i. bubble bubble

Purple.

It was all he could see as he brushed past the dangling flowers that framed the door like an archway. They were sweet-smelling, he noted, before the sharp little hiss his mother made drew his little feet towards her.

Though, admittedly, his mind never left the foliage. In the 54 seconds, they had been there for he had already flipped through countless textbooks in his head, each with detailed descriptions and drawn images of so many flowers even a Brewer would have trouble naming them all. And yet nothing remotely similar to the things had shown up.

"Which one, Em, the blue or the –"

"Yellow."

Salem shoved away the baffling flora, storing it in a drawer in his mind for later. His mother, ever the future enthusiast, had wanted him to come along to Madame Rosetta's, a small shack in the middle of Isligo where the supposed fortune teller lived.

"You sure? Remember what Papa said? Mrs Fucci and her son won it last week with the blue."

It was funny, really, in a town where magic - true magic - flourished, Rosetta still seemed so fake. Like, 'wears a turban on her head and has a crystal ball made of frosted glass kind of fake'. It didn't take a genius to figure that out.

"Mamma, it's 1700 hours, we're 30 minutes late and counting."

Salem's mother let out a frightfully tired sigh, and she dropped the small, perceivably yellow lottery machine back onto the small table in front of a looming oak wood door. She cast one last forlorn glance at it before she adjusted her cloak, and swept the fringe of shadowed ink from her eyes.

"I suppose I'll never quite get used to you and your growing intelligence, little one. Come, you are right, we must hurry."

That was the last time Salem and his mother had truly spoken. 11 years ago.

⚜

"Really boy, have you no sense of shame?"

Salem shrugged pitifully, and had his arms not been full of firewood sticks - still damp from the heavy rainfall that had bestowed upon them earlier - his itching fingers would have pushed locks of burnt russet away from his face.

11 whole years.

Memories that consisted of darkened marble, empty words carved into the shapely rock and long, black cloaks that grazed his feet were already engraved into the timely flesh of his mind.

Griselda, his late mother's sister, sighed deeply. Salem didn't want to admit to himself that maybe getting caught fucking his sister's boyfriend in the designated Potion's closet perhaps hadn't been the greatest of ideas.

"You're lucky this town is so accepting of your... preferences. If not, I'm sure you would've been burnt at the stake by now."

Salem snorted - hypocrites - his silver eyes found light in the darkness of the night, nimble feet sidestepping any debris in his path. A thick scarf wound itself around his neck, warming his throat and soothing the annual ache that seemed to come every October of the year.

Speaking was not an option anymore, and Salem honestly did not mind in the slightest. The forest seemed to prickle, alive and aware in the gloom, seeming to shield itself from the obvious glare of light emanating from his home village just beyond the winding road. Isligo.

Overhead, clouds swam across the surface of the sky, shaming the moon into hiding.

His mother's hair had always seemed so-

(How could he describe it?)

- still. Promising. So moulded to her character was that hair that bled night skies and dark lies like gossamer and poison.

Salem twirled lightly as he walked behind Griselda. Dancing was a beautiful thing, a thing that led the fluid motions of his body; languid curves and an arched back to fully form and take shape. He thrived while dancing as a fish did in the water. He ached for it.

A few sticks fell from the pile in his hands, causing Griselda to hiss at him, stern words tripping his feet as they picked over a particularly tricky stump of a tree. His toe caught the edge of the twisted thing, gnarled in a way that caused his heart to flip, pain shooting through his whole leg as he fell, face forward into the impending dirt.

"Fuck!" He groaned, rolling onto his back as he felt the panicked hands of his aunt scramble over his body for wounds.

"Language, Salem! Good Lord, how on earth did you manage to trip on nothing?"

Nothing? He wondered if the woman was blind if simply she could just not bring her eyes to see the glaringly obvious tree stump he had tripped over. Or at least...he thought he had tripped over.

Murky waters doused his mind in their choking embrace, submerging his thoughts as his body jerked swiftly, violently.

God, not again.

The ground beneath him seemed to disintegrate into molten lava, boiling and reaching up to greet his skin with greedy little licks of painted orange, red aching liquid. His whole body flared like a bright star streaking from the night sky, his head lifting up off the ground only to be slammed back down as if some invisible force was driving it.

His chest heaved, soaked in sweat, his consciousness slowly slipping. Skin too numb, too blue and swollen to feel his aunt's sobs as she encased him in her arms, spells falling from her lips in trembling songs of despair.

Her right hand found his chest, a slight golden glow emanating from her fingertips, seeming to emerge from a place within her skin, somewhere deep in her veins; connected to her very soul. And that very same power poured into his body for the 7th time that month.

ii. toil and trouble

Salem found comfort in the Healer's office; it reminded him vaguely of his Mother's old bedroom that had been draped in all her favourite gowns and blouses, shaped like a crescent moon, the towering French windows on either side that let the moonlight spill into the room.

In retrospect, Salem noticed the Healer's place really only had the crescent moon shape and semi large windows that stopped midway down the curved walls.

Books lined the burgundy walls, just stacks upon stacks of dusty volumes, each thicker than the last. He let his head rest against the arm of the soft couch he was sprawled on, gaze resting on Aunt Griselda and the Healer.

Maroon couch with burgundy walls. Clearly Hr. Erik Kozin had no sense of colours. Either that or the old coot was colour blind.

Griselda's skin glistened like oil bathed in a soft glow of silver, her eyes - usually a sprightly, bright amber - were shrouded in murky concern. As she spoke in murmured whispers, her right hand lifted up to repeatedly push back the sheer green veil that encased her coarse, black hair.

"You can't do that! I refuse for him to be subjected to such a fate."

Salem's ears pricked with interest, but a laziness gripped him so instead of getting up to listen intently, he let his left wrist flick, drawing a ball of fire up his arm and into his hand.

The flame startled both Healer and his Aunt, clashing starkly against the soft glow of the moon, spitting iridescent sparks of molten red and orange. He smiled softly at the burning sensation that engulfed him - the slight pain felt like ecstasy personified.

Nothing like the magma that had encased him many times before.

"Mr Salem, you're awake."

The fire burned on, if not a tad brighter this time.

Griselda's eyes spilt apologies onto the floor, her thin, dark lips coated in purple lipstick while downturned into her signature frown. She faced the Healer again, fingers tapping irritably on the beech wood of his desk.

"Erik, tell me he can be saved." Her voice filled the space like a cello, deep and sturdy. Yet oddly metallic, almost like a scratch of nails underneath - damn human cigarettes.

And yet it was the kind of voice that had been through some shit, Salem thought idly.

The albino Healer shifted uneasily, white hair scraped down into a low bun as his red eyes flared in the darkness. He seemed to be calculating his chances of survival against Griselda, and with the big woman practically pounding at his table, Salem could see he was admitting defeat.

"Griselda, I'm sorry. The High Council have made their choice. The boy must talk to them before anything should be disclosed."

The flame extinguished.

Salem stood, letting his robes fall around his feet in his haste to understand just what had been uttered. The High Council wanted him? His throat clogged with thick cords of anxiety, shivers taking claim of his body as the world seemed to want to collapse in on him.

"Why-" He croaked, ignoring Griselda's stern glare telling him to shut the fuck up. "Why do they want to see me of all the witches in Isligo?"

The Healer stood up as well, quickly rushing over to Salem and guiding him to the stool beside Griselda and sitting him down. He ignored the boy's question at first, busying himself with prospects of measuring out the correct Potions in a glass phial. Once this was accomplished, he whipped around and sighed heavily.

The clear, tarnished liquid was no consolation - neither was the slight chance that Kozin was colour blind.

"I'm afraid I cannot answer to you that question. I do apologise."

Of course. of course, you do, you white pubed bastard.

He was almost 17, almost free of the burden that had plagued him all his life; adolescence. At 17 he would become of age...and be forced to take over his Father's rather rowdy Coven.

Salem downed the Potion drink in one, before staggering to his bare feet. He left his Aunt to guide him towards the door, mind already dozing off in spite of himself -

(The clear medical Potion really hadn't been good for his stomach, but Salem had survived. If just barely.)

iii. mirror mirror

If there were ever a thing that Salem did not like, it was being forced to dress up in formal robes and try slick back the tangled mess that was his dark hair.

Perhaps Griselda realised this, and that had been why she let him lie back against the soft material of the couch in the candle light of the living room as she held up different clothing choices to his slouched frame.

She bustled around the room, both hands full of either measuring pins or robes, her own hair tied up into a rather messy top bun. Her wand, a thin stick of birch coated in oxblood paint, was slid in behind her left ear, spilling showers of magical essence onto the hardwood flooring.

His sister, Sorcha, was nowhere to be seen. Probably out with one of her countless boyfriends. One, of which, had been actually attractive and had pleasured Salem to the point of no return last night in the Potion's cupboard.

One of his finer moments, one might say.

"Salem, child, this is your Trial for Morwenna's sake! Quick, pick one of the following, emerald or –"

"Navy." He whispered, slim fingers grazing over the inked tattoo on his bare knee.

Long ago he had given up trying to shy away from Griselda's motherly hands and now felt no shame in sitting in only his underwear in front of the woman. It's not as if he had anything to hide, either way. He was slim, with long, lean muscles underneath pale flesh, and his dick? Well, the only thing about that is that over the years it had grown into something less of a pitiful sight.

It was perhaps something around 6 inches while soft, and, well, measuring had never really been the first thing on his mind while it had been hard.

His Aunt stopped in her tracks, those amber eyes seemed to light up straight from the pupils amongst the warmth of the fire.

"Repeat what you just said, child." That was her favourite term of endearment at the moment, and Salem could remember - back when he had really been a child, perhaps 2 - she had called him 'Em' along with his mother.

How quickly things change.

"Navy." He squeaked, and immediately reprimanded himself for sounding so weak. Just because he could remember his time as a toddler didn't mean he wanted to return to acting like one. "With my pale skin, the navy cloak with the silver peacock designs should bring out the colour in my eyes."

Oh, Morwenna, if he had not sounded more homosexual then than in all his life, he truly did not know what his preference was.

At least his Aunt seemed to appreciate the help, as that terse mouth of hers quirked up at the ends and breached something approaching a smile. She quickly grabbed the robe he was talking about and threw it at him with rushed instructions to "change now, or Morwenna help me."

Salem did as he was told.

It occurred to him that maybe this wouldn't all be the shits and giggles he really had hoped it would be. What if the High Council decided he wasn't really worth the seizures? What if they cast him out of Isligo? Or worse, withdraw him from the college program he was bound for after the next Full Moon cycle?

He firmly pushed these terrible thoughts out of his mind, instead focusing on reciting the list of American presidents he had learned during his spare time when he had been 5. Something about reciting nice, calm long lists was almost as soothing to his nerves as dancing was.

And with one leg shoved into the neck hole of this bloody complicated robe, and his head shoved down an arm slot, he really didn't have time to be dancing

—

It was odd, being away from the comfort of Isligo. Already Salem was starting to miss his small, stone house bathed in multicoloured cloths and littered with piles upon piles of books.

(All his, of course. Griselda did not believe in reading about things such as adventures or Aiso - the magic of the fire that coursed through his veins - she believed there was more to learn by trial and error. Salem much preferred the strong knowledge of knowing first.)

He was homesick for the quiet bustle of the town square; the pretty shops lined around the circular centre, each painted either a delicate grey, white or off-lilac colour. And in his distress, he didn't even at that moment mind the giant stake that tore into the ground in the direct middle of the circle, with the cobblestone burnt in a wide radius around the large wooden thing.

"You're shivering," Griselda whispered as they stepped through the large, everlasting doors of the High Court, welded deep in the city of Moropa. "May you perhaps be nervous?"

What a preposterous thought. Him? Nervous? He laughed in the face of discomfort, grinned at the antics of shame. Never would he be anything less than at ease.

And perhaps Salem would've believed himself if his hands weren't twitching as mildly as they were in the roomy pockets of his slim-cut robes. He shook his head firmly, or at least as firmly as he could manage in the harsh light of the hallways.

"It's 28 degrees Celsius outside, child." His Aunt mused,"You are either shaking from the nerves or coming on with another episode."

Salem didn't know which one would be worse to admit to.

So instead of allowing his mind to race through the 23 Pros and 45 Cons of admitting to each, he let his eyes roam over the waiting area that they stood in. The hallway was long and wide, stretching down as far as the eye could see, and right in front of them was a sort of desk.

It was glass, frosted with a strip of navy running through it, all sharp edges and harsh lights embedded into the front of a sign that read 'Welcome to the High Court. '

Salem didn't really know if he felt welcomed at all, with the way his nerves were bouncing like untamed butterflies around his chest, squeezing and squeezing at his heart until he was sure he'd pass out.

The walls were a strange type of black, the kind of black that seemed to suck the light from the Earth itself, with lined white designs floating in the void of darkness.

"Typical."

Griselda was muttering all sorts of phrases under her breath, her hands idly passing back and forth over a scrap piece of cloth she had shoved into her own robe pocket. From where he was standing, Salem could see the cloth change colour and wondered - not for the first time - how such a strong woman as his Aunt had ended up as a Tailor.

They stood around for around 3.5 more minutes - in this state Salem couldn't find it in himself to grab his sense of time exactly - and he supposed they were nearing the time they were supposed to show for the trial.

"Do you suppose we just go in?" He muttered over the ache in his throat, somewhat grateful for the thick scarf Griselda had allowed him around his neck. "It's almost 1500 hours."

His Aunt shook her head - more out of disbelief than disagreement, he thought - "Sometimes I will never understand the way your mind works. 1500 hours indeed. Salem, it's called 3 o'clock."

Humph. His mother had never once minded his odd way of speaking, even embraced it at times. She had said he was 'a very special boy.' Even eleven years later, he wanted to believe this so much.

The dark skinned woman before him smiled slightly - the closest he'd get to an apology, he supposed - and grabbed his arm gently. Together they scaled the plush red carpet of the hallway, glancing at the 8-foot iron doors and their number plates, before finally finding the door marked 13.

To be quite honest, Salem saw this as some evil sign from a foe of Morwenna's that today would not be his day at all. His fingers shook violently in his pockets, sharp nails digging into the flesh of his palms.

"I wish you all the best, my child," Griselda whispered, and one large wrinkled palm covered his own effeminate hands. "They should know that whatever is happening to you is beyond your reach."

Salem kissed the woman's cheek, and after their brief hug all he could do was nod and follow his guardian for the past 9 years into the threshold of his doom.

- o f f e n s i v e s l u r s -

❝ ＳＯＭＥＴＨＩＮＧ ＴＥＮＤＥＲＬＹ ＨＵＭＡＮＥ ＳＨＯＴ ＦＲＯＭ ＴＨＥ ＵＮＤＥＲＢＥＬＬＹ ＯＦ ＤＲＵＮＫ ＭＩＮＤＳ ❞

⚜

HE GRIMACED AS he made his way between gyrating bodies, cringed as layered sweat came in contact with the bare skin of his palms.

It was intoxicating, the air, clouded under marijuana blankets that pumped along to obnoxiously loud music. Something thick and desirable swarmed over him, defiantly stuck in the tousled reserves of his dark hair.

And the scent of unadulterated sex and straight Vodka encased him.

He had managed to let Lucia coerce him into attending the post-grad party for St. Kitts and Nevis High; which was a feat his cousin was abnormally particularly proud of.

Seniors were half clad in clothes, letting slip the milky flesh that bore freckles and inky tattoos; each showing off with practised ease.

This was a subtle type of beauty. Something tenderly humane shot from the underbelly of drunken minds; spilt darkened secrets into ears now open – but in the tired daylight of the morning would soon be closed, memories long forgotten; done away with.

"Izzy, my bro! You came?"

Lucia McKenna was one of those unfair people. One of those perfect people that played football outside of school and was bound for success in a good sports University. He was one of those people who had friends outside of social media that loved and adored his every move.

And worst of all, he was one of those charitable people - those nice people. The kind of people that were hard to hate, because they were just so good hearted.

Isaiah grinned in what was admittedly shameful glee at the pure mess his cousin looked.

One hand was curled around an empty bottle of Heineken, fingers pressed red and knuckles drawing white with the force he was clutching at the glass.

"Yeah, unfortunately. I had nothing to do since the flat's empty without you. Hey," Isaiah made wild gestures with his hands, letting his teeth chatter. "It's brick in here."

Lucia howled with unnecessary laughter, drawing unwanted attention from passers-by and nearby drunken dancers with dripping, yellow eyes. Isaiah thought the boy looked like a madman instead of a respected member of society, but went with it and giggled slightly.

"You've been hanging around those Empire Staters far too much, dear cousin of mine. What's the camera for?"

Isaiah glanced at the camera that was nestled on his chest; out of harm's way - and shrugged. Lucia's words had been unmistakably slurred, the syllables rolling over each vowel and slipping off his tongue in earnest to escape his mouth.

A mouth that no doubt tasted of dried vomit and Heineken swirled in Vodka.

"The school needed a relatively cheap photographer, and I'm their guy." He tried not to gag mid-speech as the unfiltered residue of tequila and tangy vomit invaded his senses.

The hall was a hazy mess of spiked punch and predigested drugs, and Isaiah spun in slow circles, tried to take everything in through the lens of his DSLR. Tacky silver stars made of cheap tinsel grew down from the ceiling in waves just short of brushing everyone's heads, the floor was a bleached hardwood birch coated in teenage desperation and sexed up fantasies.

So, Isaiah pushed the black hair from his wet forehead, all things the school would have a fit over if they saw.

He turned the camera, peered into the illuminated gloom as neon light filled the screen. In the far left corner, behind glass tables filled with trampled food and lined up bottles of pure spirits, someone had hung a line of obnoxiously green string lights that wrapped across the wall.

A fort of blankets, chairs and pillows had been diabolically planned and made up in front of the lights, where empty souls lay.

If Isaiah stepped closer, he could see from the camera's slight glare the discarded bottle of tequila they had all gathered around - like it was some sort of statue to their god.

A slight shiver trickled down his spine, and yet he continued on to the group of swaying bodies, watched as glowing green eyes gazed upon the spinning bottle.

He sat beside someone he didn't know, ignored the blank stares.

Isaiah realised he didn't know any of the gaunt faces and sunken eyes that glared at him.

The bottle spun.

It stopped.

On him. The glowing green eyes watched on eagerly, watched as someone stepped from the inky darkness that had surrounded the fort, watched with hints of amusement and disgust as that someone was a boy.

All of a sudden Isaiah's camera hung heavily in his left hand, and he lowered it to watch along with the other empty husks.

"Sinclair, you're not actually going to kiss the faggot, are you?" A husk spoke.

Isaiah hid behind his veil of thickened hair, frowned, and chewed on the inside of his cheek. He wasn't a...he wasn't gay. Something along the lines of bi-curious. And yet that didn't stop him from watching the stranger advance, towering well above everyone else that was standing.

He was dressed in simple cashmere, a black turtleneck and dark jeans that bore enlarged holes; showed off the milky expanse of his thighs and rosy hue of his knees. He smiled toothily.

Isaiah couldn't help but think it was the most gorgeous thing he'd seen since the corpse of his Mom's evil cat, Mc Puddles.

Isaiah didn't know what was happening, all he heard was his heart trying to escape from behind his ribcage, all he felt was the way his fingers gripped onto the tanned skin of his arms. The scent of blood, copper-like and pungent, was the only thing stopping him from ripping the flesh to threads.

"Hey."

The stranger was blond.

How Isaiah had missed that, he didn't know. The blond bordered on a sort of white, a platinum mop that had been trimmed at the side of his ears but left to gather delightfully in his face. The hair obscured the boy's eyes as he grinned lazily.

"Sinclair J. Mullaney, at your service."

"Oi, Mullaney that sounded fairly sexual there, mate. What kind of service do you offer?"

Sinclair threw a finger in the direction of the voice.

"Fuck off, Howell."

Howell - Dan, Isaiah's mind supplied - made a noise of contempt, spread his lanky body across some other dude that was busy on his phone. Dan's hair was a decidedly nice shade of chocolate brown.

Isaiah was very aware that he was just sitting there by the left hand of the fort, pressed against pillows and soft duvets; held under the intoxicating spell of Sinclair Mullaney.

"You do understand that we have to kiss right? So it's only good manners you grace me with your name before I brutally attack your lips." The blond had a drawl that blurrily resembled Lucia's drunken slurs, husky and deep that reared from his chest.

Everything was moving too fast.

Isaiah stopped breathing and stayed that way as scents of fresh pine and musky rainfall enveloped him in an icy hug. His mind whirled heavily as cold hands, soft and sporting fingers the length of oceans, gripped the space between his throat and his shoulders.

"I - Isaiah." The raven haired boy managed to spit out. At least he thought that was his name.

He couldn't have been too sure with the way the world was spinning around him, swirling at his feet and sliding over his skin in brisk brushes of reality.

Sinclair seemed to be an ethereal being in this state of mind, the scorching heat of his ivory skin, free of blemishes, not even a freckle or birthmark dotted the pale flesh, was messing with Isaiah's body.

"Isaiah." The blond exhaled ashy scents of smoke and a world full of Vodka, his grin spreading slowly across the eves of his face. "Isaiah Fannet?"

The heavens fell.

His heart stopped midway up his throat, and Isaiah suddenly felt cold. The fact that Sinclair J. Mullaney, someone he had never met before in his life, knew exactly who he was, was something short of terrifying.

Fingers dug into surface veins of his neck, nails dipping into soft skin and drawing blood to the epidermis of his flesh. That beautiful grin was now all gaping hole and hot, tepid mouth, glistening teeth winking like ghostly eyes in the dark.

"Isaiah Fannet, basically Isaiah the Faggot."

"Isaiah's Fanny." Stressed laughter. "As if Sinclair was going to even touch his gay mouth."

The husks' whispers were quiet at first, barely above breaths that drew like feathers across his cheeks, but they soon grew.

Isaiah couldn't breathe. His palms felt sweaty and far too small as they tightened around Sinclair's wrists.

Laughter swarmed him.

The blue haze of freshly smoked weed drifted in and out of his vision. Fingers stuck into veins, and soon Isaiah was screaming over the chants. It hurt, it all hurt and he was starting to wonder when God - a being he hadn't believed in since he was 12 - was going to take him.

He was filled with flashing eyes, gaping mouths and grins that split faces into jagged halves. His heart stopped. The world paused.

Were breaths meant to feel so short? His head was a murky temple of waters that convulsed and arched, a temple in which his thoughts went to die.

And his body a prison in which his soul begged to be free of.

⚜

I was asking for it

 You should’ve seen the clothes I was wearing

On my body

I

Was practically begging to suck

Your dick

I 

Was practically begging to get 

You 

Off on a high

That I 

Will never experience

Because 

You 

Never want to think about mine

Maybe some other time

You

You saw M-E

Of course

You didn’t see me

How naive

You. Did. Not. See. Me.

She that's alive

With eyes that light from behind her mind 

And a face open with emotions that grind 

Onto her cheeks

A soul that has been mine for weeks at a time

Before shrivelling up to die

With each passing rhyme

And I do cry

Cos I

Am a woman

That's what we do best

Other than entertain your little guest

We make sandwiches in the kitchen

Put on lace panties for your sick fantasies

Try and quit our 'bitchin' 

Try to kerb your rising temper

Remember?

Of course not

You saw M-E

Missing an A-T

To resemble a slab of M-E-A-T because is that not what I am? 

Boobs, blowjob lips and private parts

That I was taught by my mother to keep till last

After dinner, a drink, a year...or two

And yet here you are

Teaching me what to do with my meat

Just because you couldn’t keep 

Yours 

In your pants

Long enough to last.

There's a guest in me

A guest that has named themselves Anxiety

And suddenly I'm too blind to see

That I? I am sick

And those around me must be thick 

To think that I am alive and well for the exterior 

Is not what my interior hides

I try 

And fail 

To find a happiness that doesn't exist 

I am but hollow tree stump that lives to resist

The help from those who tell me they care

And suddenly I am no longer me

But the she that they want me to be

I know nothing but pain in my heart

The emptiness that starts 

To consume and fume and suddenly I have no room

I am filled up with regrets

Depressed

My mistakes live in houses inside my head 

And each night I go round the block

Trick or treating for memories 

That hide in me 

And suddenly

I - can’t - stop.

Where the fuck am I?

The phone was ringing.

Ring. 

Had she a house phone?

Ring, ring.

She didn't have a house phone.

Ring...ring, ring.

What the hell was ringing?

"Make it stop." 

     Her head snapped up to greet tortured, sunken eyes that sat high on a gaunt face. 

She wondered if the boy that knelt savagely in front of her knew that his eyeliner had smudged down to his left cheekbone.

Ring, ring.

     A thick hand slammed into her neck, thrusting her against one of the concrete walls that encased the both of them in a sterile prison. Her head reeled as it hit against the grey stone, blackness clouded her thoughts before she refocused on the odd figure in front of her.

His face, as well as being boney, had a silver, glittery film layering over it, giving his slim features a shiny coat. His eyes - pale, yellowy...cat like - widened as he studied her, the hand over her jugular vein twitching slightly.

     Talin hid her fear well, apparently.

Ring, ring.

     "Why won't it stop ringing?" The boy growled.

Talin wished she knew and was about to reply, but that when the ringing stopped. In its place, the creak of a rusting bolt sliding through an ancient lock graced their ears. The boy seemed to perk up, because his temper subsided slightly, and on all fours, he pounced towards a different looking patch of stone on the other side of the small room.

     Why didn't I notice that? Talin wondered pitifully, vaguely remembering through the murky haze of confusion that she was a trained professional detective. She had grown up to notice the tiny things that appeared to be out of place.

And yet a measly slab of rock had bested her.

The room though, it was something else entirely. It was so strange, so oddly sterile, boxed, symmetrical and balanced. Nothing to upset the eye, nothing to spark curiosity.

    It housed nothing but a pile of newspapers and wood shavings in the far left corner, yet despite that Talin's nose was attacked with something medicinal, like the pungency of rubbing alcohol.

It was a room designed for a purpose; the sole purpose of killing any living being inside of it with boredom.

    "They've opened the door again." He commented lightly.

"Again?"

The creature was pressed up against the slightly discoloured slab, ears - which she noted were thin, ungodly things that tipped into points - seemed to be trying to listen through the wall.

"They always open it once I have a new friend to play with. I think they want my friend to help me escape, but they always die. It's most peculiar."

What?

"Open the door, friend." Through filmy eyes the creature looked at her, drawing her closer until she came to rest beside him. Her hand pushed at the slab on its own accord. Apparently, she wanted out.

Now.

She pushed, and the stone grated away; slid into a crevice beside it, only to reveal another room. And in the middle of that room was a slip of paper, barely distinguishable in the dim lighting.

She couldn't breathe. 

Her feet flexed in their black and white Converse, forcing her to walk stockily towards the note. Her stomach lurched.

Taped to the note was a severed finger, slathered in spit, dotted with rough bite marks. Dried blood was caked over the skin, forming a crusty layer of dark red that injected itself into the crevice its nail.

Shuddering violently, the young detective picked up the note.

Welcome To The Game, Talin

Life is a cycle.

We're all floating around in our own chapters of a heart-wrenching novel, repeating history and walking in footsteps already moulded into our paths; laid out for us. Unbreakable, impenetrable, our destinies set into stone before the day we're even born.

Or, at least, that had been what I thought life was like, before it handed me lemons - in fact, a human shaped, lying boyfriend sized lemon - and had forced me to make the most of it.

     Life, if anything, is a test. Around all corners are surprises, some good, most bad. But the challenge isn't to see how long you survive these problems, if that was the case then I would've died right from the moment I started secondary school. 

     No, the challenge is to see just how you overcome these obstacles in the way of your happiness, your health; your career and dreams.

I'm by no means an expert on men or love, but my first school related crush tore me into pieces for a good month or two before I realised the world did not revolve around them and their freakishly good looking hair. 

     I was lied to, sent through a rollercoaster of emotions just to be dumped right before my birthday, and one measly day before our 1 month anniversary. 

It seems like nothing to us now, but back then it was everything. Instead of dwelling on what I thought I had done wrong, I ignored him. He had told the entire student body just why he had dumped me in the trash, and by April everyone except myself knew. 

Life taught me never to let love, or whatever conception of affection you have towards someone, blind you from seeing the truth. I had multiple friends who warned me, told me it'd be a terrible idea, and yet I still got together with that creep because I thought I was so inlove. And for the first few days, he told me he loved me too. 

Life - and all the implications and sides that come with it - is like a well balanced, carefully planned meal. You have your starter, where you are bound to pick the blandest, newest or weirdest choice, but it's a relatively short piece of your life, so the mortification is relatively short.

    Then the main course, where minor past decisions barely affect you here. You are engrossed in either a wondrous meal or a disgusting, bitter taste in your mouth.

And lastly, desserts. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and in your just desserts part of life, you get to look back at all the bullies and liars you've overcome to get to where you are now.

Life is still a cycle, an unbroken circle ready for us to enter its repeating journey. But life is also a cycle that can be breached, changed, morphed into what we perceive it to be.

To Whoever Is Reading This, Probably Years In The Future...

      You'd think that you'd be used to odd things happening to you after getting drenched in murky toilet water on your first day back in High School. 

I honestly struggle to think where Alan and his gang of meatheads even got so much as to soak my body in it. They must've waded through dark sewers for hours on end, just for me. Alan and Co, I honestly feel honoured by the amount of pure effort and hard work you guys put into torturing me.

    You'd think you'd be used to the universe trying to screw you over after some bitch - another of Alan's groupies, whom I'm pretty sure is now snapped in half and being used as a sex toy - cut off all your hair in History class. Mind you my hair had been down to my waist then.

    But no one expected the Principal of Jerome Horwitz High School to turn into a rampaging, sex ravaged, grey-skinned zombie.

Complete with bloodshot eyes and equally grey...equipment. (The image of his genitalia is now burned into my brain.)

     Ms Mehan, the deputy of our school, had ordered every classroom to be situated under lockdown, demanded every student to hide under their desks with their phone and something that could easily be used as a weapon.

I, naturally, have brought my phone, of which I'm using to type this message up on, and a jumbo bag of Doritos.

     I don't care what anyone else says, when this Zombie Apocolypse comes, I won't be going around crying for someone to give me their food rations.

Don't think that I'm not scared. In fact, I'm petrified. My hands are shaking so much as I type this that I'm relying on autocorrect to fix the worst of my spelling errors. But growing up with bullies and abuse fanatics as parents, you learn to cope with the fear.

The police had been called, and after about 2 hours when, subsequently, nobody came, Mr Evans - our Math teacher since 4th grade - had started pacing around. We could all hear him, breathing heavily while his feet stomped and reminded us that he would be of no use to fight off any zombies whatsoever. All because he taught us Pythagoras' theorem not the Art of War.

      At first, I didn't think anything of his strange mutterings, only peeking a look occasionally to make sure his eyes hadn't rolled back into his bulbous head, or his skin hadn't peeled off to reveal grey velvet.

Even though he was still the same short, balding, beer-bellied man, I knew instantly that he was going insane. Mel, my one and only friend at the time, had stood up with both arms out int front of her, brandishing her Chemistry textbook. That girl was smart, that thing weighed more than the both of us combined.

     "Sir?" I remember the way her voice was trembling, the way her left wrist twitched slightly - a dead giveaway to the fear that she felt. "Sir, step away from the door."

I also remember the way her eyes widened in shock as the man she had made fun of for 4 years picked up his desk's chair and swung it, letting go and watching as the block of wood flew into her skull, shattering her head into tiny fragments. 

      I had watched as her brains oozed out, rolled down her pale, freckled face soaking her white shirt.  She was still so beautiful when she died. 

This zombie wasn't like any I'd ever seen on the Walking Dead. It didn't stumble over its own feet to get to the fresh brains in front of it, didn't moan loudly as it gripped her burgundy hair, fingers slipping through the cracks of her skull.

     This zombie didn't miss a beat as it slammed my best friend against a wall, tore off her shirt in a sex craving frenzy and started groping her.

This zombie wasn't like our Principal - who literally moaned 'brains' and had sex with that Alan's Group girl - and I had done nothing but watch, mouth open in a silent scream as I watched it tear into the girl I had loved as a sister for the past 5 years. God, tears are coating my phone scr- wait...what was that noiseaflehhfod--

Empty dreams trailed pathetically after an empty body, thoughts and whispers finding time to be relived over and over again as liquor was poured down his throat. Callen ignored the pain, focused on the warmth it brought as he choked on it - nothing was going to make him slip into that craved, forgetting coma as well as the Vodka - no matter how burned his lips were. It didn't matter that his tongue felt raw, like sandpaper, scraping against the dry expanse of the roof of his mouth, if only he would feel that beautiful emptiness once more.

He had grown accustomed to the ever-present smell of alcohol, as had his girlfriend. He let his head fall backwards into the wind, wet splashes of rain decorating his tired, adolescent face, thick permed black hair being swept away. Already the boy could smell the petrichor, the delicate scent that reminded him of Ana. The sky was grey, so still, which brought unwanted images of disappointed silver eyes into his mind.

A thought; More. I need more Vodka.

Then, nothing.

A few minutes later, another thought; Maybe she would be the only one sad to see me go.

His head ached with poems long forgotten. Fingers still wrapped tightly around the cold bottle of Smirnoff, they itched to find his typewriter and let out the inner turmoil that filled up his empty soul like air. He didn't breathe in oxygen, he inhaled feelings and emotions and words. Long conscientious streams of isolated thoughts so common, so pretentious that they followed what society had taught him. Inhaling was being kept a prisoner.

He didn't breathe out carbon dioxide, he exhaled pent up rage, wrists slit to the bone, broken dreams that spaced his body. He exhaled his care for the world, let them think what they do because they didn't know him. They didn't know how he exhaled cigarette smoke, thick and choking himself on the carbon monoxide. Exhaling was finding freedom, no matter how small, again.

His head spaced dizzily as the vodka fell from his trembling, long fingers, finding its way to the river below with a final splash. The waters looked like tempest storms, a darkness in its depths that reminded Callen of himself. Reminded him of a hurricane ready to let loose, but suppressed; for the world was not yet ready for its excellence.

The boy smiled delicately, head bent forward to stare at the void beneath him, wondering if that was what it would sound like the moment he found the courage to step from the edge of the bridge and... 

...fall