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voorvore · 3 months

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The Boy and His Dog

No. Time.

I stand at the window of my room. I watch the entire world, everything, all go on without me. I need not interfere.

I can't interfere.

The sky is a maligant depressive shade of grey. No joy to it. No sorrow to it. Just a covering, a tarp thrown over any real chance of feeling. A late-night horror movie viewed through child-sized splayed hands. Too scared to look at it face on, but stricken with enough of a disgusted, morbid fascination to continue watching in this zero-sum state. No risk. No gain. A shaft of His light 'graces' the corner of my room. I do not look. I do not know what I am missing. I do not feel incomplete.

As if driven by my own rejection of His 'grace', a cloud covers the shaft streaming through the window. This window is at the basement level.

My room is closer to a prison cell than an apartment. The walls are bare, naked with all the subtlety of a brutalist concrete painted lady, constructed from cinder blocks. A bare mattress lays on the floor to the south. Covered by a singular piece of soiled cloth masquerading as bed linens, soiled with blood and shit and piss and cum. A thin ebony crust has formed on the spots infected the worst, whereas the mass-at-large of the cloth remains a sickly pale yellow. It reeks like an abandoned parking structure, forgotten by all those who walk by, its urine soured, asphalt melting in the summer light.

The window is to the north. The glass has yellowed over decades of abuse and misuse, forcing a view of the world through a pair of piss-coloured glasses. I suppose that only to be fitting of me.

A boy walks on the other side of the road, on the sidewalk, a companion walking alongside him. A dog.

I struggle to make out the finer details of their appearances. My retinas have rotted in this self-created contrievance.

The boy is young, perhaps a prepubescent, unaware of the conspiracy against ourselves that we all partake in. He wears golden hair atop his crown, like an innocent prince. A noble. A sire. An adventurer. His eyes are a stunning azure, striking awe into wherever they glance. The boy wears a simple coat and children's shorts. The dog walks without a leash. Its fur is groomed to an exquisite standard of near-perfection, slicked back. Its thighs are plump with maturity and age, as if to suggest the wear and beauty of motherhood. Its eyes… oh, its eyes… stunning; eyelids covered in a sheen of iridescent makeup, eyelashes delicately blacked and exposed for all to see and worship, emerald-coloured irises, nearly human in nature, uncannily so.

The boy and his dog continue walking on. I can only watch for so long. The beauty in this life stays around for such little time. But the suffering is constant.

The boy and his dog turn a corner, out of sight. They do not leave my mind. All that remains is the same dampened skies, the same urban decay, the same decrepit apartment complex all around. And me.

I turn around. A lone rusted knife sits in front of me.

Demons mock me in my mind. Abraxis, sitting upon His throne of hate and conspiracy, spits upon me. I am useless. I am a malignancy upon this world. I am a diseased algorithm. A great procession of horrors, of monsters and revenants, of those things that act behind the scenes, of those things that we may never accept the existence of, carries me down to the river. A river of death.

I am lying on the mattress. I hold the knife above my chest. Pointed downwards.

Yet I do not plunge the knife inside. I do not end this contrievance of organic shit that festers inside these concrete intestines only to be shit out as a corpse waiting to be taken away by the sanitation workers who call themselves the law. I limply let it fall to the mattress beside, apathy becoming one with me. I am no longer anything that should exist. A paradox. A self-conscious nothing. A body without organs. A self-perpetuating neverending crypt.

I am haunted- By that which I would not do. No. Time.

#voor.txt #voor.reblogs #tw suicide #tw: suicide mentions #tw self destruction #creative writing

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cocksuki2 · 11 months

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osamu dazai and yukio mishima both wrote frequently about double suicide, usually between lovers and usually under the guise of going crazy and being okay with it. reading both of their works makes me really really curious about whether or not it was just them and mishima was just inspired by dazai, or if this was a greater pattern within japanese literature and culture in the years immediately after World War II…

like considering the HUGE cultural shift that happened after japan lost the war (because the country had lied to its citizens saying they were going to win until the day of the surrender).. I’m wondering if, upon losing that sense of nationalism from an imperialistic government, this idea of meaninglessness and double suicide with someone who feels the same was a general pattern in literature at the time.

like…. they both ponder the idea of double suicide with someone their character loves who is like minded VERY often (mishima in almost every book he’s written, and dazai famously in no longer human). they talk often about this perverse, strangely sexual, need to die together and based entirely in a like-minded idea of meaninglessness and misery..

#idk really what this thought process is….#and why I’m so interested in it #but it is really interesting to read genres of work from similar time periods #and find the common themes #and it’s even more interesting to me that these two authors discuss such a SPECIFIC phenomenon #within such a close together time frame #and I’m wondering if it’s just inspiration or something that goes beyond that #I wish there was a class on this #tw: suicide mentions #tw: double suicide #yukio Mishima #osamu dazai #book.no longer human #book.life for sale #cal.gen

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mortuaest · 9 months

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Large rant, sorry. Please ignore if any of the trigger warnings are going to be an issue. I need to get it off of my chest because if I rant on FB I get hit with a character limit and I should make a personal Tumblr which I think I have but dont remember shit about.

Ive been having severe, and I mean severe as fuck mental and emotional breakdowns because of the fact that its literally been almost a year (Its going to be a year October 29th) since I've had to put down Ice Cube, my ESA of 14.5 years. He had cancer in his cheek and it was placed right to where it would effect his quality of life severely negatively if we tried to surgically take it out, and he would possibly die on the table if we did it because of his age, and he was declining (He wasn't eating, he was drinking, he really wasnt eating as much as I wanted him to, he was spitting back up the pills I was giving him, he was suffering) and my mental and emotional health has been severely suffering each and every day that passes without him.

I have another cat, I got him in April, thinking I was alright. Which I was I guess. Im being reminded via FB memories and just my own fucked up brain wanting me to join him to where I'm legit giving myself until December 31st, 2023 to have someone. Anyone give me a fucking sigh to keep on living. Im going to be going through a program my friend suggested to make a will, making her I forgot the words she used but shes going to make sure that my will is listened to and Albert Whisker, the cat I have now is taken care of.

I cant keep on living, and the fact that this heartbreak is fucking me up so badly to the point where the large baggie of medications (ranging from insomnia medications to Very STRONG painkillers and such, as well as my daily medications the day of me going to attempt) is very tempting to take now. And I mean very tempting. Meaning I almost took it yesterday, after my first mental break and me physically hurting myself by slamming a brush ungodly hard into my head because I legit believe I deserve everything that has happened to me (The physical, emotional and mental abuse that I got for 20 some odd years from my mother, the severe car accident from last year, the rapes, everything. My friends being murdered or dying around me, loosing the only thing that even brought light to my life).

No one in my life cares. No one seems to care. Ive been severely struggling and each time IVe even bothered to reach out for help via friends. Since my father hates me for being trans and my sister doesnt give a fuck to even bother to help me. My mother was the cause of my two rapes/sexual assaults in my life and wants me dead because Im autistic. No one wants to help, or no one seems interested in even keeping me around.

Cosplay isnt helping. Video games aren't either. I havent felt any happiness since last year. I could deal with this if he was still alive. But at the same time Im lying to myself, I havent known what made me happy other than my past cat Ice Cube. I stayed for him since I love him. I had him since he was five weeks old. We bonded. Its not the case with Albert and I feel he loves me but we dont have the connection and never will.

Im never going to feel anything other than severe misery and depression. At least, that's what I 100% believe.

TLDR: Im severely struggling and dont know what to do anymore. I dont trust my new therapist even though she has stated more than once and my friend who also goes to her has stated more than once she wont send me to inpatient or CPAP and she tries to avoid hospitalization if we can. But because of multiple decades of PTSD, abuse, and being denied the proper treatment, help, support from friends and family that I should of gotten Im at the point where Im giving myself until December 31st to find a reason to stay alive and if I dont then Im letting my queue run out.

#狼{out of lusty ambitions}#狼{out of lusty ambitions}狼 #tw: negative thoughts #tw:mentions of death #tw: mentions of suicide #tw: cancer mention #tw: mention of loosing a loved one #tw: suicide mentions #tw: suicide idealiation #tw: plans of suicide #tw: mention of assault/sexual assault

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oh-katsuki · 2 years

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cw: christianity and catholicism, mentions of suicide, im honestly just talking abt the christian church’s stance on suicide because I honestly cannot fathom it

anyway don’t read this if ur not interested in me talking abt this. it’s rly quite boring but I had a thought in the shower that reminded me of this so… ya know

i wanna preface this by saying that I mean no disrespect to those who practice or following christianity or catholicism. im not trying to shit on anyones religion bc I am a firm believer in practicing what you practice. I’m just kind of thinking out loud here. I’m also aware that this might not be true in all of the different branches of christianity, but it is true in the branches that I have experienced and grew up in. so please… ya know keep that in mind.

so for those of you who don’t know, I was raised catholic and attended catholic schools all the way until high school. now like… setting aside the trauma of being young and queer in spaces where being queer was expressly not allowed, what really turned me away from the religion in my adult years is probably the church’s stance on suicide and the casual cruelty inherent in the structure of the church.

I’m a pretty open-minded person when it comes to spiritual things. i want to believe in the existence of a higher power out there who is looking out for me and my loved ones and the beings on earth. i truly want to believe that I’ll be able to see my loved ones even after they have gone. the idea of life after death is very appealing to me.

ive done my own personal research into religion as a whole, including the concept of spirituality which has always really appealed to me. that being said, having growing up around catholicism and christianity, it was always something that was within reach and at the back of my mind just by way of exposure.

still (and setting aside the other CLEAR problems with those particular religions), what keeps me from fully embracing that religion is the stance the followers of jesus (and I say this to include most religions who believe jesus was the son of god) have on those who commit suicide. for those of you who don’t know, christians and catholics believe that someone who commits suicide doesn’t go to heaven because they destroyed a creation of god.

i have never, in all of my 20 years, been able to reconcile the anger and injustice that stance makes me feel. every time i think I’m getting closer to that religion, I am painfully reminded that they worship a god who does not welcome some of his deepest sufferers into his realm. i cannot fathom that stance.

it’s always been a huge thing keeping me from further exploring christianity (because I have no interest nor belief in the catholic church). speaking from the perspective of those who carry those beliefs, god creates and loves all of his people. he cares for them as he would children and under his protection we are meant to thrive. i have never been able to reconcile following a god who willingly (according to the beliefs of many christians) gives the children he loves so dearly tests that would drive them to feel like they don’t want to be alive, only to deprive them of the heaven promised because they could not withstand them.

a lot of christians believe that hardships in their lives are because god has given them something to overcome. they also believe that someone could be the most devout follower of Jesus and be denied entry into the pearly gates because they committed suicide. i cannot reconcile those facts side by side.

there is something so incredibly cruel about a group of people following the ideology that debilitating mental illness to the point of suicide is a test given by god and that failure to survive means spending eternity in hell. there is something so cruel about humans looking at those who’ve passed on by way of suicide and believing that their god would not welcome them and comfort them.

i cannot understand or fathom that. i cannot fathom wanting to be a part of a community of people that believes that. i have never been able to understand believing a god who doesn’t offer peace to those struggling the most.

and I’ve never been able to understand it. as someone who has been in that position around the time I was being given a catholic education, it was harrowing to think that the god that was supposed to love me wouldn’t offer me comfort or solace because I had suicidal thoughts that I couldn’t control. it was absolutely and truly terrifying to believe that god was willing to abandon those suffering so deeply that they would override the human instinct to survive.

the draw of christianity (and I say christianity even though many religions have this same goal because the religious belief I’m talking about specifically refers to christianity) is that you find peace with god. it is that you find a support and love you would not have found elsewhere. the idea that the very same god who promises to love all of his children as equals would deny eternal peace to someone who suffered so deeply in life, is truly and deeply harrowing to me.

it has and I think it will always keep me from truly considering and being open-minded about christianity. i cant understand where that type of self righteous cruelty from a community that claims to be compassionate comes from.

#and this doesn’t even include the idea of sin and punishment for those sins #nor does it include the large portion of Christians and Catholics who actively-#ostracize and harm communities of color and queer people o. the basis and under the justification of religion #i just…. I dunno #having grown up in it #it’s truly a disorienting thing to see so much hypocrisy present in one place #and it continues to be upsetting to hear from people that I (nor anyone who doesn’t accept Jesus as their lord and savior)#am condemned to eternal damnation because I have my own interpretation of the religion #that I am not even allowed to find my own peace and meaning in religion #but instead MUST accept certain aspects that I find … incredibly unacceptable… in order to find peace when I am gone #whatever I’m just…. thinking abt religious trauma today ig #tw: religion #tw: christianity #tw: Catholicism #tw: suicide #tw: suicide mentions #personal

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pridecomethbeforethefall · 1 year

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Guess what

all suicide prevention lines are unavailable for me rn

#personal #tw: suicidal thoughts #tw: suicide mentions

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fennharel · 2 years

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Self-Paragraph: And the Chancellor breaks

when: sometime after meeting Titania where: the Fall Court, in a hidden clearing trigger warnings: suicide mentions, violence, gore, blood, suicidal ideations

Fen’harel breaks.

There is no poetry to the breaking, no musical quality to the cracking. This is not the breaking you hear about in romantic tragedies, nor in stories with a happy ending. There is no catharsis as the pieces shatter in glittering shards, no relief to the fall of the Chancellor, just pure unadulterated grief and loss. It’s self-destruction, millennia in the making. Years upon years, she had built a legacy she would be proud of. Decades upon decades, she built a legacy she thought she would be proud of. Centuries upon centuries, she built a legacy she no longer knows she can be proud of.

Millennia of work culminating on the simple realization: Titania had known.

She had known, but had not stopped her.

She had known, and loves Fen’harel still.

There is a high keening noise building at the back of her throat at the reminder of her reality, the breath leaving her lungs as a hand grasps at her chest, not knowing whether she wants to protect her heart— stop it from disintegrating in the relentless barrage that cannot be stopped — or if she wants to rip it out, still beating, still broken.

Titania loves her still.

Innocuous words, sharp words, meant to surprise, but not to shake. And yet, she had been. Somehow, after all the years, after all the anger, it had been those words that had shaken her to the core, her resolve cracked and her worldview shaken. Titania loves her, despite believing them to be selfish and greedy and ruthless beyond comparison. She loves her, when Fen’harel can infer no one else will be willing to, once the truth is revealed.

There is a maelstrom of emotion cradled upon her chest, the flames of fall fires licking the drying tree husks settled around her. The clearing is quiet, but for the high keening noise she cannot let escape, the noise that is slowly building into a scream that will not be contained no matter how much she tries. The clearing is silent, as the Fall Chancellor finally crumbles, after years of denial. The cracks on the dam she had built around her chest spread, as she was forced to feel everything she had kept at bay in the name of a higher purpose.

Grief, misery, loneliness, disgust, horror.

Emotions kept at bay to fuel her anger, hidden behind walls in order to bolster the lie she has been telling herself since she rebuilt her being from the ashes.

She is strong, unfaltering. She was meant to be, but she is not.

She has to be, for if she is not, she is nothing.

Once upon a time, Fen’harel had been a child, but even that had ended early.

She had been a child by her species standards. A child that had seen a fraction of what they should have before the weight of the world was delivered upon her fragile shoulders. She had been a child when her parents died, alone and without a Warder, for she had lost him too. A child, and yet older than any remaining Fall Noble. A child, but looked at for direction and protection. A child without a home and without a family, delivered as a sacrifice to those who wanted her to protect them.

There was no foundation from which she could build her Court, everything had been swept away by the wave of blood and violence brought forth by those their leader had once created. The very clearing in which she had been born turned to ash by human cruelty, eyes haunted by the corpses of her kind.

Her kind wasn’t meant to die.

And yet, they did. Over and over again, leaving her behind to pick up the pieces of her people, never allowing her time to pick the pieces of herself she had given away to survive.

First, her Warder, lost in a human war to human hands. Then, her mother, blood falling upon a human blade as life left her eyes. Finally, her father, weighted by his failed duty, by his grief, chooses his own ending rather than looking for a new beginning.

And Fen’harel? What could she do but pick up the pieces of her court, of her people? What could she do but prioritize her eladrin, rather than her own heart?

At the end, there was no one left to pick up the pieces of the Fall Chancellor’s heart. Not when there were more important things to be done. Not when there were more important people to be lost.

Fall is the season of endurance, the season of change.

So she endured, time upon time upon time, ignoring her bleeding chest wound, even as it showed no sign of healing. She endured, building a dam around the concavity within her chest where her heart used to be, stopping the bloody reservoir from spilling over.

Fen’harel endured, for there was nothing else she could have done.

She endured, and when the opportunity for change presented itself?

She lost herself to the idea, leaving behind her love for her people, her care, her hopes, all in the search for a greater purpose. A greater meaning. A reason why everyone she had loved had die, and yet she remained, a sole survivor to the cruelties of time.All in the search for something to fill the gaping wound that remained where her heart used to be.

Grief, misery, loneliness, disgust, horror.

They remained unacknowledged, decades upon decades, centuries upon centuries, millennia upon millennia. The hole in her chest never stopped bleeding, but it coagulated, it darkened, it rotted, as she forewent her principles and her morals and her laws.

Little by little, Fen’harel changed, all without noticing. Little by little, her reflection stopped showing her the once carefree girl, turning into the Dread Wolf that had devoured her instead.

Little by little, she had become the monster that had once haunted her nightmares.

“How many of our kind was worth it to you? To see me put in my place?”

Fen’harel had not answered Titania then, too afraid to acknowledge the truth.

“I don’t know,” she chokes out against the silence, voice hoarse from the scream she won’t let out. Dull blue eyes watch the burning clearing, the yellow-orange-red leaves going up in flames even as thunderstorm clouds gather above. “I don’t know. How do I not know?”

The realization had hit her in a flash of lightning, the cracks on the walls of the dam widening and spreading until the entire entire structure teetered in the precipice of destruction.

“I don’t know how many died in my greed, because I refused to look.”

The confession meets the silence of the clearing, the flickering flame, and disappears into the air, even as the cracks become holes.

How many had died, just so she could win?

How many died because she had turned away from her morals in her search for progress?

She didn’t know.

The admission is devastating.

She had only wanted to help.

Her mouth opens against her will and the keen whine turned ragged scream shatters the silence as she falls to her knees and the clouds above release their weight, the rain sweeping away the flames and leaving behind only devastation and desolation.

An apt metaphor for her current state, she muses darkly, as she closes her eyes and gives into the pain on her chest.

As the rain weights down her clothes, as her dress is soaked by ashes and mud, as lightning illuminates the skies, Fen’harel closes her eyes and does what she hasn’t allowed herself to do since the moment her father took his final breath.

She feels.

Grief, misery, loneliness, disgust, horror.

Grief, as she remembers watching her father grip the iron sword. Grief as she knows she cannot stop him, as she watches the sword raise and rest against his throat. Grief, as she meets his hopeless and dull eyes and knows he is already dead.

Misery, the sight of the ashes of the settlement fading away in the distance and she can’t look. She has to be strong, she has to be steady, she has to, she has to she has to. Can’t look back, can’t miss what is gone, can’t be weak, can’t cry. She can’t she can’t she can’t.

Loneliness, the growing heartache as more and more of her friends are lost to the darkness, to the fate of a drow. They were meant to be eternal, everlasting, dancing away the seasons year after year, but now all she can see is youth untouched by the grief of war. Familiar faces hide deathly intentions, the nostalgia of youth shredded by a killing blade.

Disgust, at the way her hands drip red beneath the sins she has committed in the name of progress. Disgust, as she turns her back to her people again and again and again, all towards a goal she tells herself is righteous.

Horror, at the monsters she has helped free. Horror, at the monster she has become. Horror, at the realization she did it willingly. Eyes wide open as she stepped deeper into the hell she made, every step precise and deliberate as she walked into the dark.

The Courts need to change, she knows this.

She thinks this.

She hopes this.

If they don’t, everything will have been in vain, and she cannot stand the thought.

Not when her search for progress is the only reason she had chosen to keep living until now.

The rain is torrential, falling upon her frame relentlessly, mirroring the tears sliding down her cheeks.

Fen’harel remains kneeling for a long time, drawing from the well she had shut away since her father’s death and drinking from it. Drinking the coagulated, rotted blood, acknowledging the grief, the misery, the loneliness, the disgust, the horror, until there is nothing left.

Until there is nothing left of her but her shell.

Then, she does what she does best.

Empty and lifeless, the Fall Chancellor picks up the pieces of her masks, putting them together even as the edges catch on her palms and cause them to bleed. She picks up the pieces of who she had been, and forces them back into place to hide what she has become. Gone is the anger, the determination, leaving behind an overwhelming emptiness that consumes everything in its path.

She wants to die.

She wishes she could.

She cannot.

There is still work to be done. She had to ensure her mistakes do not cost her kind everything, ensure that there is a court once the dust settles, she has to has to has to.

She cannot die, for that would be easy.

She cannot kill herself for that would only give the drows another blade.

So Fen’harel picks up the pieces, and builds her masks.

All the while hoping no one notices that all that is left is a hollow marionette.

#{ drabble }#{ fenharel } self-paragraph #tw: suicide mentions #tw: violence #tw: gore #tw: blood #tw: suicidal ideations

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