Silver's Corner

Picture made by unrefrained



Comment here to be added.

Jason finished watching the nine o'clock news and checked his phone again. He had messaged Lisa hours ago, to invite her over after work, but there had been no response. It was very unlike her, usually she spent most nights at his place. Initally Jason had resented the intrusion into his personal space, but over the last six months he had grown used to having her around. It was nice to have someone to cuddle with on the sofa and eat Chinese food with, to go out with friends as a couple, to have her there when he woke up in the morning. In fact, he had seriously been considering making it official and asking her to actually move in.

Where is she? Why isn't she answering her phone?

He called her but it went straight to voicemail again. With a sigh, he tossed his phone aside and went into the kitchen to see what was in the fridge. As he piled his plate high with cold pizza and chicken wings, he heard the beep that signalled an incoming message.

Jason. I need to see you. Please don't avoid me. Sara.

He went cold all over. Sara – a mistake he wished he could undo. They worked together and she had been chasing him for months. A few weeks before, after an argument with Lisa about him visiting his parents, he had gotten drunk and given in to her advances. It had just been a stupid mistake and Jason had made it very clear to her that it would never happen again. But Sara seemed to have difficulty hearing the word 'No' and had taken to sending him countless messages.

We have nothing to talk about. Jason send back, and took the opportunity to try Lisa again. Still voicemail. “Darling, where are you? I'm a little worried, call me when you get this.” Perhaps she had gone home to get changed and fallen asleep, but he was still concerned. It was so unlike her to be missing all evening.

You can't ignore me, Jason. We belong together. I know you love me like I love you.

Not bothering to respond, he flicked through the channels, looking for something to take his mind off everything going on. Why had he been stupid enough to get involved with Sara? What if she told Lisa about their fling? One stupid mistake could cost him everything.

I'll tell her. Tomorrow, I will cook her a nice meal and I will tell her what happened. And I'll do whatever I can to make it up to her.

He grabbed his phone as it went off again. Another message from Sara: I know you don't really love her. Don't worry, I am going to take care of everything.

Going to take care of everything? What did she mean – had she discovered a way to contact Lisa? Was that why she wasn't answering? With shaky fingers, he typed a reply.

What have you done, Sara?

Her response was instant. I left you a present on the porch.

Jason looked towards the door, torn between wanting to know what was going on, and being overcome with a sense of fear and dread. Reluctantly he drew back the bolt and turned the door handle. It was dark outside, but he could just about make out a large box.

FOR YOU WITH LOVE was written on the note in bright red.

He opened it with trembling hands and screamed. His girlfriend's severed head gazed up at him with lifeless eyes.

There is now an opportunity to re-join LJ Idol if you were elimated or didn't get round to signing up: http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/981280.html

I didn't really get a chance to play this time round, because I was sick for several weeks and Livejournal wasn't exactly my top priority (nor was writing, for that matter) - which wasn't exactly fair, but that's life. I lost out on a lot because of my body not being able to fight off infections properly... still, you can only look forward, I guess.

Anyway, although I don't really expect to get anywhere, I will give Second Chance Idol a shot. Anything to keep me writing regularly can't hurt.

Darkness closing in... lights flash and colours swirl. Faces peer from the walls, mouths open and closing. I look away and they are gone. They whisper but I can barely hear the words. Taunting... teasing...

I see things; random things. A tree where there shouldn't be one. A spider, crawling over my skin. A shadow, a person standing in the corner of my room, hovering over me at night.

I look in the mirror and see a face that is not my own. My hands look odd, strange, as though they belong to someone else. Blood trickles down my arm - I can feel the warmth.

Time moves too fast; or stands still. Minutes feel like seconds, whole days disappear in a flash. Evenings drag on, eternal.

Being outside is hard. People are looking - are they whispering about me? Reading my thoughts? It feels as though everyone is out to get me, hurt me. I don't know who can be trusted, who might be lying.

What is truth? I have no idea what is real and what is in my head. I am trapped in a nightmarish reality - but is it a nightmare of my own creation?

Or just reality?


(Footnote: The prompt is very loose with this one, but this is my reality at the moment, the reality of the struggle with active psychosis with no professional support)

Soon, My Dearest Love

It was a dark and stormy night. The rain was lashing down hard and fast, while thunder roared across the sky and lightning flashed down from the heavy black clouds. Villagers huddled around blazing fires, wrapped in blankets to ward off the damp chill.

In the small castle high up on the hillside, the Lord's only daughter, Sasha, stared out from the window of the tallest tower. Sitting alone she watched the wind tear at the trees and the storm raging all around them. Although there was no glass for protection, her mink cloak, thrown hastily over her night robes, kept her warm. A single candle – placed carefully in a corner sheltered from the wind – provided her with a small flickering light. Apart from that and the stool upon which she sat, the tower room was bare and empty. It had been a library when she was a child, but some strange events had occurred and some accidents took place. The servants whispered that it was haunted. Eventually all of the books had been moved to another wing and the tower had been shut up.

But Sasha knew where her father kept the only key. On stormy nights when everyone else slept, the girl would slip out of bed, unlock the door and venture up the steep stone steps. There she would gaze out over the dark fields for an hour or more until the small flame flickered and died.

It had been a year, but still she waited. Ever hopeful that one day her lover would return to sweep her up in his strong arms and carry her away – just as he had promised. Although she knew it was risky, she had not been able to bear destroying his last letter, and had kept it carefully hidden away. But she remembered the words by heart anyway – Soon, my dearest love. Soon I shall return to your embrace and never again will anything ever separate us. One the darkest and most violent of nights, watch for me from the north tower. I will return for you, my love, and we shall be together forever.

There had been no more letters. Winter had passed into spring, spring had blossomed into summer and autumn had once again returned. But still Sasha could not stop the ritual, could not let go of the tiny hope that still sparkled in her heart.

The candle flickered its last, plunging the room into darkness. Sighing wearily, Sasha got up to go. Suddenly an odd sound reached her ears; the high-pitched whining of a stubborn horse, and the clattering of hooves striking cobblestones. Could it be? Hardly daring to hope, she rushed back to the window.

Far below her, a shadowy figure in a green soldier's uniform sat astride a black stallion, guiding the beast along the road to the castle with a steady hand.

“Earnest!” she cried out. Despite the noise of the elements he somehow heard her, and looked up towards her voice. Her cry of joy became a shriek of fear as she found herself looking not at the handsome face of her lover, but at a white grinning skull with strands of black hair clinging desperately to it. Half of his chest was missing, there remained only a gaping hole and a few ribs poking through.

“I have returned for you, Sasha. Come and be with me forever,” he pleaded, reaching his arms towards her.

Screaming, she fled from the window, the awful sight burned into her memory. But it was so dark and everything looked the same in her terror. Grappling for the door, aware of the hooves approaching, Sasha lost all sense of reason. She had to find her father, tell him everything... he would be so angry... but he would protect her.

“Sasha!” the voice called, mournfully. “I love you, dearest. I came back for you. Come and be with me, my love.”

Finding the exit at last, she stumbled down the stone steps... back to safety...

--------

The next morning, the maid was alarmed to find Sasha's bed empty. The blankets were rumpled and some clothes were missing, but the girl was nowhere in sight. The servants searched the whole castle but found nothing. When the cook ventured out into the courtyard, however, the mystery was solved.

Her beautiful young body lay battered at the bottom of the grey stone steps of the tower, her neck having been broken in the fall. The doctor was summoned, who concluded that death had been almost instant. Just a sad accident, everyone agreed, a stumble on the wet steps in the dark. But there were two things that no one could explain.

Why her glazed blue eyes held an expression of utter terror, or why – clutched in her tightly closed fist – were a handful of black hairs.

“Step up, place yer bets! We 'ave a treat for you tonight, folks.”

The tavern patrons paused in their conversation and card games, one or two even lowered their ale as the battle-scarred dwarvern bartender continued roaring excitedly. He knew that his clients were bored and restless, eager for any excitement no matter how depraved.

“A deathmatch right 'ere in our own pit. Borgan the Cruel – ruthless slayer of men, women and children - will take on blademaster Kane Theaza in a battle to the death. Only one can survive. Place yer bets now.” A cheer of approval went up amongst the crowd, for rarely were the fights so bloodthirsty.

As there was a sudden surge of activity, Cory Daemae sat alone in the corner chewing on a broken thumb nail. Only his best friend could be reckless and foolhardy enough to take on an opponent who was obviously some kind of half-giant; easily twice his size. 'How could you let him do this?' he could almost hear Valia lecturing him. That was hardly fair – as if there was anything he could have done to stop Kane. Rampaging minotaurs could not stop the reckless warrior once he got any kind of idea in his head.

Frowning, he watched the bored tavern rabble quibbling over the likely winner and fumbling drunkenly in their pockets for coins. Was life worth so little, he wondered idly, that destroying another in pitted combat was seen as no more than a sport? Of course the answer to that question was one he already knew. In a society where a few people had everything and most had nothing, those with nothing found solace where they could; in crime, alcohol, prostitution and senseless violence. This was just another night of ruthless entertainment, another attempt at finding some purpose in their lives. Cory could see the despair etched in their faces and he suddenly felt nothing but loathing for the city.

“Yer not betting tonight, half-elf?” the bartender gruffly asked, placing another tankard of ale on the battered and sticky wooden table. “Not like one of yer lot to hedge yer bets on a fight like this.”

“Doesn't seem fair to take your money, when I already know who will win.”

“Confident tonight, eh lad? Hopefully your boy won't get too cocky out there – Borgan sure ain't one ta mess with. Rumor has it he once took down three ogres single-handed.”

“I'm not worried,” Cory lied, though his slender fingers were dancing on the tabletop, absently tracing a brownish stain that could have been dried blood. “Kane has fought worse and survived.”

“Ah, true. I am countin' on him to give us a good show. But don't fool yerself: for every skilled warrior there is always one final battle.” Giving a grin that revealed many missing teeth, he picked up the empty glasses and elbowed his way roughly through the crowds.

“Thanks for that cheerful thought,” the young half-elf muttered to his retreating back. The dwarf spoke the truth, but that did nothing to calm his nerves.

Seeing that people were beginning to gather around the circular stone structure that served as the fighting pit, Cory abandoned his bitter-tasting ale and weaved his way through the throng of bodies. The smell of dirt and sweat was almost overpowering especially when mingled with the scent of blood rising from the pit. He was used to it, but it still made him feel a little sick. The spectators were getting rilied up, pushing each other and waving their fists in the air.

“Fight, fight, fight!”

Nimbly he ducked under a pair of flying arms and squeezed himself into a small gap right at the front. Although he wanted to be anywhere else but there, he knew that he had to watch.

The crowd temporarily fell silent as the challengers stepped into the pit. With his head held high, Kane gave off waves of confidence that were hard to ignore. The black outfit he wore – the armour cleverly crafted from the scales of a shadow dragon – complimented his pale skin, his wavy black hair and the dark eyes that burned with fire on the battlefield. Some rumours said he was a vampire and his reputation preceded him – he feared no one and turned down no challenge. With no regard for the whispers in the crowd, his eyes fixed solely on his opponent, sizing him up for weaknesses and not even giving the people a glance.

Borgan the Cruel was far too large in both height and build to be fully human. At over eight feet tall with broad shoulders and bulging muscles, his very presence seemed to fill the arena. One eye glared at his opponent and the eager spectators; the other was lost in the sea of scars that covered his face and framed a nose that had obviously been broken several times. The massive hairy hand that gripped a bloodstained hammer had two fingers missing.

He looked Kane up and down and his face twisted into a sneer. “Are you serious?” he proclaimed to no one in particular. “Too easy.”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” Kane said quietly, his voice cold but measured. He was very tense, Cory could see that his friend held his upper body stiffly. That was not a good start. “May the best man win.”

“Have at it,” the bartender roared.

Kane drew his swords from their scabbards with a hiss of steel and took a single step back, turning them in his hands. Borgan strode forward purposely, swinging his hammer with some force. There was a violent clash of steel on steel and Kane was knocked back slightly by the force of the blow. The half-giant pushed forward in an attempt to crush his opponent against the side of the pit, but Kane knew his plan and gave a sharp thrust of one blade. Although the blow was deflected, it gave him valuable seconds to spin away. Striking out again, he managed to find a vulnerable spot under the arm and pierced the flesh, drawing blood. Despite it being a superficial wound, Borgan roared with pain and hit out with his arm, catching the warrior in the face and knocking him sideways.

As the spectators cried out excitedly, Kane quickly regained his balance and wiped blood from his bottom lip. The hammer came down again and this time he avoided it – the gravity of the weapon took the half-giant off balance and so the warrior ducked under his arm and elbowed him sharply in the ribs. Winded, Borgan doubled up, although not before managing to headbutt his opponent in the face, before bringing his hammer around for another swing.

Cory found himself biting his thumb again, forced to watch as the two danced back and forth for what seemed like hours. Kane was faster and fought fluidly, but Borgan, although slower, seemed to have skin made of thick hide and nothing seemed to deter him for more than a few seconds. The pit was too small for Kane to constantly evade and eventually the hammer found its target, slamming into the warrior's chest with some force and knocking him back into the furthest wall.

As he struggled to his knees, on straw that was slippery with blood both recent and old, Borgan advanced gleefully, raising his weapon to bring it down for the final blow. The crowd hushed waiting eagerly for the kill. The only sound was the ragged breathing of the two combatants.

The hammer came down, and it was what Kane had been waiting for. He raised one long sword to stop the hammer and immediately launched into an offensive attack, hitting the half-giant's chin with the hilt of his second sword – and then taking advantage of his stunned state to hit his torso repeatedly with both weapons. Slowing down at last, he paused for a split second before forcing one blade up and through his eye socket. Borgan grunted and fell, causing the whole tavern to shake when he landed.

Kane retrieved his sword and turned to look at the audience for the first time. His hair was dripping with blood, his bottom lip beginning to swell and everyone could see an impressive bruise on his right cheekbone. He swayed as though he was about to fall, and Cory immediately turned and pushed through the cheering mob of bodies to get to his friend. Suddenly he felt strangely relieved that he had refused to bet; refused to have any part of such mindless violence.

Night. A time for sleeping and for dreaming. Once the inky blackness descends, everything changes. Shadows become twisted and warped; tree branches reaching with claw-like fingers, a discarded bundle of clothes could be a person crouching in the bushes. Noises become amplified, footsteps echoing in the eerie silence. Bathed in the light of the moon and the twinkling stars high in the velvet sky, the world is mysterious and beautiful.

Close your eyes, and I will ensure they never again open.

I am the master of darkness, the stalker of shadows. I wear them as a cloak as I go on the hunt, tracking my prey while they are most vulnerable. Humans are weak in the night. I can slip into their homes undetected, to catch them while they are sleeping. My knife is sharp and I know where to strike; they never know what has hit them. Even those who are awake are easy targets. Their senses are compromised and they are easily afraid and startled. They can be tricked and manipulated, until they end up nothing more than a fly trapped helpless in the web of a spider.

Too easy.

Some attempt to hide, to disguise themselves elaborately, to surround themselves with traps or hire bodyguards. How many bodyguards will stand strong against a foe they cannot see, one who can appear invisible at will? Traps, disguises, even the most clever of hiding places will not prevent the inevitable. Nor will begging and pleading or bribery.

I am the scarred assassin, the bringer of death. I will hunt my prey to the very end of the world.

No one is a match for my blade.

I am going to admit it... I am often ashamed to be part of the human race. In the last few years, every time I have gone on to Facebook, or glanced at the front page of a newspaper, or been forced to listen to the radio for a few minutes, I come away not knowing whether I want to punch someone or find the nearest brick wall and repeatedly smash my head against it in despair.

But it doesn't stop there. If only...

A very nasty, very spiteful person called the police and made false allegations about my sister and brother-in-law abusing their child. Apparently they were 'living in squalor' and starving him. The claims were apparently so serious that a specialised police child protection unit were sent out to investigate. Know what they found? Nothing. The house was a bit of a mess but there was food in the fridge and no evidence of abuse. So off they went... but that wasn't the end of it.

No. Despite no evidence of abuse, Social Services decide that they have to open an investigation. So round they come; harassing two young parents who are trying their best, poking their noses in with their bloody questionnaires and their patronising attitude, telling them that what they are doing isn't good enough.

Oh, and here's the really awesome part. The first social worker decides that my nephew could be at risk. Why? Because a couple of floor tiles in the living room were missing, and because there were no sheets on the bed – they were being washed. Apparently this somehow constitutes neglect. I wish I was making this shit up.

Also while the assessment was ongoing, my mother – who has one autistic child, another with severe anxiety and agoraphobia, and one who is a minor – was trying to support my depressed and suicidal sister, and was practically on the verge of a breakdown from the stress. Did Social Services give a fuck about that? Of course not. She had a very enlightening conversation with another social worker which basically went like this:

Mother: So once they have been assessed, will you be providing them with any help or support?
SW: Oh no, we don't have the funding for anything like that.
Mother: …

I honestly don't know what angers me more about this whole situation. I can't decide if it is:
1) That people can make spiteful, untrue and dangerous allegations and hide behind anonymity while they wreck the lives of others.
2) That an organisation set up to supposedly protect children and 'help' families seems to be made up at least 80% of patronising morons who would not know reality if it hit them in the face with a shovel.
3) That said patronising morons don't care how much suffering they cause.
4) While they are wasting their time getting all worked up over a bed with no fucking bedsheets on it, there are other kids out there being beaten, starved, even killed because Social Services aren't doing their job properly.

I have no words. That these people – these morons – have control over people's lives fills me with sheer horror.

My laptop died on January 1st. A wonderful start to 2016, for sure.

I have a new one now, just got it today so am sorting out all the necessary bits and pieces, but I should be back online properly in another day or so.

I am very late, but given that it is still an option...

I am signing up for LJ IDOL: Friends and Rivals!