.

A gag pinches at the base of his throat, choking through saltwater and numb lips. He can't breathe. The ground rattles beneath him, trembling, shaking, his heart slamming against his spine, knocking on his ribs.

Voices garble and entwine, incomprehensible, just another sound, meaningless as a rustle of wind, the chirping of birds. He feels body-less, disconnected. Nonexistent. Drifting through a world reduced to muffled sensations, a poor imitation of life, of existence. Hands brush over numb skin, words fall against deaf ears, questions, unanswered by a mute tongue, people moving across a sightless gaze.

Bellamy.

The vice is thick, strong, pressed against the inside of his lungs. They're shriveling like raisins, twitching to the too-quick drumbeat of his blood. Breathing is hard. But that's reasonable. When a person becomes your oxygen, you wouldn't expect any less when they disappear.

He doesn't want to feel. He doesn't want to exist. Yet when his knees buckle beneath him, he feels it. When fire ants sprout inside his lungs, his existence is startlingly palpable no matter how much he wills it away, corners it in his mind.

"Bellamy," a sound, solid, enticing.

He despises how much he wants to reach for it.

"Breathe."

He doesn't want to.

A firm grip takes hold of his shoulder, familiar features sharpening as his mind works against him to comprehend. He sees brown eyes, dark hair, peppered.

"That's it. Just breathe."

And as much as he wills himself not to, to just fall asleep, to let the universe take him, instincts claw their way from his thoughts. They believe the voice, the eyes.

The jaded scraps of reality scramble to fit themselves back together, disjointed sensations rushing to the forefront of his mind. The wind on his neck, the earth beneath his knees, the concern in the voice that strives to sooth his mind. Breathing is what his instincts tackle first. Taming the creature that writhes in his stomach, clawing at his lungs, seeping him of strength. He listens to the steady breath of his companion and tries to match it.

"Good. You're doing good."

Words jumble at the back of his clogged throat, threatening to spill, stuttering from his lips in a choked sound.

Everything feels so heavy. Like his skin is pulled taught around bones, a rusted machine with too-dry joints. Unable to function, gravity too much for fragile messes and exhausted muscle. A deep, tingling ache has burrowed into his marrow, settling in, ruling his movements, tired, lethargic, heavy.

"Hey... Hey. Look at me, Bellamy."

On impulse, he obeys, registering the quiet worry masked in the firm command.

"Listen to me. You're going to be okay. You just need to breathe. Can you do that?"

It doesn't sound wary, soft, like he would expect it to be. Instead, it's steady, an honest request that he can read in Kane's gaze.

He can't maintain eye contact, but he nods at the blurry ground anyway, throat knotted even as he tries to steady his breathing. The heels of his hands dig into his eyes, stars popping on the back of his eyelids from the pressure. Breathe. Breathe.

The rough hands return to his biceps, dragging him to his feet before he can gather himself, limbs still pinching with pins and needles. They do the same with Kane, ushering them both onward. It's only then that he vaguely registers the roaring sound ahead of them. Cold browns, grays, blacks, a sea of dull color, bodies strong and armed with sharpened metal.

No.

He takes a deep shuddering breath and closes his eyes, blocking out the sights, the sounds, the overwhelming pressure of living.

And then he focuses on the effort of putting one foot in front of the other.

Shout out from the bottom of my lungs A plague on both your houses This thing It's a family affair It's drawing out my weakness Big boys don't cry They don't ask why

A/N: Still not okay. Come and cry with me. Bob Morley, take my stupid money. You're incredible. Thank you for making my chest hurt and my stomach squirm in the best way possible. You are amazing, and talented. R.I.P. me.

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