zombie-apocalypse-4

 

The glass windows in her little hiding room cracked

and she heard the wails of the undead
that had come for her.
All at once, the room smelled of decaying corpse;
all she could see were the unwashed blood,
the unholy mouths,
the dead hands.

There were n’more windows
— she realized.

She felt the breath of cold air, and her heart lurched forward.

She could see them
close for the first time,
hunger in their rotten corpse-eyes.

She felt the claw-like hands of the undead all over her.
And as their teeth sank into her still living flesh
She saw her blood — red and dripping and everywhere,
And Susan sobbed and sobbed and sobbed,
‘till she was no more.

 

*intellectual property protected.
 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Tragedy of Damon Salvatore

"Somewhere along the way, you decided I was worth saving."

“Somewhere along the way, you decided I was worth saving.”

Unlike majority of the viewership, the older Salvatore crept up to me slowly. He was the show’s proverbial karma-houdini bad boy – pretty, charming, flirtatious, dangerous, insecure, lonely. Yet he was and remains to be not among my favorite characters. But his complexities and deep-set insecurities makes him the most interesting character out of them all. I once read Ian Somerhalder (the actor who plays him) describe him as someone who “can’t get any true anything”.

That sounds tragic and I didn’t get it at first. Many episodes later, I finally did.

Damon Salvatore doesn’t know what it feels like to be loved. Or his insecurities are so high up the wall he doesn’t realize he is, in fact, loved. He doesn’t get real love and when he somehow gets it, he wonders if it’s even true. And what a cruel thing that is, to be given a taste of what you have always wanted only for you to realize a second after, that it was never meant for you in the first place. (But then again, what do we know? The show’s far from over..)

I like the fact that somewhere along the way, he found two people who decided he was worth saving. After all, wouldn’t it be nice if someone decided you were too? I like the fact that no matter how many times his brother gave up on him, they still always manage to save each other in the end. I like the fact that he can love someone so loyally, so tragically, so unrequitedly. I like the fact that that statement is sad.

I like how much of a bound-in-leather-jacket-trainwreck he is. Damon is, after all, the hottest mess in the show: an irresistible broken chaos that needs to be fixed. And just like him and Alaric, like him and Elena, it would be tragical, the aftermath beautiful or disastrous. Like a carcrash waiting to happen.

 

***

I have been meaning to write something that doesn’t involve any legalese a while back. Believe me, Damon Salvatore was not on my mind at that time. It just so happened that a friend of mine mentioned him hours ago… and I thought, hey, I got an excuse to write the sentence “Somewhere along the way, you decided I was worth it” in the internet without people giving their own unwelcome interpretation of it.

Now back to work.

Snapshots

An Alias fanfiction (because a long time ago, I was in love with Alias). The story is mine, Alias is not. The lyrics aren’t as well. “Snapshots” – an isolated observation. The briefest of memories made still, forever captured by an observer.

Sydney Bristow and Michael Vaughn


I.

“How did you find me?” She asked as he sat down on a bench, their backs to each other.

“You told me a couple of months ago that when you feel the need to disappear you go to the observatory. But, the observatory was closed. Then I remembered you said the pier calms you down, but you weren’t there. And you weren’t at the bluffs in thePalisades, either.

“You didn’t really go to all those places…”

“Yeah, I did. And then I remembered you like the train station, too. Normal people go to their normal jobs.”

These fragile bodies of touch and taste.

“I can’t believe you remembered all that.” She whispered, awed. A faint smile playing on her lips.

“Well.. I did,” he softly answered.

This fragile skin, this hair like lace.

Spirits open in the thrust of grace.

Silence.

Never a breath you can afford to waste.

“Listen,” he said. His voice foreign to his ears – almost hesitating, “when you’re at your absolute lowest, at your most depressed,” he paused, unsure if he should continue. “I’m in,” he finally said. Finishing what he believed she already knew. His voice no more than a whisper. “If you need me.”

Worldly sounds of endless warring were, for a moment, silent stars.

Worldly boundaries of dying were, for just a moment, never ours.

II.

He looked at her. Remembering the person she had been thirty years ago. The woman he loved, and as circumstances had permitted it, had grown to hate. Her wife. Or so she was in the pretentious illusion of their marriage.

“I missed you,” she gently said as she pressed a palm in the cold glass that separated them. She sounded sincere, and she was. She smiled when he kept his silence, knowing instantly and almost painfully, that he had not believed it.

She watched him. Unflinching for the thousand time at his cold gaze. He was a façade of intrigue and detachment. An embodiment of irony, and, to her, of freefall. Unwanted defeat.

I stood on the edge tied to a noose.

“Thank you,” he replied. His tone not losing its note of doubt and sarcasm. As if burdened that he had even said that. Hesitatingly, he lowered his eyes to meet her stunned gaze. “I missed you too.”

And then silence. Always silence. They stood there facing each other. Her, inside a chambered room which was her prison. And him, in momentary annoyance and loathing. Lost in the thin line that bordered between love and hate. The captor and the convict. He frowned, unsure if he should say the words that had crossed his mind before he had stood in front of the woman who so betrayed him.

And I stand and smile and breathe.

Nevertheless, he said it.

“You’re right. Technically, we’re still husband and wife.”

At that place, at that time,

And slowly, he stepped back and walked away.

I knew you better than anyone.

III.

He stood as the black sedan swerved across the driveway and halted to a stop. As if on cue, the door on the driver’s seat swung open, the glint of the dimly lit driveway giving it an almost solitary glow as a woman came out and slowly walked towards him. For a split second, he gazed at her but as circumstantial acknowledgments would have it, he looked away.

She stopped five feet away from him. “Hi,” she greeted. A polite smile on her face.

He raised his eyes and looked past her. “Hi.”

I know you can’t be knowing for me

They were back where they had started: Him at her side. And her beside his. But never too close. Momentary consents through stolen glances. Through every brush of hands, every clash of gazes, every word none of them ever dared say. But never stepping on solid ground.

and I hope that you’re not hoping for me.

“Yesterday,” he began, breaking the silence between them that hung only seconds ago, “when you told–” But she cut him short.

“No. You don’t have to explain.”

Sweet thing.

He flinched, offended by her callousness. Nonetheless he continued. “Yesterday, when you told me—”

“Seriously,” she said yet again. Almost a demand. “Don’t explain.” She remained looking down. And as if knowing he would not say anything this time, she looked at him. A sad smile in her eyes. “Lie to me,” she whispered. Her voice threateningly fragile.

with hopes like that

He raised his eyes and met hers momentarily lost in its turbulence.

you’re going to need help avoiding the fact.

“Everything will be alright.”

IV.

The sky never looked as ugly as that night. In the darkened corner of an abandoned alley lay the shadowed figure of a man. Silent and still save for the deep breathes he took every now and then. He crouched; his head bent forward as he held in his arms the unconscious body of a woman.

It’s always you, or some reflection of you.

“I’m sorry,” he quietly said. Almost wishing that she could hear him. Slowly, he held her closer to him, the handgun by his side and the gold ring that he wore in his finger long forgotten. Two years had passed since he last saw her. A lot has happened, a lot has changed. But, as unwanted as it may be for him then as it is now, she still mean the same things to him as she did years ago: freefall, intricacy, torment. An accident waiting to happen.

Carry every wish we never dared make.

He sighed, lightly brushing her hair that hung delicately in her shoulders. And, surrendering to the moment, he gazed down at her unconscious form. As if longing for something he had never had.

“I love you,” he whispered knowing that she would never hear.


after all, the name Anastasia means she will rise again

There is no hero on this one. Rather there is a ne’er-do-well. She sits on the edge of the bed. The red paint in her nails chipping away. She had planned to trim those dirty nails, but like all the plans she had made these past few days(?).. weeks(?), they faded away consumed by idleness. She sits there, and then she thinks she hates herself. Everyone else has started that track, and she – what had she done? Taken one step forward only to take two steps back. She’s stayed, unmoving. Useless.

So much for the restless spirit she once was. How cruel – she had prided herself as one of those people who could never stay put in one place for too long… Or is it just a momentary bleakness? – a lethargy everyone must put up with every once in a while? She’s determined it must be the that, she refuses to have it otherwise.

You see, she grieves. – She grieves the loss of her… muchness. So she runs, and looks for a way back to her wonderland.