Why hello you insufferable git.
Dry your feet at the Welcome mat.
Coming soon, in the theaters near you:
absolutely nothing, my dear, personal, buzz lightyears.
But I award you a pass to platform 9 ¾,
and fifty points for Slytherin, due to the fact that we are fathomless.
Current Short Story: by me you ********]
Peppermint Soldiers and a Cuppa Tea
He snuck into my life like a minor character with a face of vague descriptions. I didn’t even look twice to really be able to define his features, I just stared straight on as though my eyes were glued to him, and that is probably why I don’t consider this to be about nostalgia, but a devotion that goes deeper than understanding. In another way, this is about gaining a new perspective on all the facades he once put up because the light in this café is so old it flickers.
The shadows move across his face and devour everything I thought I knew. Out of all the things I was supposed to do by now, at this particular point in my life, he is still the main focus that ties my hands behind my back and leaves me utterly defenseless.
If there was a script of every conversation we’ve ever had, one would probably see where exactly we went wrong, but I don’t think I would be able to let go, even then.
Across from me, he sips his tea quietly. He looks like he hasn’t aged a day, besides growing a soul patch. The way his eyes constantly shift away from my face stains the situation with tension. Back in the day, we had been here so often that the owner came out to greet us every time we came by, and thinking about that now, I wonder, briefly, how I felt back then upon our first meeting. I don’t remember any of it all that much, just that the sun was bearing down on him and I thought he was out of this world, and that we would be marvelous together.
I recall how our knees kept colliding underneath the table, back then I thought it to be a sign that we were supposed to be drawn to one another forever and that as long as he was alive, we would continue bumping into each other. I believed we were magnets with similar poles, always repelling one another, but the ends of our fingertips brushing for the briefest of moments defined our attraction, each and every time. Of course, now, seventeen years later, sitting here and remembering that my first line to him was ‘you are asking to be punched,’ I know for certain that we were not marvelous.
Neither of us held back, and we tested every part of love that existed. Then, eventually, we broke the bonds and those ever-bearing backbones of ours crumbled. Nervous, that is how I feel sitting here—something I haven’t felt in so long that it’s surreal.
“I searched for you,” I finally mutter, leaning back in my chair.
I don’t add the fact that it was at an empty baggage claim in an airport that had long closed down, and how I had screamed his name at the top of my lungs and nothing but the echo of my own voice answered. However, my speaking does grab his attention because he knows exactly what I am talking about, like an inside joke one had to have been there to understand, and he decides to keep his eyes on me for once.
“Of course you weren’t there. Pretty stupid of me to go, right?” I ask aloud, knowing well enough that it really was stupid. His lips twitch as he tries to battle a smirk, and that’s when I truly know we are bound to destroy one another and that I still hurt for him. “I can’t remember your first words to me, even though I know mine well enough and—”
“Threatened to punch me, didn’t you?”
I nod, biting down on my tongue. Blinking, I look away, staring at the peppermints on the napkin by his left elbow. I hadn’t expected to tear up upon hearing him speak in person again. He had just made some weird clicking noise with his tongue as a greeting before sitting down forty minutes ago, and we had been silent ever since.
“So?” He lifts a brow, takes another sip of his tea and then sets it down on the saucer.
What do I tell him? That, at the end of the day, I take his pills and go to bed because it helps me cope with the fact that we no longer share the apartment—that he won’t be there to take them himself—and somehow, in a really demented way, it is like betraying myself and god damn it, treachery had never tasted so good, neither has it ever been so soothing—do I mention that?
“Not gonna play chase with you anymore,” he says.
“Right,” I agree, even though I don’t want to.
“Then whataya want from me? Gettin’ tired of your bullshit you call texts.”
My hands curl into fists underneath the table, and I look down at my lap as though it holds all the words I need right now. I want to apologise for those, but I don’t because he would just tell me I can shove it and I completely understand why, so, instead, I say, “I was drunk.”
“‘Course you were, Rory.”
“Do not say my name,” I snap, staring at him. I don’t mean to sound so cold, but the reality of the situation is that when I first walked in here and sat down, I knew what I was going to do, and him saying my name cuts so deep I fear I might actually bleed out. “I mean, don’t—” I stop because I don’t actually know how to tell him that I can’t bear how easily it falls from his lips.
“Well can I go then?”
I shake my head, and he shrugs. After a while of counting the peppermints over and over, and watching the way his index finger circles around the porcelain cup, I manage to take a deep breath and gather myself. Licking my lips, more than thrice because they seem too dry, I clear my throat and, no matter how loudly I try to say this, I whisper, “You are good.”
It is a poor attempt at disguising a way to tell him that I think he never deserved any of the things I did or said to him. And when he laughs, I shudder because it sounds off and broken and is missing the note that makes it the laughter I had memorised and missed so much. I don’t dare look at him, then, because I am afraid—even though I know I should.
“I never meant—”
“To call me every insult in existence? To...wait, how many did you ********?” He laughs again, leaning forward, fingers sprawled on the floral patterned tablecloth. “Wasn’t it you, Rory—” he pauses, frowns, glares, letting each letter echo through me— “who said I’d never be able to—”
“I was not going to apologise for that!” I interrupt, my own hands slamming against the table. “I would not dare to disrespect you in that regard. I know my faults, you mustn't count them for me.” As I take a deep breath, leaning back in the chair once more, I really don’t know what I was going to say. When I think about how I felt his heart racing, even through his shirt, so many times that it became a solidified reason to always, and forever, turn around to go after him, I just know I have to do something. “I never meant to make you feel inadequate.”
“Good ********’ job doing that.”
“The airport,” I insist, forcing the word through clenched teeth. Maybe he still remembers how heavy his baggage had been because I certainly do. Even though I hadn’t touched him back then, I could still feel the way the muscles in his back tensed when I tried to brush the hair from his face while he backed away from me. “I meant to call your name.” I really did, but I could not bring myself to swallow my pride and get on my knees to beg for him to keep me.
I could only stare after him as he left, recalling how I fit against his chest and how he would run his hands down my back to make sure I knew he always had it. I broke that trust.
“It seems like I was the one not ready—no, let me finish. I need this moment,” I request.
“Oh, you need it? Alright, babe, go on ahead and finish because the ********’ world revolves around you. Always ********’ did, didn’t it?”
Maybe I do deserve his sarcasm, and the more I think about it, the more I realise I deserve much more than just that, but I won't let him rile me up and argue back. So instead of telling him that he needs to knock his tone down a few notches, I say, “You were always the whole bad boy type with your leather jackets and cocky grins, and every night when you came home late from work I just assumed you were with someone else.”
“Assumed,” he mutters.
“So whataya want from me now?”
“The day before you left, we did not really get the chance to talk.” Because you punched me right in the jaw and told me to sod off, I think, but do not say. “I need, no, we need to talk.” Because I never expected to feel so empty without you, and I can’t go on. The effect of sleeping pills have long worn off, and the taste of alcohol makes me sick these days. “If we do not finally end this the right way, I don’t think either of us can move on.” Especially me, because I am being selfish here and demanding you listen when I was the one that finally did ruin us.
“Whatever,” he growls and sits back, waving his hand as though to tell me to go on.
Before I do, I stare at the peppermints again because they seem to be my focal point tonight. As strong as he may seem with his straight shoulders and blazing eyes, he is no Blunderbore and certainly no Goliath, no matter what his rough appearance may suggest. In fact, he wrote out kindness by trailing fragile patterns down my skin and making me feel alive after so many years where I thought the world cruel, stuck in an apartment that was blank in colour and empty in housing, with only a mattress for a bed and an apple a day to eat, if that.
When I look up from the peppermints and back into his eyes, I remember when he first offered me one after seeing my empty fridge, telling me it would calm the hunger until the pizza arrived—and it certainly did, but, after so many years, I think it was just him being in my apartment the first time that did the trick. Maybe that is why I consider those peppermints to be my personal soldiers because they fought against the growling pain within my stomach, and they were the first gift from him to me. To this day, I have a bowl sitting on the kitchen table, even if I no longer eat them. They are there just as a reminder that I once had something good.
With a brow lifted and a snarl on his face, he stares me down. I brace myself against any kind of violence he may throw my way now because I still believe I deserve more than just the punch he gave me. “I wanted to break you before you had the chance to do it to me,” I confess after so many years of it pounding at forefront of my thoughts, always insisting to be said. “I wanted to tear open your chest and take out your heart, so I could squeeze it and demand it be mine.”
All the words I whispered against his ribcage during early winter mornings have never been truer than now, and the way I cried each night, feeling too insecure with myself and believing he could never love me, has never felt as wrong as it does today. I dried all tears on the torn t-shirts he wore to bed, pressing my face into them and breathing his scent like dust motes. I always tried to catch his lips when he did slip into bed hours later, mumbling apologies and holding me against his chest, letting me climb into his soul.
“Can’t sleep at night, so you need me to fix it,” he concludes. I squeeze my eyes shut because even after all this time we’ve spent apart, he reads me better than I do myself. No mask of mine has ever held up against his stare, and even now I crumble and nod. “Okay.”
Unwillingly so, my head snaps up, eyes wide and mouth open as his simple okay pounds its way down my spine, tingling through my body. The flickering lights catch his eyes in that moment and it feels like splinters of memories connect us in a continuous chaos that spins galaxies like shards in a kaleidoscope. He takes my surprise and twists it to his amusement with a smirk.
“Damn, I’m glad I always shuffle the standards you hold. Never living up to them expectations of yours,” he says with roaring laughter, folding his hands behind his head. He stares.
“No you never did. You—” you disregarded caution from the start and became the perfect stranger whom I wanted to cling too— “You are good.” And that is such a stupid compliment, I know, but it is all I could ever say to him. It was only when it happened to be too late that I realised he was only mine to begin with, but even I could not consider—
“I forgive you, Rory.” He smiles, an honest, soft smile, and I tear up because I do not deserve it after I cheated on him with everyone I could think of; because after I went through his closet to find something to pin on him, I burned down his apartment; because I had always been jealous and afraid he would leave me for a girl. “I forgive you. I forgave you the moment we broke up because I know you, and I knew you weren’t ready for the commitment. Whoever broke you before you came to me did a good ********’ job, but you always forgot it wasn’t me, y’know.”
“No, totally fine, really. Never held it against you, and lemme not lie here and say I hated those texts because I don’t. I read them aloud a lot. I like every stupid one you send.”
“You—” Words are beyond me, and all I know is that he really is not Goliath, but David, a legend on the battleground, setting a new standard for someone commendable—a King out of my league, and someone I never truly deserved.
“I love you,” he says nonchalantly.
I think of the stacked plates in what once was our kitchen sink on Sundays, when we were too lazy to get out of bed to wash them and how, after hours, he would finally roll over me with muffled protest and get up to do so. I always won those little challenges.
“Y’know, all of you—” I blink, look down at the peppermints and fleetingly think of the fact that his tea must be cold by now— “your faults and the stupid way you think.”
I remember how each plate made a unique sound, accompanying his humming that, when I closed my eyes, head facing the crooked venetian blinds, was louder than the air conditioner.
“So I forgave you.”
I don’t say anything as he picks up his cup and finishes off the tea, then unwraps a peppermint and pops it into his mouth. I still don’t say anything when he gets up, brushes down his clothing and grabs his jacket. When he gives me one of the cocky grins I had engraved into my brain so I dare not forget how much I loved them, I still don’t say anything.
My hands are shaking beneath the table, and my heart is a wild prisoner.
“Leaving so soon, Trace?” the owner of the café asks.
He nods in response, then says, “Maybe I’ll be back.” I don’t speak.
When he practically glides into his jacket, I finally do remember his first words to me. I had stared at him from this same table as he waltzed into the place as though he owned it. I can still remember just how it felt as my intestines twisted with excitement upon watching him move like panther, confident and smooth—and I wanted him. I swallow now, staring up at him while he pockets his peppermints, my spit whirling down my throat.
Fishing out his keys, I stare at the scoobies I made him too long ago swaying from the chain that also holds a picture of us. When his grin turns into a cheeky smirk, I feel okay again. I feel like all the years of worrying were for nothing because by just looking at him, I know what we had was indeed marvelous. And I know that if I ever make it home, I would finally be able to sleep again after so many years of insomnia.
Then, I know it's coming before it does, like a challenge he so often threw my way, the same words that came untamed and as passionate as a love affair upon our first meeting, unrestrained and fiery—and how could I have ever forgotten them—while he turns his back on our regular table and gives me one last glance over his shoulder, snarling,
“What the ******** are you looking at?”
my anime list
prostitution, jellyfish, twins, game of thrones,
walking dead (glenn), legend of korra, one piece, downton abbey,
johnny depp, haruki murakami, sherlock, doctor who, ghibli and disney.
Due to the fact that Corr found gay midget porn,
she's placed here as an honour to her hard work for society.
Just a side note: nifty nargle is my mule.
Now, my undeniably terrific humans, which slaughter mother nature, throw thy stones, fellow oxygen inhalers! I shan’t judge thou for I have made plenty mistakes, took many bullets, stopped quite a few trains and finished off many fire spitting dinosaurs, but in the end I am what I am: a magical peanut, and a writer.
Just don't piss the flippin' dragons out of me and we can be flying hippos on rainbows together.
Go on, go on, moving along.
Johnnie Walker, the cat-killer, is unable to receive your calls.
Please hold and enjoy our information below. ⇣
╔═══════════ ❀ ❀ ═══════════╗
☞ most call me yu and i am mature
and childish and my humour is ******** up.
☞ foul-mouthed, dallying, human being with the patience of the gods.
☞ leo, born a bilingual b*****d in nineteen ninety-two
with a fascination for psychological/horror thingies.
☞ questioning sanity while continuing being a sleep deprived
visitor during the nocturnal hours.
☞ spout too many ******** racist remarks and
can’t cook for s**t, also a professional bum.
☞ i love music, from classical to rock, then to k and j-pop
and i'm lazy and love food and my nintendo ds.
☞ the wordy b*****d you wanna avoid because, you know,
placed in slytherin, and probably an airbender.
☞ iron man knocked batman from number one and
weeping angels have me being paranoid.
☞ devours books and strives on words and movies
and tv shows and manga and anime and i need a life.
☞ don’t like even numbers and don’t like people, well,
unless you cook for me, but i panic and am nervous 23 hours a day.
☞ no sugar-coated lullabies here, brutal honesty which means it is a given that i am a total a*****e, if you wish, with perfect apparating skills.
╚═══════════ ❀ ❀ ═══════════╝
Further along the red brick road is darkness, but venture deeper into nihility you—fabulous, strikingly glorious—muggle, for it is made of dreamers, achievers and creators
What am I—you still wonder, my dear?
I am a traveller amongst the stars of dreamers, venturing into nihility, the glory of all believers. I am as twisted as a three flavour candy cane, and I play with the ignorance of the minds dreaming of sober summers, winter chills and midnight breaths. Dancing with the childish smiles that are but facades to hide the reality that I am but a scared little kid, afraid of the monsters lurking beneath my bed—but they are only in my head.
I am the burnt toast with butter scrapped off of it, stale coffee and cold peppermint tea, drifting endlessly in a star speckled, moonless kind of night. While my comfort only lasts within those calm, collected moments when the rain pounds against fogged up, colour stained windows of a bawdy church.
I cling to those delusions of honey-dripped, lopsided grins, to the deceiving tongue ripping apart ribcages and living off of sinking lungs—desperately clutching onto the scents that mingle within the minds of those who dared to inhale the words that are like cotton candy kisses, making hearts ache because you know it is nothing but fiction—a passerby. However, if am meant for anything, it is to show you my universe and hope you take my hand.
Because I am…a magical peanut, and a writer.
Backed Goods and Cookie-Doos:
I am collecting bugs // inks, so feel free—no, just ******** send them.
Thank you very much, wonderful stranger. I owe you a squeeze.
Black: 311 // 500
Red: 332 // 500
Blue: 324 // 500
White: 37 // 500
Brown: 533 // 500
Green: 376 // 500
Orange: 49 // 500
Yellow: 461 // 500
Gold: 109 // 500
Purple: 10 // 500
Pink: 6 // 500
Now if you are still ******** here, excuse my language, get the ******** off of my profile, you traitorous goblin. I am the stalker, not the one being stalked, unless, of course, you wish to leave a lovely comment talking about how nice my hair is today—or you could leave a rude one, saying how much I resemble your mother.
(( If you happen to return in the year twenty seventy-seven,
I plan to massacre everyone visiting my profile then with burning-evil-leaves. ))
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