vorarium. | writing

[pavelius]

V O R A R I U M


from vorare (latin, to consume)
​

Writing, which I crosspost to my writing blog. Comes in various flavors, most commonly lazy & unedited. Also to be used as samples for RP.


　 　　　1. untitled i


　 　　　2. excerpt from golden bells


　 　　　3. excerpt from the anarchist


　 　　　4. ???

 

[pavelius]

U N T I T L E D


date unknown, mallory-centric, timed writing sprint
​

notes: mostly unedited timed writing sprint. some thoughts mal thinks often.




　 　　　You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to hate yourself even when everyone tells you nice things that you don’t ever quite believe. Actually, that’s a lie. You don’t believe it. At all. You just kind of pretend that you do in order to create that sense of fake bravado that everyone knew you for, at one point. It’s easier that way. You don’t have to fight it. You don’t have to deal with everyone around you telling you things that are so completely fucking untrue it makes you wanna vomit and hurt yourself. You don’t have to look at their eyes, big and full if disgusting pity. You don’t need it. You don’t need them to look down on you, nor do you want it.


You don’t need anything from anyone.


You like your solitude. Very much, at that.


Oh, and the things they used to say— before you shut them all out of your life. Mallory this, Mallory that. The forced praise. The thin veneer of politeness and disingenuous concern for your well-being. All some hilarious farce on the world’s greatest stage: your goddamn life. The lies they spew— the ones you return in kind, shoving words through your grit teeth as you smile and nod. It’s all so sad. And funny. A fucking riot, actually. Someone once said that life’s either a comedy or a tragedy. You reckon yours is equal parts both.


Sometimes you cry so much you’re not sure if you’re crying anymore. Maybe you’re laughing. At some point, you don’t care which is which. All you know is that the sound of your voice, horse and ugly, brings some kind of sick satisfaction.


Maybe you are crazy, like they said.


That thought amuses you, too.


These days, you’re not around them anymore. The people who once tortured you with their mindless trivial pursuits of success. You were never really interested in them, and even if you were at some point, that notion was quickly stomped out of you the moment your father got hauled back to Cambodia. That was around the time your brother was born, and your ill-equipped single mother could never shut that mouth of hers.


You don’t like your mother. This isn’t something that’s uncommon. You wonder if people like you ever have the desire to connect with estranged parents. If others wish for the close connection and intimacy— the ideal parent-child relationships you see on daytime children’s programming.


But you aren’t one of them. You could care less. In fact, the idea of making contact with your mother seems utterly sickening.


You’re not much one for contact in general.


You even shy away from the people who want to get close, get to know you, and whatever magnetic charisma they claim you apparently have. You aren’t sure what they’re talking about or what they’re smoking whenever they say that, and you have practically no interest in them whatsoever, but in a way, the attention amuses you. It’s like a fucking prank: here’s this supposed dark, untamed manic pixie dream girl who you assume represents to them an escape from the monotony of privileged life, but then, surprise! You’re actually a fucking emotional wreck.


Of course, you’d never let them know. You don’t want them to, don’t need them to. In fact, they’re not even worthy.


You despise everyone.


But perhaps, most of all, you despise yourself.


Perhaps— or perhaps certainly —you take a sick pleasure in your own self-loathing. Maybe you like being bad. Maybe you like wallowing in your endless self-pity like some pathetic loser milking your pain for all its worth. Maybe you love the sound of you screaming yourself hoarse when you’re all alone. Maybe you like the way the cuts on your wrists look in the mirror. The blood pouring into the shower drain. Maybe you like the scars, the pain. The way your eyes, dark and sunken, seem to remind you of a corpse— and you, the walking dead fooling everyone that you’re the same as them. Maybe it’s all just some grand fucking joke that god is playing on you and you’re stumbling right into the palm of his hand— like some puppet stringed up with a smile plastered on your face. Maybe that’s all you are. A hollow doll of a person. Sometimes it feels like the only reason you can move your limbs at all is by some unknown cosmic force willing you to live a life you don’t want to live.


Maybe you’re your own perfect tragedy. You feel like no one really understands.


Usually, that’s okay with you. Other times, it’s not.


In the end, it doesn’t matter how much you mull it over:


You’re still here.

 

[pavelius]

EXCERPT FROM GOLDEN BELLS


date unknown, excerpt, fantasy
​

notes: section from a piece i wanted to submit to shousetsu bangbang but never finished.




　 　　　Kaj sweeps away the crumbs from his shirt with the delicacy of an artist, Rafar thinks. In truth, it seemed that anything he did was wrought with such a gracefulness that one might assume he was royalty, at first glance. The only things to betray him were the very clothes he wore on his back— tattered, off-white, and worn from months of continuous travel. As Kaj always said, it never did him any good to waste money on new things if they were not broken. Rafar was sure he'd wear those rags until they quite literally began to fall off his body.


Clapping his hands together, Kaj stands, stretching in satisfaction. "The bread was good today, don't you think? I thought the poppy seed was a nice touch."


Rafar is still sitting down at the table as he watches. He only takes a sip from his canteen, eyes diverted— now zigzagging through the marketplace crowds as they pass by en masse. Kaj catches this, smiles a little, before leaning down to block his line of sight.


"Hello. You're deep in thought today."


There's no avoiding those eyes of his, golden and sun-flecked. It's almost embarrassing how much Rafar likes them. And to think that Kaj could be blind to it all seemed to be the most impossible thing. How could someone so wise for his years be so completely oblivious?


And yet, maybe it was yet another reason why Rafar could not bear to leave after months together. In retrospect, it was silly. He merely agreed to escort him from Arkaios to the next town over, in order to ensure the young man's safety would not be compromised enroute— and yet, here he was, months later and miles away from his guard post at the palace.


In truth, he was a deserter. He trained his entire life to assume a position of importance as a palace guard. All those hours toiling under the desert sun, skin nearly blistering with the heat, with water barrels propped against his back— solid and heavy. The burns underneath his feet from every step in the sand. And the endless meditation— priests chanting in harmony as Rafar would bite back his howls of pain, each crack of the whip demanding the same thing: clear your mind. breathe. rinse and repeat.


All that, thrown away on a whim as soon as he saw him walk alone, hungry and tired, past the palace gates.


"Are you thinking about the palace again?" Kaj asks, tilting his head to the side. "You know… I never did insist you come with me. That was entirely of your own volition."


Rafar plugs his canteen. No matter what he did, Kaj could read him like an open book. "No, I am not thinking of that, thank you very much."


"Well, you must certainly be thinking about something important. You had that look in your eyes again."


"That look?" Rafar asks.


"You look like a lizard when you think too much."


"A lizard?"


"A lizard."


Rafar looks absolutely unamused as he crosses his arms and reclines against the table. "Care to explain how I resemble a lizard?"


Kaj taps his nose a few times with his index finger. "When lizards sit very still, they look like statues. Always wearing that serious expression on their faces."


"Lizards can't make any other faces."


"Yes, and so they always look serious. Like you."


What a curious feeling. Rafar came to know it intimately— indignation, embarrassment, exasperation, adoration —all astir underneath his careful decorum. He would always turn away, make some show of annoyance, then Kaj would always laugh as if he knew that his companion secretly enjoyed his constant teasing. And he would not be wrong— Rafar did indeed turn away, and Kaj's gentle laugh caught his ears like a string of bells in the wind.


It seemed as if Rafar's fate was inevitable: he was to fall madly, deeply in love.

 

[pavelius]

EXCERPT FROM THE ANARCHIST


date unknown, excerpt, fantasy
​

notes: part of a novel i'm working on but will probably never finish.




　 　　　The clock struck twelve. Lilya Diallo listened to the bells chime, counting the seconds between each one. One, two, three, ring. One, two, three. She loved the bells. When she heard them, she could imagine the fireplace she and her sister gathered around in their childhood. The blistering cold under the tent. Huddling under blankets with what little clothing they had. And telling stories.


Her sister loved to tell stories, she remembered. Stories crafted with the delicate artistry of a weaver, each thread a sentence and each sentence a world in which magic lived, thrived, and flourished. Places where their kind roamed free without fear. Where people danced upon staircases of water, walked cinder roads and their every breath spoke of life.


In Koel, things were different. They lived in the outskirts before, in the slums that evaded the clergy’s watchful eye. But further inland, things changed— structures sprung out of the permafrost like trees, pointing their jagged edges towards the sky, as if threatening it to never fall apart. They seemed to lean forward, over her when she walked the streets. It reminded her of how the clergy looked when she was small— tall men, pale as death, dressed in long black robes.


She hated Koel with all her heart. She hated the footsteps of soldiers, the sound of cavalry making their rounds. The silence. The occasional cry. She hated the ground on which their king walked, each step damning the dirt beneath it. And oh, how she hated the king.


“Lilya,” said the king. “The towels, for god’s sake?”


She bowed her head. “Forgive me, my lord. I will fetch them immediately.”


She left the room, heart drumming quietly in her chest. They prepared for this day extensively. Working her up the ranks through a series of strings pulled taut. And how little the king knew how few allies he truly had— the entire council had their eyes on her and she knew they were waiting. They waited years for this. Decades. Far too long.


In the service room, they were already prepared. Another maid nodded to her in greeting, leaning in close as Lilya entered. “It’s between the folds. You’ll feel it,” she whispered. Lilya nodded. She ran her fingers underneath the first towel, running the scenario through her head. He could retaliate. She was agile, but not strong— and the king could easily overpower her. She imagined straddling his corpse, panting, with blood spattered on her dress and on the pearlescent tiles. It would be a death sentence regardless. She didn’t care.


She was ready.


She held her breath as she walked down the halls, back to the baths where the king reclined against the edge of the pool. The room was hot; moisture hit her face as she opened the door, the smell of salts and lavender flowing around her. She took off her shoes, stepping into the shallow layer of water that washed the floor, then walked towards the king. Slowly. Deliberately. Her hands trembled, one holding the towels, the other hidden— tucked between them.


The king opened one eye, glancing at her before closing it again. “You look pale, Lilya.”


“Felt a bit faint earlier, m'lord. I promise you it is nothing to worry about.”


“That’s what I like to hear. Now, please, would you?” He rolled his shoulders, groaning. “Here.”


She pulled her maid stool over, placing the towels in her lap as she sat behind the king. With a gentle touch, she caressed his neck, let her hand slide down to his neck, then shoulders. She kneaded the muscle there, tightly knotted, and felt the tension melt slowly. The king relaxed, closing his eyes once again.


And oh so quietly, Lilya drew her knife. There was no struggle. The king choked. Lilya pushed his head down into the water.


Blood blossomed underneath the king’s body. She dropped her knife and stood. Stepped back. And ran.