Welcome to Gaia! ::

Life in Infi's house... is stressful, at best. There is so much activity, so much noise. It's like... an ocean of thoughts and feelings that slams into me, almost constantly. It sometimes seems that I am in a cesspool here, of stagnant thoughts and dreams.

Crout, has been with... tons of people. I can sense memories of males, female, transgendered people, and always, always, he cries out another name in his dreams. Nakshidil dreams of power, money, and love. But would content herself with a loveless, poor marriage for someone she adored. Kael dreams of being an adult, with a good job, and the one he loves seeing him not as a child, but a man. He dreams of making love under a blanket of stars, and knowing he is loved in return. Infi wanted to be an actress. But she didn't have the looks, or the talent. She found her niche as a music teacher, but every night she dreams of being onstage.

It's disturbing, and demoralizing. What about my own dreams? What do I wish for? Why do I dream of what they do, and why can I have none of my own?

Sometimes, I feel I'm not real. I feel like I'm fading. Sight, sound, touch... everything is just vanishing. People walk right by me, don't even notice I'm there. Sometimes I swear I can feel my hand pass through them when I reach out to touch them.

But their minds. They stab into me. No passing through there.

Infi got me a pair of leather pants. I call them my strappy pants, because they are more flesh than pants. Add that to the fishnet shirt and the gloves I always wear, a little mascara and lip gloss, and Crout takes me to the clubs with him.

Drugs and booze, and watching the girls in the corner whoring themselves for cash, and the boys in the corner whoring themselves because they're too small to take care of themselves. But lord, it's arousing to watch them, especially when I've had too much to drink. That's about the time I take it to the bathroom, and listen to the whores in the next stall vomiting up what they were forced to do.

Crout is often one of them. I'll watch him take and take, using his body on the women, on the men, he doesn't turn anyone down. He always smiles when I ask what the money is for, it's not like he needs it.

"Charity." he whispers, and as we leave, I watch him pass out the cash to the men standing at the barrels on the street.

Charity. Why does he care about charity? Doesn't he have someone he loves? Does he think Infi would want to share him with the common whores?

Does he realize that though he may not get a disease, he could still carry it to her if they ever gives in and make love?

It's summer.
The dog days of summer.
The ******** 'step outside and feel your flesh sizzle' summer.
The glare from the sidewalk will scorch your retinas and melt the bottoms of your boots summer. (That actually happened! For about two minutes I WAS GLUED TO THE SIDEWALK.)
It's too hot for black. Damn, if there weren't anyone else about, I'd say it was too hot for clothes at all, but there are people around, so I do have to wear something. Black, I've been told, is the color of mourning.
Well, you know what? I'm not mourning anything, not now, not ever. Not from my shitstack past of being tossed around from house to house. Enough of that. ******** them, anyway.
So for now, I'm shirtless. As it stands I can hardly stand putting on my gloves, but they never go unworn for long. I don't want to touch anyone. When I can get away to lay in my room with the AC cranked and the door locked, shades drawn, I often kick off my loose pants and lay in nothing but my underwear and boots.

But Dian doesn't have locks on his doors, so for now, the pants remain. I have experimented with skirts though, those chinese styled ones, with the slits up both legs. When you wear those cut to about mid thigh with a pair of Raissen's barely there shorts, it's almost as good as not wearing anything at all. But...I'm not used to not wearing pants. I can't wait for this heat wave to be over, so I can avoid sweating constantly.

I'm also thinking of getting a tattoo. Another one, on my chest, perhaps shaped like a compass rose, centered right over my heart. I've been looking up photos of ones I might like, and I want one...Sort of the ones that look like a mix between a compass rose and the north star, with the lowermost point being longer than the rest. I might tack up a few pictures in here soon, and try to convince Dian to let me get it done.

On my way to the grocery store today, I happened across a group of kids. From the red twinge of malice I felt from three of them, I had the feeling that they were about to play a prank on the fourth. Sure enough, about three blocks from where we started, they began pushing the smaller kid back and forth and eventually dropped him into a patch of poison Ivy. I didn't bother to get involved, kids should settle their own disputes. But as I passed, hearing the jeering peals of laughter, I could feel the twinges of pain and the burning flair of humiliation.

Damn it, did it ever feel good.

Everything was dark, and it smelled of rat droppings and mildew. Even with his eyes as open as he could manage, he could see nothing at all. Like he had suddenly and inexplicably had gone blind. His limbs felt leaden, completely numb save for a screaming pain that only made itself known when he tried to move. Like he had fallen asleep at an awkward angle, and the limbs had fallen asleep, save for the pressure that told him he needed to move, and the pain when he actually did try.

There was a soreness around his neck, but as he rocked forward away from the wall he was leaning against, the reason became clear. There was a large clamp around his neck, attached to the wall. The chain fell with a heavy thud against his back. Where was he?

Reaching up, he threaded his fingers through his hair, suprised to find no horns, and curious fingers traced the shell of small round ears. He couldn't reach behind him to find his tail, his wrists were also held by heavy metal clamps chained together. His legs, as far as he could tell, were still free. He clutched at the loose shift swaddling his body. He could feel rips, feel the dinginess of it, but found no dried liquid. He wore no pants.

There was a tinny clatter to his right. Glancing there he could see a sliver of light where the door was. Someone's face peered through the crack, clean but unshaven, with worried brown eyes. He tossed something onto the floor.
"Aidez-moi..." He rasped, suprised at how hoarse his voice was. He reached toward the figure in the light, "S'il vous plait, aidez-moi." The figure looked suddenly unsure, brown eyes swimming with uneasiness. A shadow passed behind the figure in the sliver of light. Those brown eyes immediately hardened as he spit toward him.

"Ordures!" and the light dissappeared.

There was scratching somewhere nearby, the tiny many scratches of small feet belonging to...dogs? Rats? RATS!

He lunged toward the door, sore fingers scrabbling at the floor which he determined to be stone. The uneven surface tore at his questing fingertips as he moved toward something he knew not what, to find the doorway, anything. In the darkness the scratches became crashingly loud, the ache in his fingers and his shoulders almost unbearable. He hit something smooth and metalic. Stopping suddenly, he grasped at the object, which he determined to be a plate. It had a roll in it, and a small square of beef.

It vanished into a mouth that did not know it was hungry as he shuffled closer to the light, only to be held back by his throat. The chain! He wasn't even allowed to touch the threshold, held cruelly back to the far wall he came from. He crumpled to the floor, arms stretched to the door.
"S'il vous plait! S'IL VOUS PLAIT!!" He hollered with sudden force, but knew it was futility. The rock was cool against his cheek, the poking of smaller pebbles not bothering him.

He imagined verdent fields, of warm sunlight over a palazzo made of orange stone, smooth and expensive. The melodies of his youth filtered into his mind again, sung by boy's choirs, and his blond mentor standing beside them, in a cloak of the most gorgeous green velvet...The smell...The smell was thick and sweet...

Darkness filtered into his mind, like the outside invading his psyche as he lost himself to sleep.
Braeden awoke, shivering and crying as he had weeks ago.

But this time, someone was there to answer. Micah opened the door to the lanturn's room, casting the boy in the glow from the hallway. He was tangled in his bedsheets, and had crawled off the bed onto the floor, and lain there, with his arms stretched to the doorway.

"Braeden?" Micah asked, watching silver eyes swirl into focus, bewildered and frightened.
"M-m-micah?" Braeden asked in reply, drawing himself up to a sitting position, and curling his arms up to his chest, wrists crossed. Tears streaked down the dark umber cheeks, undammed. This time though, Micah didn't dismiss him, didn't leave with a sarcastic or cynical biting remark. This time he didn't pretend to not care.

The teenager decended beside the lanturn, with whom he'd always shared a special connection. Braeden was raw and honest, his very soul as exposed as any human's skin. He glowed anew with fervor as the boy lunged toward Micah, landing in the teen's lap and wrapping his arms around his neck.

Skin hit skin, and the unbridled pain of Braeden's dream hit him like a baseball bat smack against his chest. Micah's c**k jumped suddenly with the fresh anguish intense with the skin to skin contact. He tamped it town as inappropriate as Braeden began to sob quietly into his shirt.

"Braeden?" A new voice chimed in. Dian stood in the doorway, in his nightclothes, ears perked at attention. Micah and Braeden were curled around one another, knotted in the bedsheets on the floor. It would have seemed naughty, save both were clothed, and both very obviously in distress.
"Dian, what the ******** has been happening to him?" Micah asked angrily, casting accusing eyes toward the coon.

"Il s'est produit encore!" Braeden shouted at him suddenly, and Dian shook his head,
"I'll explain it to you in the morning, Micah, for now, let's try to see if we can get Braeden to go back to bed."

"Don't leave me tonight, please. I don't want to return." Braeden said quietly. Micah turned questioning eyes to the spirit in his arms. Braeden turned the gaze to Dian, who nodded aquiescingly. Braeden drew a calming breath,
"Tonight, it started in a room..."

Not much has changed since my last entry, except that i've taken to wearing new clothes. I've taken a photograph and stuck it to the pages of the journal, though I spilled some grape juice on it and stained part of it purple. I really like it for some reason, somehow, it's different from what I used to wear before, but sufficiently formal enough for my tastes. I don't know, I just kind of like it. Anyway, here is the picture,



Looking at it now, it looks like i'm trying to kill someone by looking at them. I wonder if that's how I look most of the time.

...Judging by random people's reactions to me, I'd assume it was true.