Young Writers Society

The darkness pressed in, rushed in, crawled through their veins, chewing and tearing its nightmarish and overwhelming way through Aven. Their mind was swarmed, overfilled, bursting with a million images threatening to spill over in a violent cascade of molten, scorching hot and raw feeling– shards of agony, relief, regret, and joy, pierced and punctured every inch of their skin, white-hot static fizzing and crashing through them as they splashed haphazardly through the night. Lightmoth lanterns cast deep shadows across Aven's face, contrasting deeply with their skin as rain mingled with the tears on their cheeks. They strode towards home– was it home anymore?-- boots disrupting glassy puddles of water and cracking serene reflections of the lanterns lighting the city. Vile blackness slithered heavily through Aven as though it was their blood as they made their way towards their home. Sickening, cold, weighted void slid sluggishly through them, sharpening and multiplying the intense fragments of emotions already puncturing their being. The fierce wind swept their cloak around them in a midnight-colored whirlwind, lifting their hair and offering them a brief respite from the overwhelming and contrasting things and feelings wracking through them in the form of a cooling breeze.

The pressure grew too be too much as Aven neared the end of their hazy and haphazard journey home from Syren's palace. Dropping to their knees on the cobble, they vomited up a repulsive mix of their last meals, visions of scarlet blood and glimmering silver flashing through their brain, jumbled, chaotic noise accompanying the brief fragments of memory. They stayed there, sunk on their knees, chilly rainwater leeching its cold fingers through their clothes, and static memories staining their mind for an interminable amount of time. Not that it mattered, as time would soon have no meaning to them, if all went according to plan, but so far the odds did not seem to favor their already unfortunate existence. Aven examined their angular reflection in a shimmering puddle at their hands, unable to reconcile the figure they saw with what they knew themselves to be. Delicate, elegant features with graceful, violet-blue eyes stared back at them from the water, occasionally fractured by a lingering raindrop from the passing storm. Curled, inky strands of hair escaped from their carefully done look. Long, bejeweled ears framed their disheveled look. Aven's thin chest heaved as they fought off another wave of nausea that curled and pressed through their torso, nearly forcing itself out their throat. The gloomy, violent monster that had been previously chewing through their veins, trailing sickening darkness through their insides reared its ugly head once more, forcing Aven to brace their hands on the rounded cobblestones of the street. Guilt twisted and snapped through their gut, laced with traces of relief that the charade was up. There wouldn't be anymore pretending, faking, masquerading, lying after this. The game was up- the cat had caught the mouse.

The sharp edges of pain gripped firmly at their insides with stone claws, forcing them to draw their rain-soaked cloak closer around themselves, draping their elegant frame in the pitch-black fabric. They sat there in front of the puddle, knees drawn up and splayed out under them, cloak wrapped tightly around their thin build and rain dripping down their cheeks so like the hot tears that had burned tracks down their face earlier until an aching numbness set in. A chilling, frosty sensation that crept through them, slowly but surely lulling the agonizing flashes of memory and emotion to a dull noise. While the worst of the storm had let up, a fine mist still fell and casted a silvery hue to the familiar-yet-unfamiliar city of Syren as Aven journeyed home, covered in a variety of unpleasant liquids and freezing cold. The bone-chilling numbness settled thickly into their body as they trudged home, playing the exact opposite of the previous shredding violence that had torn through them. The gray sensation curled heavily around their bones, mind, everything, weighing them down and exacerbating the already existent chill from sitting half in a puddle for gods know how long.

The silvery mist seemed to have a life of its own, crawling up Aven's body and seeming to caress their face with foggy tendrils. The sensations– or lack thereof had thoroughly drained Aven at this point. They dragged themself through sheer will to a back alley, propping themself up in a corner and tucking their filthy robe around their long legs. The sheer exhaustion of living everyday caught up to them, intermingling with the foggy feeling dampening the searing and overwhelming emotions that had been coursing through them up until now. They frankly no longer cared if they woke up with a blade shoved in their chest, or worse. If the gods wanted Aven, they had decided the gods would have them. The odds were no longer beatable, feasible, possible. Sleepy, flat blackness crawled up their skull, dragging them into the waiting tendrils of sleep while they laid half-sitting-up in the dingy alleyway.