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View Full Version : not a fanfiction.. still readable though



phasma
Jun 27, 2003, 10:11 AM
It had flown from his hand now. The crumpled paper, spotted wet with storm and ruffled from exposure, soared on a current of foreign air, out so sea. Cast out of reach forever. He smiled faintly; abstractly, and wondered with a longing unconsciousness whether or not it mattered that such things even existed in the first place. It led a fleeting life he had thought, but it would not be remembered, and as he began to cry, the same passing emotion bled through him like before. He would be forgotten he realised, like tears in rain.

Thirty minutes ago, a warm breeze swept the sand and the etiolated beach stirred as if to give thanks to the unsuspected wind's presence. He scanned the shoreline and quickly set about walking up the great wave breaker's steps. Time, it seemed, was always in short supply and his visits to such places were frequently shorter than he had hoped, but it mattered not. He was there - a towering brick-red monument of fickle independence against nature and a stunning ledge on which to view the most violent of acts. He began to scribble furiously at the page he had concealed in his pocket and as the pencil ran scores and shades across it, he gazed outwards for inspiration. He loved to draw and soon became totally immersed in mimicking all that he could see onto the white sheet. He thought of faces he remembered with fondness and of places, events, triumphs and regrets from his past. For how long, he didn't know.

The sea had grown less calm and the breeze had appeared to die unnoticed. His eyes searched back and fourth along the coast and picked out a shape in the distance. He shivered, and in seconds had finished his work. The butterfly fluttered hurriedly back to shore and passed, almost pleased, at having just been immortalised in paper. The clouds turned darker now and a new biting air took hold of the beach. A grin flashed along his lips and the words "Not long now", seemed to galvanise the wicked transformation even further. Storms were brewing and his thoughts drifted in anticipation of witnessing the occasion. Then abruptly, a drop of rain left a mottled circle on the rock to his left and now - a spot on his jeans and upon his chest. He looked downwards to his shirt. The spot had landed next to another; a crimson drip, and it dawned on him for the first time that his nose had began to bleed intensely. Consciously, he had completely forgotten his reasons for being there.

The waves rose higher now, and the entire breaker quivered under the impact of a barrage of water and salt. He tried to stem the bleeding with his sleeve but it was no good, the wound refused to clot. Another hit shook him as a great fork of perfect lightning split through the sky with an electric crackle. The paper jostled under his knee, struggling to be taken upon the wind with every increasing wave that struck the ledge. He brought his hand to his face and drove two fingers underneath his nostrils in attempt to cease the flow, but instead ceased to believe. Impossible! He examined his arm and held the fresh wound hard against his palm - his wrists had been opened and an evil redness seeped from him, with it taking all his strength. Astonishment polluted his brain and panic gripped every fibre of his body. This can't happen! This can't be possible! He battled for an escape and in desperation, tore off his shirt, winding it painfully tight around his gasping cuts. And a glint caught in his eye. Just for a moment, a fraction of a second, yet enough to make him grope at the ground with bloody hands. He had found it - the cause, a blade, a razor sharp blade that glinted in his grasp. He now became aware of himself for perhaps the only time a person truly does. He was smiling at his own twisted irony, and as the paper flew from beneath him he fell forward against the rock with a softened thud.

The next morning a policeman examined the remaining fragments of the boy's page. It contained no picture, only read:

"Not soon enough. Too soon. Now."

Suicide was the cause of death reported back to the town. But the shock soon faded, like so much does in time, and as the officer rubbed his hands and sighed into the cold, indignant air, he muttered nothing. For what's worth hearing, when there's not an ear to listen? It was a bitter November dawn and the sea mist chilled him to the bone - he needed coffee. Marching briskly back to the car and keeping just enough warmth in his toes to discourage numbness, he clasped the cup lovingly between his paws and thought, as he stared downwards, what a shame it was to see a butterfly crumpled like that, in the sand.

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based on an attempted suicide when i was fourteen. wrote a few days later. it's personal, delerium filled and i dont expect much of it to be understood, but so long as the execution is fair...

hahahah and seriously, well done to anyone who took the time to read this. i hope it wasn't a total waste of five minutes.

edit: stupid ms word...

<font size=-1>[ This Message was edited by: phasma on 2003-06-27 08:16 ]</font>

phasma
Jun 27, 2003, 10:25 AM
ahhhhh!!! really now, this isn't an attempt at being an attention whore!!!!!!! i don't want pity or blaah blah, but just proving to sharpio that people on these boards do read... and write.. and can string a sentence together.

hahahah besides, with the length that it is, i would only expect the interested amongst you to read it.

Sai-Yuk
Jun 27, 2003, 01:15 PM
from the first word i knew this was going to be great. that was why i only read the word 'it' and left it at that.