Fantasy And The World Spins Madly On.

[Generic Brooding Antihero]

mad·ly
|ˈmadlē| adverb

1. with desperate haste or intensity; furiously:
She madly called for him, fading cries slowly overwhelmed by approaching siren calls.
2. foolishly:
He madly clung onto the hope that he, too, would disappear one day.
3. insanely or wildly:
The world spun madly on.

Oil splattered from the pan, runaway drops stinging at the back of his hand, throwing him back into the present -- whatever that meant anymore, anyway. Soren slipped the blade of the spatula underneath the overcooked eggs, and transferred them onto their individual plates.

Bacon, pancake and eggs were a staple of the Winter household breakfast, at least when it was his turn to cook. Soren set the dishes on the table, three fresh glasses of orange juice accompanying the food.

‘Up, up, up! Breakfast is ready!’ He tried a piece of the burnt bacon, carrying on with his meal, waiting for no one to start his day.

Half an hour later and he was cleaning up, throwing the leftovers into the compost bin, leaving the dirty dishes in the sink.

‘It’s such a waste, Soren.’ Rosie spoke in monotone nowadays. Her face was unblemished, beautiful as ever.

‘It’s not my fault, is it?’ And him -- he spoke in whispers and mumbles. He did not want to be heard.

‘No, dear. Nothing is.’

Soren smiled, crystalline blue eyes unmoving. Eventually, he’d made a game of it, had tried to remember when she'd said the same words last. Lately, it was getting harder and harder to win at his own game. He chalked it up to old age.

‘I have to go,’ he said, knowing the magic words to avoid the rest of the conversation. Soren put on his old, navy blue windbreaker, retrieved a set of keys from the plastic bowl by the front door.

‘Don’t forget about the photograph.’

‘I won’t.’ He slipped the keys into his jacket’s right pocket, felt them sitting snugly beside the glossy, tiny piece of photo paper inside. ‘I love you,’ he said, shutting the front door behind him. If there was a response, he couldn’t have heard it.


The roof of his tiny, yellow car spared him from what little sunlight winter had to offer. His days were marked with periods of excruciating silence, occasionally interrupted by the phone calls and/or drunken declarations of love in the back seat. It was a worthy distraction. He felt privy to the secrets of half of New York. Everyone, he found, held onto things they’d rather bury. Even him.

He looked over his shoulder, throwing a passing glance at the man who just entered his cab. As the meter started so had he wondered what secrets his new passenger held onto. The man looked like right in the middle of twenty and thirty. The dark brown curls on his forehead were flattened with sweat. His light brown eyes were bloodshot. His right hand never left his pocket.

Soren could not care less. ‘Where to?’ He simply asked. They navigated through the city’s chaotic labyrinth until the pair of they arrived at a dingy, nearly empty sidestreet.

As it was with every labyrinth, his minotaur waited for him at the exit. It came in the form of a 9mm pistol, its nuzzle kissing the side of his neck.

‘Glovebox.’ Soren parked the car in between two pick-up trucks. The last thing he wanted was to create traffic. He closed his eyes, trying to keep his heart rate down, waiting.

‘Keep your hands on the fucking steering wheel!’ The man reached forward, trembling fingers opening the compartment, pocketing the wad of cash that waited for him inside. He needed more. ‘Your wallet. Now.’ He tried to reach into Soren’s right pocket, and it was then that the latter finally broke.

His hands were off the steering wheel at once, gripping the other man’s hand with an iron-like hold, but as quick as he was to seize him was he quick to release the agitated junkie. Soren needed to reach for something else, for his neck, for the warm, crimson liquid that now stained his shirt, his beloved windbreaker.

‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ He swore he heard the other man cry out, but his ears had long frozen up after two deafening gunshots.

Whatever more was said or done became lost on him. His head fell onto the steering wheel, and his tiny, yellow car cried for him in response, sustaining a bellowing plea that perhaps no one would hear. Just as well. Soren didn’t mind dying one more time, and, in his heart, he silently wished that it could be the last.

Simdroid

 

[Simdroid]

“YOU’RE IN MY VEINS…

YOU’RE ALL I TASTE AT NIGHT INSIDE OF MY MOUTH.​

YOU RUN AWAY ‘CAUSE I AM NOT WHAT YOU FOUND.​

​

…AND I CANNOT GET YOU OUT.”​

He sat at the foot of the bed, thumbs twiddling, as his heart leapt back and forth like a hammer in his chest. The anticipation since she’d left only moments ago left him quite bare, alone in thought, did he gather that he regarded her differently. In usual airs of confidence, he’d move forward, initiate things as he was often told, it was a man’s job to pursue. To hunt. To provide. Yet, tonight was different. He’d allowed her to take the reigns as she demanded so adamantly, inciting the courage that drew him to her from the beginning.

The auburn-haired woman appeared at the door with a parcel wrapped in glistening red and green trees. He chuckled at the heat that rose from her cheeks as she shuffled towards him, holding it out for him to receive, “Sorry. That was all I had for wrapping paper.” He took a minute to admire her efforts, eyes dancing from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes, she might be too stubborn to admit it, but she had pulled out all the stops from the make-up to the stilettos. And yet, the moment she caught wind of his gaze, she squirmed like a deer caught in head lights. She was adorable when she was coy. “What? Do I have broccoli on my teeth or something?”

He set the present aside, calloused fingers drawing back the loose curls that he’d tuck behind her ears, before the thoughts he kept to himself all day, spilled in hushed tones from his lips, “You look beautiful tonight.” He grinned, “Can I kiss you?”

The carpet was rough, synthetic fibers woven with dust now deformed, for everyday that he chose to lose consciousness on the floor. He was aware of the heaviness that settled in his bones as calcium solidified to lead, dragging him down lower to escape the reality, one where she wasn’t coming back. His foot found the empty bottle that rolled, reminiscent of the unhealthy habit that seemed to numb his wounds. There was plenty of reasons to drink, it just so happens that for him, it was because of Laura. Even uttering her name in his thoughts sent a pang to his chest. The man turned on his back, staring absentmindedly at the white spackled ceiling, unsure of how he was going to make it through another day…

He wanted to stay like this for a while.​

Within the next hour, he finally found the courage to stand, forcing his full weight on his bad knee as the physical pain drew no parallels to the agony of what it meant to be a recent widower. The last few weeks were ripe with visitors, condolences, the arms of living strangers that drew no warmth from his core as he yearned for the cold, dead touch of his wife. How did it come to this? In desperation, he wanted to tear away this existence and re-join her spirits wherever they maybe. Yet, he couldn’t commit to the action, the faces of his family, his parents, his younger sister, and his friends came to light, as well as the jolting fear of uncertainty that came after his demise.


Drawing the curtains apart, he shirked away from the brightness of the outdoors, oblivious of the midday sun that had come to pass. At least, it was half-way over. At least, the day was half done. He couldn’t help the gnawing that occurred in the back of his mind, his own forgetfulness normally wouldn’t bother him, but it wasn’t about his own affairs. Today, Joanne was coming over, no doubt still to harp him to attend group counseling sessions. While there was a part of him that believed his sister came because she cared, perhaps, it was her own guilt bearing down on her that she wanted to resolve.


He found his feet planted on the bathroom mat next, splashing water on his hollowed face, recognizing the reflection of a scraggly waif of a man as his own. He didn’t care to shave nor to look after himself for the matter. What would Laura say, if she saw him this way, he wondered. She was an eternal optimist, the bright light to his sullen darkness, so she’d tell him to move on. To keep fighting. But she wasn’t there. She won’t be again. So, his own fists curled.


He changed into another pair of sweats. Joanne is bound to come in an hour or so and the last thing he needed was for her to call him out on his nutrition. “Why’s there nothing but beers in here? Are you not eating?” He could feel his eyes rolling as the imaginary conversation replayed in his mind. “She’d want you to eat, you know. She’d want you to be happy.” Bullshit! That was all it was. How could his sister possibly know what his dead wife wanted? She didn’t know her like he did. She didn’t know what it felt like. Noticing the tears welling up from the squints of his eyes, he took a deep breath and focused. He needed to buy groceries to play pretend with his sister.

Nothing’s changed.​

On his way back, his eyes followed a yellow cab that parked near his building. There wasn’t any movement from the outside until he heard the two shots fired in the distance. His blood ran ice cold, body stiff as he recalled the last time he’s heard that wretched sound. His partner’s head was pressed onto his lap while he yelped, howling like a wolf, for what he saw unfold couldn’t be merely erased from his memories. Yet, when he saw the shooter escape from the scene, his vision blurred red. Anger raced through his core as he pounced, muscle memory playing a role, in how he easily tackled the man to the floor. “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” Obscenities, like a mantra, helped him to settle his mind as hostility became the release of everything. Every punch connecting to a vital organ until the other finally refused to fight.


When he was satisfied, he released his grip from the gun wielder and focused on the passenger in the car. Should he even bother? Wasn’t the driver already dead? He shook his head, knowing that if he didn’t help now, it’d be more blood on his hands. He saw the scarlet fluid draining quickly, soaking right into the navy jacket, as he pulled the man’s head back. This didn’t look good. “Shit, shit, shit,” he mumbled to himself now covered in the victim’s blood. If he called the authorities, they would assume that he was involved. His one lapse in judgement might have just cost him everything. He sighed, making up his mind on the matter, quick decision making also in-grained from his training. He pulled the phone from his pockets and he began to dial the authorities, “Hello! Hello! I need an ambulance at West Eleventh Street! There’s been a shooting!”


Eddie wasn’t sure why he was compelled to drag the limp body out of the car, but he proceeded to put the driver in recovery position in the asphalt. Maybe, he was still alive. Maybe, it wasn’t too late. He wasn’t going to leave like a coward as the shooter had. He had to make sure this citizen was safe. It was the reason he wanted to be a soldier in the first place.

To serve and protect.
​

Generic Brooding Antihero

 

[Generic Brooding Antihero]

Dying never really bothered him. Coming back to life, however, was something else entirely.

Cold air filled his crumpled lungs, and Soren gasped as he awoke once more. His brain threatened to engulf itself in flames, and he clutched at his throbbing head, marring light blond locks with the colour of rust.

Painful wasn’t enough to describe the experience of cramming almost three quarters of a century into a single breath. His pupils constricted and dilated, over and over and over again, as he was forced to relive his memories: that day on the beach, when his father whittled as his mother taught him how to fly a kite; the night of his senior prom, when he and his old high school sweetheart drove out of the city, deciding to dance only among themselves; the scorching heat of a July afternoon, when he’d rushed to the hospital just in time to hear his son’s first cry. Names and faces burned through his mind until he had arrived at his last known memory: the smell of gunpowder, and the ringing in his ears.

His pained cries were a reflex -- an artifact of long-gone mortality. His hands rushed to where bullets had lodged into flesh, desperate to feel for a wound that just wasn't there. He was good as new. Refreshed. Refurbished. Defective as ever.

Eventually he had come to his senses, had started to realise all the things that were wrong, that were out-of-place, and this brought a sense of panic worse than the notion of death itself. He was lying down on rough concrete, not passed out in his car. He had been moved.

His eyes widened at the sight of the stranger. Soren sat up, trying to move backwards, away from the man, until his back hit the brick walls of an empty building. The man’s own hands were stained with blood, and Soren cowered at the sight of it, the smell of it.

Was it his own? Yes. Yes and no.

Soren’s jaw tightened. His pale, cold hands shielded his face -- his eyes and their slowly darkening scleras. ‘No, no, no, no, no,’ he muttered to himself, as if it was a mantra powerful enough to keep the evil spirits at bay.

Every passing moment made it impossible to ignore. That alluring, metallic scent did not come from his saviour, but from the man a couple of yards away. Something inside him delighted at a thought.

Everyone, he found, held onto things they’d rather bury. This was his.

No. He couldn’t do it. Not again. The numbness, however comforting, would keep them away: Rosie. His son. ‘No, no, no, no, no…’ He couldn’t let them disappear. Not again.

In the distance, he could hear roaring sirens, could almost see the flashing lights. They were his wake-up call. He needed to move now, or who knew what trouble waited for him?

‘I need to go.’ He stood up, his head lashing out at the sudden movement. His knees threatened to buckle. ‘I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here now, please.’

Simdroid