Other A Corner for My Soul (Dump)

[WolfSol]

I'm just gonna test some scenes, ideas, and the like here that may or may never see the light of a word document.

Feel free to give a wee comment, feedback, or what not! I'll try and list any TWs as forewarnings.

Also, I realize I have a weird fancy with the use of cold temperatures, autumn, and dead leaves... heh heh.

---

Stoic Heart.
Autumn was a summoner of death. It craved for it as much as a blade or bullet craved warmth. It invited the Grim Reaper with open arms and a cold so wicked that it dwelled within bone. Wet leaves, carcases of gold and orange, littered the ground like bone fragments. They fluttered against the cold ground, and splintered and fractured underneath boots. And in the wake of the autumn winds and the summoning of death, the Reaper came like the first snowfall.

Amelia’s eyes met his own, trapping both his breath and soul. Her gaze was a silk blade, steely and alluring, a green so pale and so vibrant that it almost looked opalescent. With flecks of ruddy reds and acrid yellows dancing along the pupil, framed with long lashes and cropped with narrow brows that furrowed constantly. Something akin to cold apathy twirled in her eyes, and when she pulled her attention back to the dead man at her feet, her eyes crinkled underneath the weight of a humorless smile.

 

[WolfSol]

Fear.
The thought of never feeling her hand in his, never feeling her lips against his, never feeling her soft hair, hearing her twinkling laughter, the way she looked as she slept, her smile, the feel of her cheek in his palm, that little lilting voice when she welcomed him, her hugs, how her eyes were golden in the sun and shifted color in the dark, her–her–-

A violent cold enveloped him, and unbridled devastation forced him to the ground. His knees met the concrete. Only then did he realize the tears. They flowed uncontrollably, nurturing his raw fear until it blossomed into a cacophony of one simple need: he must go to her less he would lose her, lose everything.

 

[WolfSol]

House of Memories.
It’s ingrained in my memory, this house that I no longer call a home. From the alcohol that’s embedded into the carpet to the phantom marks that align the walls. I linger in the den. Breathe in the stale air, and it clings to my tongue. It’s thick and heavy, suffocating. A sign that he’s gone yet his presence remains. It leaves a permanent burn on my skin. His presence lives within every crevice of this prison, its four walls and low ceilings a constant reminder of him. As if he’s made this place his haunt.

I see where his fingers traced the drywall. Trail my eyes over where he decorated the floor and the countertops with his myriad of glasses, crusty rings having discolored the floor and counters long ago. Pause where the doorway arch that leads into my bedroom curves along his spine. Stare at the dilapidated chair that had become his refuge. Then let my gaze wander over the faded pictures that align the wall above the fireplace. They’re illegible, aged and forgotten, stuck in a past that he’d buried.

Everywhere is a sign, a memory.

It causes me to dredge up the unwanted. The fear, the sorrow, the doubt, the loneliness, all of the darkness that he’d painted the walls and fixtures with until I feel sick. Until the den before me spins, dead colors spinning like a tornado of skeleton leaves.

 

[WolfSol]

Fate.
The feel of its hilt was home, was solace. He planted his feet firmly, his blue eyes glowing with hate, so much hate. Acrimony was so acidic that he could taste it on his tongue, bile and rot. It felt unreal, burdensome, and it was shared between himself and his past. It fueled him as he reared his head back so that he was glaring down past his nose at the abomination before him.

A nostalgic burn coiled in his gut, filling him with disgust for “fate.” It had brought ruin to so many things that were tied to him and his past. Every life, every vessel of the fabled hero, had fallen victim to it. Nothing was theirs, everything was foretold, mapped, planned, and ground into their souls until they were vomiting conviction and praise for fear of losing face, of that small bit of control, of that fraction of freedom.

The cycle had been broken, only to repeat again. And yet, that was okay. It was manageable because now that he was aware of it, there was no way out. There never was. But her? She had wings, beautiful wings, and he would rather die and die a thousand deaths than see her wings be cut by the smooth hands of fate.

 

[WolfSol]

Cyberpunk That Up.
Cacophony of clinking shot glasses, striking pool cues, and raucous laughter, mixed with old Convergence mixtapes streaming lackluster dubs, droned out the dealings and the gamblings in the far corners of the bar. She scoped out the outskirts, catching darting glances of shady figures hiding behind screamsheets, and the occasional glare through the haze of a cigarette. Her weefle deckhead was beyond the outdated screamsheet issues and clouds of smoke, their head low as they kept snug in the farthest booth.

"Sacramento." She grunted their codeword as she sided the table, and the deckhead snapped straight up in their seat.

"Houston." The deckhead replied a little too loudly. "Judas Gauss, the Corpo sellout, in the flesh."

It's Jude. There was a phantom urge to correct the deckhead, but she bit her tongue and slipped into the booth. The two levelled each other up, wariness evident even as they both tried to appear loose and comfortable in their plastic seats.

Jude’s gaze slid over the deckhead, noting the doughgirl armor she wore underneath her jacket before cutting their silence. "Let's make this short. Chaucer, what've you got on him?"

"Whoa, whoa, you really think I'd cough up detes on a fucking cat that easily? Where's my scratch?"

Jude's gaze was searing, "You'll get more than a scratch when I shove my knife up your ass. Give me the details and then you get your eddies."

"That isn't what I agree-" the tip of a combat knife slammed into the wood of the table between them. Jude's left hand was curled around its hilt, her body leaning over.

"The cat, deckhead."

"You really going to be like this for that Amber Cat? You don't seriously expect you can still get it back, let alone save it, do you?"

Her fingers flexed around the hilt of the knife. Thinking, considering.

A part of her that hadn't been ripped to shreds by the talons of Night City believed she could do both, do it all. Save the cat, get her revenge, do it all and more before the metaphorical barrel of the gun attached to her head went off. But that, like most aspirations, was dead in the water long before she came to think of them. They were as impossible as leaving Night City or wiping your info clean from the minds of the Netrunners and Fixers.

Impossible, and yet here she was.

Aspirations, impossibilities, and cold reality be damned. There was no way in hell she was letting Chadderly, that lying bastard, walk free. Not for everything he'd done. And there was certainly no way in hell she'd let her cat, whether it was alive or dead, be carted around the black market, treated like humanoid scrap, all for the sake of money.

 

[WolfSol]

Shackle.
A vibrant red strand stuck out of the darkness like a sore thumb despite its thinness and frayed thread. It led somewhere into the nothingness beyond her, and held taut above the sea of lilies.

Hesitantly she pulled at the string, testing the strength of its knot, but it didn’t budge. So she picked at it harder, her nail catching on the threads, but it neither unraveled nor loosened its hold on her finger. That caused unease to twist in her stomach. The color once again appeared vibrant, glowing even, and as her eyes followed along the persistent thread into the beyond, a phrase came to mind: the red string of fate.

Fate, a shackle of sorts. It did indeed feel like such a thing because no matter how she picked and plucked, it remained wound around her finger. But whether it was the phrase or the predicament that she found herself in, she didn’t give up. Something was edging her to cut it off, sever the string before it was too late. Too late for what, she didn’t know. The premonition was evident though, and it urged her to pull the string up to her mouth in an attempt to bite it. It did appear thin after all, frail, despite her tugging. Yet as soon as she lifted her right hand upward, the string grew tauter. As if the unknown, the place where the other end of the string remained, was pulling back in unison.

“Are you not going to follow it?”

 

[WolfSol]

Forewarning: hint at blood and death.

---

Heartbeat.
She felt it as one would feel the summer heat. That this, this was it. This was as far as she would go, and she was okay with that. It felt right, in a sense. As if she'd lingered between life and death for an eternity, always moving, never stopping, only to finally find rest. And yet... here he was. A light at the end of her dark tunnel leading her back by the heart strings.

Fear marred his face as he held her closely, carefully. His fingers fledglings as they traced along her wound. Then his eyes found hers, and for a moment she marveled at the idea of getting lost in the forest of his eyes rather than the darkness creeping along her soul. His hands moved up to brush along her round cheeks, marking her skin with the red from his palms. Ever so slowly, as if she'd vanish or break, he drew his face to hers.

"Please..." his voice was a play on despair, a sound so forlorn and ancient. His thumb found a rhythm against her temple, and his lips found solace on her brow. His voice found her again too, but it was brittle. "Please just..." they would falter on his lips, choked up in stifled sobs and muffled by soft kisses along her cheek.

She'd tried to move her hands for that sense of rightness now felt so wrong. Tried to reach for him in turn as he reached for her, but the dark along her soul was far too much to bear. Her body trembled, a leaf on the wind, and agony and sorrow coiled in her gut. It summoned forth a gale of fear, a tumultuous wave of regret.

This cannot be it.

And yet it was.

He must've sensed it--her intermittent resolve. As he'd carefully, oh so sweetly, pulled her against his chest. Desperation once again found harmony in his voice as he whispered, "Hear my heartbeat? Just focus on that."

But his heart, she could not hear it. Not anymore.

 

[WolfSol]

Forewarning: contains mention of suicide.

---

The Day the House Stood Still.
I am as cold as winter and as empty as a starless sky. My insides are withered in dust, age etched within my walls. Since the day you left me, there has been a groan riding along my bones. It creaks along gnarled wood floors, echoes against broken windows, and trips along shattered picture frames. It reminds me of how lost I feel without you. You who made me feel complete, needed, worthwhile. You who gave me a name, a purpose. Something that I had taken for granted.

Just like our moments when it rained. Do you remember those days? Those days were my favorite. The rain always felt like it was leaving a pocket of time for you and I in its wake. It would always shut out the world in a fortissimo of raindrops. On those days, you would run to me so that I could protect you from the rain. You would curl up in my warmth, and we would revel in the sounds of pitter patter along my bones.

At least, I used to love those days.

The rain now is a cacophony of static. It traps me within these four walls, and blankets me in an eternal chill. Even now as it falls along my spine, the thick waterfalls of rain never able to wash away my pain, I find no happiness in it. There is no pocket of time, there is no warmth, and most importantly, there is no you.

Is it my fault?

I ask myself that every day, especially now as the rain taints my world in hues of gray. It feels as heavy as it did that night. A pressure that’s as suffocating as the silence that crawled alongside you. Your eyes were a ship lost at sea, and the rope that you dragged along my skin was your saving grace.

I remember how you’d paused as you pulled the rope along your neck. At that moment, you searched for me, but you looked right through me even as I shook underneath the storm. Then you did the unthinkable, you jumped from my arms. You soared without wings, flying high from the banister, but then that saving grace became your anchor. It snapped taut, and you plummeted to the world below. All the while, my pleas fell underneath the curtain of rain.

 

[WolfSol]

Figment.
He melted underneath her touch of spring rain, summer bonfires, first snowfalls, and golden leaves stolen in the wind. Became pliant underneath her love that wrapped around him with soft kisses and beautifully whispered words. He was an instrument in her hands, and she was a melody in his hands.

His fingers brushed along her sides, and her fingers tangled into the back of his hair. Their lips met in a frenzied dance, desperate and hungry, and they found themselves in one another until they both were struggling for breath. She pulled apart first, and caressed the sides of his neck until her palms rested against his wide shoulders. There he admired her brown eyes, deep and woodsy with flecks of starlit gold and peppered night.

"I love you." It was a mystery who had said it first for they both said it as if their voice was each others.

They shared a laughter, a melody that filled the silence between them before their lips sought out one another, again.

And again they found one another until breath pulled them away. Only then did she sink into him and he into her. Their arms wrapped around one another, and she hid herself underneath his chin despite her tallness.

"You know..." her voice was a cool breeze, and it sensualized the skin on his neck, "I'm not real, don't you?"

 

[WolfSol]

Company.
In his 2,533 years of life, Daigas had been summoned a total of 93 times. 93 times he'd been contracted, enslaved to some putrid mortal soul, and 93 times he'd had to enact revenge--always with the revenge--to some degree. His 94th summoning was different though. He knew it, felt it, as soon as his being was pulled out of the Underworld's hellfire and ash. Whether it was from the cold magic that skittered around his flesh or the summoning circle that began to carve itself under his feet, he didn't know. But the answer, the reason, came to him when the magic of winter began to press against him, trapping him as the circle at his feet finally finished.

The circle popped with an iridescent light, blinding and warm, and at its presence the magic was stifled.

"Oh, it-it worked... I didn't think-I'd hoped it would work." The voice that greeted him was a mix of worn leather and crackling hellfire.

Before him stood a woman who looked as ancient as her soul. Her skin was mauled by time, wrinkled and folded, with milky eyes partially obscured by thick glasses, and hair as white and frizzy as cotton. She was short, barely reaching his torso, and she held herself heavily atop a wooden cane. He stared down at her, shifting between her body wracked with tremors and her smile that held crooked and revealed fake teeth.

She laughed then before holding out her hand, reaching for one of his own. "I know you must be busy, dear," she continued, "but I was in need of some company, you see."

Company... "So you summoned me?"

"Why not? I..." she paused and the cane wobbled, "I have no family, no friends, to call. They've all gone."

 

[WolfSol]

Betrayal.
Her fingers mapped traitorous paths along his jaw. Forced him to stare up at her, to wade in the depths of her green gaze. There he drowned, losing himself in the forest of her eyes as he had often done many times before. Yet this was nothing like before. This moment was not warm. Her touch was not soft. Her eyes were not kind. Still, he felt his body betray him. His blood sang for her, and it chased the scorching trail from her finger tips.

"I wish..." her voice was a siren song, plucked harp strings and fresh linen, and it drew him closer to her, "you never had trusted me." There was a fatality in her words, accompanied by the deathly chill of the barrel's presence against his temple.

"If we had never met," she continued even as he leaned forward despite the threat, the inevitable, tangible promise she'd made to seek out her lips, "it would have saved us both some grief."

He was mere inches from her then and she pressed the firearm harder against his skull in warning. Despite the heat in her touch, the searing burn of her presence, she was cold and distant. As soon as their lips brushed alongside one another, leaving phantom pains of history between them, she pulled back. He saw the war within her though, and knew she was fighting the urge to find solace in their kiss. It was the way her jaw clenched defiantly, the way her brows furrowed with hesitation, the way the forest in her eyes seemed to waver like a breeze against the trees.

She did not want this. He knew. Neither did he. And at the end of it all, this tenuous moment was unavoidable. They both knew that. Had known it the day they'd met. And yet he wouldn't change this, no matter the cost. Each and every touch, breath, sight, memory, was worth it. If only for her.

"This was inevitable." His voice was a whisper, and he saw her eyes close at the sound of it. As if it was the sweetest, most alluringly painful nuance of life and love that she'd ever known. "But I will never regret it."

I will never regret loving you.

 

[WolfSol]

Forewarning: The predicted death of a loved one, and the gradual realization and acceptance of it.
My mother is strong, beautiful, and selfless. She's made it out once, completely baffling the doctors, and I hope and pray that she can do it again. Still, I can't help the unease and the pessimism.

---

Hold your head up.
"It's about your mom... the doctors said she has Leukemia."

And suddenly, the world has stopped.

"Four months... maybe a year..."

Everything, all at once, is gone, and then it's just you and your memories of her. Her smile, hearing her laugh, hugging her tight, and her sharing her hopes and her dreams. You reach for them, desperate, because if not they'll surely slip through your fingers into that void growing in your heart.

Then it all comes back in the guise of shattered glass. Your mother, your sweet, kind, lovable mother is dying. And for all those times she's saved you, picked you up, and held you tight... you cannot do the same. You are as helpless as the day you were born.

But you promise to keep your head up. Don't let her see your tears. Don't let her know your fears. Don't think about the fact that she'll never see you walk down the aisle in September. Don't think about the moment you'll reach for your phone to call her only to remember, she's not there. Don't think about how your smile, your heart, your creativity is because of her. Don't think about it. You can't. It hasn't happened yet.

Yet. Yet. Yet.

And now, you can't breathe.

Because what will happen when it does?

The realization of sharing a final goodbye has left you untethered. It's inevitable, and there is nothing you can do. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Why are you so useless, so helpless? Why can't you do anything?

And now, you are lost, you are drowning. Even when the numbness finally takes over, and your body finally stills, you are drowning. It's from the realization, isn't it? The realization that the day to say your final goodbyes is closer than you ever imagined. And that no matter what, you could do nothing, can do nothing except hold your head high.

That's what she wants, what she will want.

 

[WolfSol]

Remember.
"Do you... really... remember me?" Her voice was faint, on the cusp of shattering. She clasped a hand to her heart, jaw set with tension, and waited. Her eyes gravitated to yours, and there they remained. The weight of her question left you lost at sea.

Your hands clench into fists at your side. Did you remember?

You remembered every song that you've ever heard as it began and ended with her. Every color that was surely born from her eyes, and the sunsets and sunrises that were made from the gold in her hair as it fought against the wind. You remembered the first time she called you by name, how she smiled as she said it, and how she laughed at your reaction. And the moment she finally relaxed in front of you... finally shared her heart with yours. You remembered.

You take a step forward, and you watch her hand above her heart falter. See that light in her eyes flicker.

There had been a time when you'd forgotten. When nothing but the blade in your hand and the shield on your arm felt familiar, but here, in this moment, her voice, her presence, her everything gave you meaning. She was the reason you held your head high, she was the reason you wielded both the blade and the shield, if only to protect, to love.

"Of course."

 

[WolfSol]

War.
There is dry blood in the dirt below the tower.

It's where war came and went in the guise of two thousand men drawing their swords. With nameless faces and a staccato battle cry, they descended into battle for a war they would not win. Their battle field was a mass of clamoring ivory keys, the rise and fall of swords, and the quelling of breath. Good or bad, friend or foe, they all bled the same until there was no blood left to give. And at sunset, two thousand men lay still with their swords at their sides.

There is dry blood in the dirt below the tower. It's where two thousand men lost their lives.

 

[WolfSol]

Artistry.
I was today years old when I realized why artists paint pictures on their skin. Why they carve out their woes in fine lines, and how each stroke is burdened by pain and by being. I was today years old when I considered picking up the brush for a second time, wishing to carve out my own pain, my own being. Maybe a carved line will ease the polluted sea that churns inside me. Maybe it will drive out demons, insecurities, turmoils, or maybe it will be an atonement that loses its meaning as soon as it's seen. After all, my brush cannot paint the Mona Lisa, and it cannot draw so fine a line.

 

[WolfSol]

Hiatus continued: Apologies to any open RPs I am a part of. Writing currently is difficult so I will continue to be on hiatus. This is kind of the only thing I am using right now to try and cope with her loss. I don't like sharing my thoughts and emotions when it hits me (it will have been two months soon), and so I just write to her instead.
See you soon.

---

How can I say goodbye to someone who's been with me since the beginning? Even when I held your hand in mine, feeling the end at your finger tips, how could I say anything but "I love you." No, I can only remind you what you mean to me. So I'll tighten my grip just so you won't have to, and I'll kiss your forehead. Then I'll remind you again that I love you, that I'm thankful for you, that you have taught me so much... that I'll be okay.

"You can go whenever you want. We're here for you until then."

I was told to get everything off my chest, but who would I be if I told you right then and there that I was scared? Even now, I cannot imagine my life without you though you are no longer in it. What more could I have said? I was scared to lose you. Still am. But what good would that do? It's bad enough that I'm crying even now, bad enough that I was choking on the few words that lingered on my tongue then. But what more was there to say?

I held your hand for a little longer.

And when it's my time to go, I still can't conjure anything but love and substitute goodbyes. "I'll see you soon." I couldn't tell you goodbye. I couldn't share memories with you. I was so scared, and I was trying so hard to keep from crying.

So I'll see you soon. Till then dance with your mom, sing in tune with your dad, and learn to play the drums. Do all the things up there that you couldn't do down here, and tell me all about it.

 

[WolfSol]

Haunted Hitman.
The stench of lavender soap placated the reek of blood and death. Dark crimson streams turned pink. Water grew hotter and hotter, but Sebastian didn't stop. He clawed at his hands, fingers slipping angrily along soap, and strangled them under the pressure of water until they turned an angry red from the heat. Only when the stream of water was clear did he switch from hot to cold water. The sensation that took over gave very little comfort. Yet he scrubbed, picking at invisible traces of blood and death along his palms.

"You were gentler this time." His gaze lifted from the splatter of blood in the sink to the mirror before him. There he spotted it. A vestige of constant regret, one of his former targets, a transparent haunt that was as relentless as his blade. "That's more than I can say for my death."

His lips pursed as his nails scraped along imaginary residue along his wrist. The ghost was a sickly pale man that had permanent purple rings of sleepless nights tattooed underneath his eyes. His eyes... Sebastian looked back to his hands. The ghost's eyes were the most unnerving thing about his line of work. Forget the look of fear, of death, but the look of a haunt's eyes? Scared him shitless. Not that he would ever give ghosts the pleasure of knowing that their voided eyes and pall covered face were disturbing.

"I'm surprised you keep doing it while knowing what will happen..."

Sebastian didn't spare a word as he finally turned off the sink. The drain gurgled, and he clutched the sides of the porcelain. The statement was heavy, foreboding, and he found himself shrugging his shoulders in reply.

Why did he continue this when he knew what would happen? Shit if he knew. All he knew was that this was his job, his life. And even if he wanted to end it, death would only spare him. If he wanted to quit? His title as a hitman would only hunt him down.

"Still, I look forward to a new friend."

 

[WolfSol]

Inevitability.
Death was inevitable, she’d known that the day she’d carved it into the heart of another, but for a time she’d found it to be as distant as the stars in the sky. Death was inevitable, she’d known that the day she’d first picked up her sword in the name of another, but for a time, she’d found herself to be just as inevitable. She, a child without parents or self, who had certainly done the unthinkable, had been a reckoning. She’d traversed mountains. She’d danced along battlefields, and had met each and every villain with each step. She’d stumbled and tripped, but she’d always remain, always return, always get back up and go at it again.

And yet what a foolish thought, to think that someone could be as inevitable as death. To think that she was the epitome of an unrelenting storm, a goddess equal to the Mighty Millicent. When in reality she was a young woman clad in servitude and broken will with the drive to follow orders, to please, and to be loyal. As if any of those qualities would earn her peace, love, security, or a purpose.

But it's all she knew.