All of my oneshots, rolled into one! (This is a WIP and will be added to with each new fanfic I write)
Fabricated[]
Agent eyed the gray stick figure seated across from him.
The dim fluorescent lights above flickered and died as both sticks regarded each other carefully.
Agent spoke first, voice no more than an empty echo in the cold room.
"Are you sure that our plan will succeed?" He inquired carefully.
Silence.
And then--
"Of course it will," victim answered absently over a large stack of papers. "Do you doubt me?" His gaze flitted towards the opposite for the first time, a note of danger in his voice.
"Is it a hundred percent?" Agent pressed, having apparently not heard the warning.
victim stood so suddenly that his chair tilted back, leaning at a precarious angle before falling and hitting the stone floor with a hollow clattering noise.
Lifting his head, victim wore a crazed expression that made even Agent flinch. His hair looked unkempt and matted, as if it hadn't been brushed or washed in weeks. Streaks of blood--old or fresh, Agent couldn't tell--decorated nearly every inch of his face.
Victim thrust his face into Agent's, leaning impossibly far across the cluttered table between them.
A pen went flying, clanging against the only shelf in the room. The tips of their noses were only centimeters apart when victim spoke.
"It is going to work. You will ensure that it does, no?" His breath reeked of decay, reminding Agent of week-old bodies left in the sun to rot. Agent had the strong urge to gag and recoil as far as he could.
"But-"
Retreating only slightly, victim reached under his folded cloak and pulled out a long, thin blade. It gleamed ominously even in the pale, glowing sunlight that streamed from both barred windows.
"This is your method of convincing me now?" Agent asked bluntly, although now positively alarmed at his boss's violent turn.
A long moment passed before victim finally replied.
"Oh, yes. Do not ever forget that you are very, very expendable." He whispered in a sickeningly sweet voice that dripped with menace.
Both sticks fell quiet.
It was so still in the room that Agent could hear the swishing of wind on leaves from the tiny, square opening to his left. He thought he caught voices on the breeze.
Agent was about to look away when he heard victim rear back from behind.
The knife whizzed past his left ear, narrowly missing him and slicing off a small tuft of ivory-black hair. Agent watched as it floated to the ground like a clump of ash after a fire.
Still in partial shock from the sudden attack, he twisted to see that the weapon had buried itself all the way to its hilt in the door.
It'd hit a poster of The Second Coming, landing with deadly accuracy on the forehead.
Three more knives flew across the room, barely giving Agent time to duck. Two stabbed into Second's eyes, the other finding its target at his throat. Each blade made a dull thump as it hit.
Agent turned to stare, wide-eyed and in disbelief, at victim, who grinned back in a deranged sort of way.
"If you won't help, I suppose I'll just complete it by myself." He spat the last two words out.
victim kicked the chair aside in a single violent jab and began walking towards the exit.
His shoes made a muted clack on the floor with every step he took. The office's temperature seemed to have dropped a whole ten degrees in those few seconds.
victim stopped with a hand on the door's handle, so quietly that Agent didn't even notice until he spoke.
"You'll only be another person I have to kill."
With that he left, the quiet clicking noise of the door's lock resonating around the nearly empty room.
Leaving Agent utterly alone in the silence.
---
Victim strode down the hall. The once gleaming white walls were now reduced to shabby, paint-peeling stone blocks. He thought that if it wasn't for the sticks that lived here, the place would be growing moss.
Stupid, stupid, stupid...
Why would Agent want to back out? victim had offered him excellent pay--well, as excellent as it could get with a failing company.
Why had that scientist left? He was one of the best in their facility. Right. He hadn't left : victim had simply murdered him. The thought brought an unhinged smile to his face that quickly faded.
Idiots... All of them...
"They're all idiots!" victim snarled it out loud, causing spit and froth to fly everywhere.
Researchers scurried as far away as possible, weaving in between others and all filing out into different halls.
victim grasped at his hair, ripping off chunks of it in frustration. The gray wisps drifted around him like a physical, tangible cloud of the insanity that enveloped him.
Red flashes of movement caught his attention.
Muttering apologies to the people she bumped into, a scarlet stick hurried up to victim, thrusting a clipboard into his face. She immediately jumped back, head hanging.
victim read the paper, anger slowly building in his chest, ready to explode any second.
Test 37: Failed was scrawled across it in messy red marker.
He stared down at the page, feeling as if a fire was burning behind his eyes.
"Whoever wrote this," he whispered, "Has very bad handwriting."
The scarlet stick whimpered, ducking even lower as though expecting something to smack her across the head.
Taking a deep breath, victim prepared to turn and leave. Leave before he would lose it completely.
I don't want to-I shouldn't-I can't kill any more of my...
The word fail kept flashing through his head.
Failure. Failed. Failing.
Memories blew about in a dark whirlwind of scattered bits.
And then he snapped.
Spinning around, victim pulled a fresh knife from his pocket.
'Scarlet' must have seen a flash of silver when he drew out the weapon. Letting out an earsplitting screech of terror, she stumbled backwards, setting off a domino effect of other employees.
Half sliding, Scarlet backed into a corner, one trembling arm shielding her face. Lab coat filthy from being dragged across the floor, she looked pitiful, but victim did not care.
He lunged and stabbed her in the middle, dagger piercing right through her skinny, worn frame. Even the scream did not faze him.
victim threw Scarlet to the ground, leaving the blade buried in her stomach.
Glittering drops of crimson sprayed everywhere in a showering arc as she coughed, splattering victim and anyone else in the vicinity.
Sticks ran in all directions, fleeing his wrath.
The scientist's chest began to grow still, eyes dull glassy orbs devoid of any life.
"It matches you color nicely." victim said quietly, wiping his hands on her already dirty coat and leaving a streak of fresh, bright red.
Scarlet's eyes widened as if she had caught the phrase, then relaxed.
For the last time, ever, victim thought, allowing himself the slightest satisfaction.
He turned and swept away, licking a stray trickle of blood off his lips.
---
Forest of Regret[]
Blood flashes through the edge of his vision.
Loud shouts.
Yelling.
He hears his own frantic panting, tries to slow his breathing, but with no success.
Someone is crashing through the undergrowth, bushes rustling. Is that him? He feels dizzy.
Leaves crunch as the strange footsteps get closer. They're limping, or pretending at the very least, whoever they are.
A scream comes from behind, but he doesn't go to investigate. He can only continue running away, faster than before.
Vaulting himself over a broken chain-link fence, he can feel skin ripping on an arm, but does not stop. He rolls to a stop at a large rock, crouching against its side and pressing his back as far as possible into a tiny crevice.
Movement behind the rock.
Chosen? He calls it out loud, hope giving light to his voice.
It was not his friend. Or ex-friend, if he could call them that.
Victim slips out from the shadows, his gray showing bright and true.
Those eyes...
Something hits him hard from behind, the dull thump resounding around his head as everything fades to black.
Dark snapped awake. The dream, again. That day, repeated over and over and over.
Cold sweat trickled down his back, icy claws snagging on his spine. His heavy breathing filling the room.
Sitting up, he realized that he was still wearing clothes from days ago.
The old bedframe creaked in a disgruntled sort of way as he stood up.
How long have I been asleep?
Dark tried to stand, muscles screaming in protest. He winced, cautiously probing his right elbow. A deep, jagged slash was bleeding heavily, the open wound dyeing part of his white T-shirt a dark pomegranate red. Its edges were bruising and looking like it'd gone through every color of the rainbow, finally settling on an ugly mix of all of them.
Crimson dripped onto the ground from his soaked bedsheets, leaving glistening drops on the floorboards.
Not to mention, everything smelled like metallic, stale blood.
He sighed. It looked like a lot of work. Never mind the injury. It was barely a cut--compared to what he'd been through.
I remember everything.
Argh, stop!
Dragging himself across the forest floor.
Danger.
Sharp pine needles poke his sides as he crawls across the leaf litter.
There are sticks following him, not even bothering to hide their ungraceful, lumbering footsteps.
Danger.
He can see a clearing in front of him. Head still fuzzy from being knocked out, he uses his last bit of strength to heave himself through the thick foliage. He crashes into the small grassy meadow, making the surrounding plants part.
Danger.
He screams.
Dark's heart began to thump faster as he suppressed the urge to run back there. Or away. Which direction, again? Anywhere away from this nightmare.
Curling his already messy hair with a finger, he sighed. He walked towards the door, gait unsteady and legs shaking. Dark reached out to open it, and-
Ah, right.
It'd been blown off its hinges, and now lay on one side, creaking as wind whipped it left and right.
Dark shrugged and stepped across the threshold.
He screams until his throat feels raw and scratchy.
A small, frail-looking black frame lay splayed on the ground of the clearing, staining the soft grass stems a deep scarlet.
He cannot believe his eyes.
Chosen? He repeats their name for the second time that day.
Chosen! All exhaustion forgotten, he kneels down next to the dark lump of his... ex-friend... and begins to shake them.
They don't wake up.
Thoughts of the mercenaries leave his mind completely.
He prods Chosen's side, rolling them over as gently as possible and peering down at them.
The grass was parted where they lay, crushed and flat, as if windblown. There was a strange dent in the ground, which was soon explained when he looked at their chest.
He felt like he was going to throw up and cry and run away all at the same time.
A fresh breeze caressed Dark's long, ruffled red ponytail, swishing the tangles that were his bangs across a cheek.
Tall grasses and waved lazily, like a clump of seaweed.
The heather bushes were in full bloom, bright violet and sunlight making his eyes hurt from the colors.
Because your life has always been black and white? Something whispered.
Not exactly, until now.
Dark stood in front of the fence, leaping over like it was nothing. Lithe as a cat, he landed on a giant fallen tree.
A stroll through the forest.
A stray leaf plucked from his hair.
A bundle of sweet-smelling wildflowers.
A grave in the middle of a clearing.
Chunks of gory flesh had been cut away, leaving flaps of skin everywhere and exposing part of their ribcage.
A knife was left lodged in Chosen's stomach, which was still spurting a stream of blood in his direction.
On the blade's handle is a poorly engraved 'V'.
He wants so badly to look away from the scene, but was transfixed.
Isn't that so wrong?
He watches, helpless, as Chosen's life seeps out from underneath them.
A clear drop of water drips from their nearly-closed eyes.
Tears...?
He reacts so fast that he trips and falls to the ground, knocking all the breath out of him.
Turning back to Chosen, he leans closer to an ear and whispers a question. Their eyelids snap open almost immediately, ruby-red pupils contracting in fear.
Shallow gasps for breath.
They speak words that he cannot hear, lips trembling and moving without sound.
Then a single trickle of blood rolls down their chin, and even the soft ups and downs of their chest ease away.
Absolute quiet.
And for the first time in his life, The Dark Lord cries.
Dark crouched down on one knee, laying the bouquet atop freshly turned soil.
Green shoots were sprouting from the dirt, soft and delicate looking.
New life where one has ended.
He couldn't help himself.
A silent tear slid down his cheek.
More follow, hot and wet.
Dark knew that his eyes were probably red.
He feels stupid, knows that the mercenaries are probably gaining on him.
"So is it true... that you're really gone?"
Can I ever bring you back?
Because I think...
I think I'm going to miss you,
Chosen One.
Rain my World[]
Clouds covered the sky, gray and endless.
Droplets fell relentlessly, battering the undergrowth. Plants bent under the extra weight.
A lone cherry blossom creaked, branches nearly bare. Wrinkled petals littered the ground, edges browning.
The only working streetlight for miles on the abandoned road flickered.
It was cold.
So, so cold.
Purple shivered, pale hands trembling. The small bowl-shaped dripleaf that she'd hid under was now beginning to lean down towards her, finally spilling its contents right on her head.
The filthy water streamed down Purple's even filthier black hoodie, some soaking into the dark fabric and the rest pooling on the floor in a dirt-filled puddle.
She watched as leaf litter swirled in pointless circles on the surface of the water.
Just like my life, Purple thought. Trapped. Spinning forever and ever, with my father always in the center.
Her fingers clenched with surprising strength, knuckles turning ashy lilac as she tried to suppress her conficting emotions.
He is the sun, and I am merely a puppet.
Purple saw her own reflection in the puddle. It rippled as rain splattered onto it, wiping her away into a blurry magenta mess.
A mess.
A failure.
Rain trickled down her forehead, gathering on her long eyelashes and forming miniscule beads of mingled blood and sweat.
Purple blinked, scattering the droplets. They floated in the air for a surreal moment, glittering chips of diamond where nothing beautiful could ever exist.
Like in my broken family.
Like in my father's heart.
In the time that it took for her to think those thoughts, the split second was gone. The drops blended with the downpour, disappearing onto the wet, cracked concrete floor.
Gone.
Purple turned to look at the sign for the bus stop she was waiting at. The words were blurred by rain, letters no more than blobs on weathered paper. She fogged the glass screen with her breath, which was barely warmer than the air around her. Wiping it away with a soggy, dripping sleeve, she checked the bus routes.
It would come any time now. The bus that could bring Purple back to her family. No, that wasn't right. It'd give her family back.
She sighed in content, expression growing distant as she thought of all the things they would do together.
A pause.
Was that whispering?
She strained her ears, trying to make out the message.
Something was speaking over the roaring of the pouring rain and strong winds.
This isn't real.
That tiny voice in her head. It was so small, but she could still hear it.
"Shut up." Purple growled to herself as softly as possible. She was sure that it was impossible that another stick could spot her waiting in the middle of the night during a thunderstorm, but there was no telling.
As if the skies had heard her, lightning flashed across clouds, splitting the sky in half.
The glow illuminated a distant shadow. Purple immediately began walking uphill towards it. If hope was a lantern, she would be carrying the brightest flame in the world.
In an instant, though, that fire spluttered and died.
Silhouettes danced around the hilltop, twisting and twirling. As she approached them and reached out, they were whisked away by a large gust, like mirages in the desert.
Stop. Stop pretending, Purple.
She shook her head, hair spraying rainwater everywhere. One day, if she waited patiently, then... Purple would finally get what she wanted so badly. More than that, she would deserve it.
She swiped at her curly mulberry-purple hair with a dirty hand, sweeping a tangled lock of it back behind her ear. It fell back, almost defiantly.
A petal drifted down from the old cherry blossom above, pink faded and whitish. It was battered down by harsh downpour. Purple stretched out an arm and caught it in time, bringing it closer to her face. It was the color of her mother, Pink.
Her eyes were dull and blank, as if she was not really there. They reflected the glow of sunlight from the clouds.
Wait... sunlight?
A single pale ray shone down from a crack in the gray overhang, the beam directly on the crown of her head.
THIS ISN'T REAL!
The cream-yellow color of the light turned the dark-skinned stick a strange and muddy violet, the glare of it on her face wrenching her from her thoughts.
It felt like resurfacing after a long, long swim.
Murky tendrils of shadow slunk away from her mind, retreating.
Dark water was swept away, taking their silent and sombre thoughts with them.
She crushed the petal in her palm, letting it float to the ground. It looked like a snowflake in the middle of the summer, gentle and delicate.
It is time to leave them behind, whispered the voice.
Purple could see again. She could remember.
Some stick orange.
Some stick green.
They're still here for me.
The sunbeam stayed true and never wavered.
Because all it takes is just a tiny ray of hope.
Wildflowers[]
Blue sits at the edge of a clearing, a crystal-clear pond rippling in front of her. The grass fronds wave lazily, whisked by a scarce wind that escapes from the thick canopy.
She sees flowers of all sizes.
Giant, large, medium, small, miniscule.
She spies all the colors of the rainbow.
Red, green, orange, purple. Even her own azure.
But what Blue notices most is yellow. Yellow of the dandelions, yellow of the cloth tied to her arm.
Yellow of her best friend, Yellow.
Best friend?
Reaching out an arm, she plucks the golden dandelion as gently as possible and whispering a quiet sorry.
She holds it up close to the tip of her nose, inhaling its sweet nectar-like scent. Blue imagines that it is a wishing star, and if she tries hard enough, it will be one.
Using her free hand, she nips a frond off, then another.
He loves me.
He loves me not.
Two primrose-colored dandelion petals drift to the ground.
I suppose I've never said anything to him.
A tiny breeze lifts her long bangs up, revealing a neck scar from long ago.
Not very long ago, if I think about it. It was that day that I'd almost died.
It is a knife. Sharp-tipped, deadly and gleaming knife.
Also, it's pointed right at her throat.
Not to mention the gray figure on the other side of it.
She'd much rather be on that side, not the receiving end, thanks very much.
Those are her last thoughts before that yellow figure barrels into the attacker.
There's blood on the walls, on the floor, dripping everywhere.
Blue's heart pounds against her chest, blood roaring in her ears. Everything felt so loud, despite the dull silence surround her.
Who's blood was it?
She doesn't think it matters much, but then again, at what point does nothing matter any more?
Disturbing thoughts all around.
He loves me.
He loves me not.
Two more primrose-colored dandelion petals drift to the ground.
The sun begins to set, dusk breaking out from the blue sky above. Pale rays of light filter through the branches, casting an orange glow over the greenery.
Has it really been one day already?
The clouds shine with the brilliance of a fiery sunset. They shine the color of blood, the color of violence.
Is violence a color?
Her eyes begin to feel hot and watery.
He loves me.
He loves me not.
Two more primrose-colored dandelion petals drift to the ground.
Every part of Blue's body is numb. With shock, sadness, or other, she can't seem to tell.
I just wish... you were here with me.
Sometimes, even that feels like an impossible wish. Why does it feel so far away?
He loves me.
He loves me not.
Two more primrose-colored dandelion petals drift to the ground.
Why didn't I tell him anything? Before we were separated?
Blue feels quiet tears trickling down the frame of her pale cyan face, tracing a path that many other drops had taken.
He loved me.
He loved me not.
The sight of Yellow's body, splayed and bloody on the floor. Was that real? She isn't sure.
Her fingers reach for more of the flower, but--
There are no more primrose-colored dandelion petals to drift to the ground. It is littered with many tiny yellow sprinkles.
What?
Foliage rustles, startling Blue. Her body jolts up from her hunched state.
There's the sound of footsteps from behind.
There's the flash of something yellow from the edge of her peripheral vision.
There's the noise of just the slightest whisper.
"...Blue?"
Kiss me, Kill me[]
His hands grip the icy steel bars, knuckles turning white from the effort. His knees tremble, rubbery legs nearly unable to support him.
Blood trickles down a gash in his forehead, each dripping noise magnified ten times in the absolute, chilly silence.
Just one more minute.
You'll be fine.
He slides to the floor, every last drop of resistance draining away. Fear and exhaustion take over his mind, fogging it up like a screen of glass.
Doubt begins to curl its way around his heart. It winds in endless circles, spreading a shadowy mist.
He lays still, back pressed to the wall. His arms are wrapped against his lower calf as a desperate attempt to keep warm.
Something sticky and hot is pooling next to him.
Dark crimson seeps in streams away from him. It slips past the bars and spreads in long tendrils, inching along the floor. The acrid smell of sickening, metallic blood rises from the ground and wafts its way through the cell. He gags reflexively, dry heaving to his side.
Is that my blood?
Nothing computes. Nothing makes sense.
Why would she do this to me?
He grasps at his chest with his fingers, finally feeling cold metal beneath them. A heart-shaped locket clinks against his sharp, untrimmed nails.
The pale and faded pink of the necklace seems to glow in the confines of the jail, surface glinting with a metallic sheen.
Confliction is evident in the figure's stance and expression as they stand up, weak-kneed. The pendant is still nestled in the palm of his hand as he clutches it.
He yanks it off his neck, snapping the silver chain and hurling it to the ground with all the strength left in his arms.
Shattered, glittering pieces of the only thing he had left of her fly in all directions. The chips seem to reflect the dim sunlight that filtered through the cell bars, shimmering with ethereal beauty.
Beauty that I will never know, again.
There are footsteps, heading at a slow rolling pace towards him.
It's her.
Her face is pale and ghostly, regret written all over her features. She stops for a moment when tendrils of ivy snag at her feet, then gives up trying to untangle herself and stays where she is.
She puts a hand on something he can't see.
He stretches his neck, straining for a glimpse of whatever that thing was.
His eyes flick left, right, left, right, before coming to rest on a lever. They widen just the second before-
"I'm sorry." Her whisper, the sound of her voice catching at the end, is the final thing he hears.
Then he is falling, crow-black darkness unfolding and reaching up to catch him.
His last thoughts are-
As if 'sorry' makes up for what you've done.
Green remembers it. In fact, he remembers everything, but that wasn't the important part.
The important part was that Purple had betrayed him.
For a stupid letter.
Green thinks that he might spend his whole life trying to pick up what pieces were left of his heart. He'd probably lose a few in the process, and become cold and unsympathetic...
Kiss me, kill me.
Turn around and stab my back.
He finds himself fingering that same, single lock of viridian-green hair, curling and twisting it back and forth.
Find something to anchor yourself on.
Don't let go.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Do not let go.
It felt familiar.
Because betrayal was so familiar.
The early pre-dawn light filtered through thick oak branches above, casting a mellowy glow across the greenery. Green breathed deeply, inhaling the sweet aroma of nearby honeysuckle vines.
It smelled like rain.
That damp-ish wet earth smell lingered everywhere, likely from last night's downpour.
The downpour I had to walk home in.
Alone.
When I should've been with her.
Take a walk.
Find something to anchor yourself on...
Twist the blade each chance you get.
Let me go, let me fall.
Forest moss, soft and so green.
Perhaps he belongs here. After all, everything is the same color as he is. The foliage burst with midsummer beauty, and Green watches as a fluffy honeybee disappears with a pop into the honeysuckle plant.
And then he spots the violets.
A spray of them, mixed with bright magenta morning glories.
Because when he looks at those flowers, he keeps on seeing Purple.
He will never be able to stop seeing her.
In every lavender cloud in the early morning.
In every blooming bit of purple wildflowers.
In every. Single. Thing.
Even that cr*ppily glued-together pink necklace.
He'd found the pieces in the surrounding cave areas where he had dropped, scattered.
The part Green was still missing was half of his own heart.
Down, down,
In darkness, blacker than your heart.
Because she will keep on abandoning him for her father.
Because in her world, Navy is the sun.
Because of that stupid letter.
Green closes his eyes, letting the gentle breeze caress all the stinging cuts and scrapes on his face.
You go in circles, but eventually you end up back where you started.
That letter.
Navy's changed. He's different. He's sorry.
Sorry doesn't mean goose cr*p to Green anymore.
Eventually the sun rises. The heat beats down on his back, as if trying to roast him to death.
He thinks he might prefer that to his reality right now.
Kiss me, kill me.
Rip me into tiny pieces.
Acceptance[]
Sprays of wild violets seem to be dancing in rows next to the curb. Thick tangles of untrimmed weeds crowd and jostle for space, as if trying to choke out all the other plants.
They had been like that for nearly three months, ever since Pink died.
Ever since Purple had had to live with that monster of a father, because there was no one else in the world left to care for her.
She would have run away by now if it wasn’t for the fact that no other stick would give her a roof over her head and three meals a day.
She’d take that over living on the streets.
Even if the hands that prepared her food were the same that’d killed her mother.
Purple didn’t want–she didn’t want to remember.
So she didn’t.
Because those thoughts were not hers, did not belong to anyone.
So she refused to remember.
So, every day and for many days, Purple left the house with a cheerful grin on her face.
She kissed her father on the cheek before leaving, waving goodbye to go to school. She even hugged Pink around the middle, and her mother patted her on the head.
“Have a great day at school, dear.”
Purple saw only the sunshine that glinted off the roofs of cars, the occasional rainbow that made an appearance.
Not the blood-stained walls of sharp edged kitchen knife.
Please, not them.
It was a bright, clear-skied day, with the sky colored deep azure like a great celestial dome that’d been suspended from the heavens. Everything was covered in a fluffy looking blanket of dazzling white snow that glittered under the sunlight.
“Bye, dad! Bye, mom!”
The clip-clopping of Purple’s heels on uneven concrete mixed with the chirping of morning birds, the wind blowing over curled grass stems. Icy snow crunched delicately beneath her heavy winter boots. Golden rays of light filtered through tiny gaps in the branches of an upcoming maple tree, illuminating the frosty dawn of a new day.
Her warm breath escaped in large puffs of white mist, evaporating nearly as quickly as they’d come.
Students were scattered here and there on opposite sidewalks, a few crossing roads with wide smiles.
Were they smiling?
Whatever. In Purple’s world, they were.
The magenta figure began running. She heard the noises of her stationery clattering around in her backpack, water bottle threatening to slip from the side pocket.
Soon, a towering, red-bricked building loomed over her–but not exactly in a menacing way. More like… exciting, because she’d get to see her friends and meet new friends and–
Why does she sound like a six-year-old?
That stupid grin was wiped right off her face, vanishing in a fraction of a second.
School wasn’t exciting… right?
Shouldn’t she be upset, ready to cry in the first bathroom stall she saw?
Purple shook her head.
What in the world? What kind of thoughts were those? Maybe it was just… She didn’t know, perhaps the cold was messing with her head.
She should probably get inside before she got frostbite. Purple remembered one of her classmates who had gotten frostbite once, and it wasn’t pretty. Their fingers went all black and blue, and after it was a mostly normal color again, it started swelling up until it was like a large salami.
She shivered, and then that smile returned to her face as she prepared to head indoors.
A burst of warmth and light flooded her senses, the laughter and chatter of other sticks seeming to press in around her. Purple saw a banner at the entrance announcing that this was Maple Lane Middle. She flicked a stray bit of her dark mulberry bangs into its proper place as she passed the sign and completely ignored it. She’d seen it many times, and probably will see it many more times.
Eventually, the bell rang. It was high pitched and a little annoying. Purple thought it felt a bit like an icepick in the back of her head, scraping monotonously at the base of her skull.
Like the screeches of someone’s death cries, particularly when they are being stabbed repeatedly by a not-so-sharp kitchen knife?
But it meant that it was time for class, which in turn meant that she’d get to see her classmates. So exciting! She’d show them her projects and her new art… There was a bounce in her step as she headed to her classroom.
Everything went smoothly that morning–Purple got yelled at by her teacher–so awesome! Her smile widened–and then hung out with Gold between periods, finally reaching morning recess.
She thinks that’s where it all went crashing down.
At least, the little part of her that doesn’t try to find the silver lining to every cloud thinks that.
She was having some really happy thoughts–Tag! I love tag! It’s the best game ever–when suddenly a dull yellow stick bundled into her, winter coat and all. Purple looked up–and was shocked into losing her smile.
She’d expected rosy cheeks, a hearty smile, when all she saw was a frown of disdain and unhappiness.
“Sorry,” Gold’s voice was ever so slightly more high-pitched than usual, as if from nervousness, and his eyes kept darting this way and that to avoid contact. Before Purple could respond, he went on hurriedly.
“Mx. Carmine sent me to find you…” The awkward air that hung thick around both sticks was almost tangible. “Xe wanted to talk with you, Purple.” Gold beckoned, rounded the corner and vanished towards the other side of the schoolyard.
She might've been perfectly willing to follow if she hadn’t felt like something ominous was about to present itself.
-
Ten minutes later, Purple found herself in the office of the principal.
It wasn’t as bad as she’d expected; the guest chairs were soft(and so colorful!), and the lighting felt warm and cozy. In a sense, the room was welcoming, even comfortable.
Mx. Carmine, a deep crimson-orange colored stick, sat at the head of xyr desk. Xyr hands were folded neatly atop a sheaf of paper, complete with a black fountain pen.
Xe smiled.
“Purple…” Xe hesitated for the slightest second, then plowed headfirst into xyr question.
“How are things in your household?” Xe seemed to immediately regret xyr decision when Purple felt her eyes growing hot.
With tears.
Gold muttered something that sounded like ‘untactful’ before excusing himself.
Mx. Carmine stopped him.
“Purple, we really, really need to talk. All the students say that when someone yells at you, you just smile more and continue doing whatever annoying thing that they told you to stop doing.” Xe took a deep breath. “In fact, the worse the yelling is, the wider you smile. The students–” Xe closed xyr eyes, placing a finger on xyr temples as if preparing for shouting or crying. “--the students tell me it’s disturbing. Creepy. So that’s why I… I wanted to ask how you and Navy have been getting along since…”
Purple did her best–her best– to hold back tears. She pasted a confused, goofy grin on her face despite what Mx. Carmine had just said.
“Since what, Mx. Carmine? I don’t know what you’re talking about, but Pink, Navy and I are fine.”
She saw both sticks’ eyes widen in sudden realization–but didn’t stop to wait for a reply as she turned and whisked from the room.
It isn’t until later that she sees other sticks glancing furtively in her direction.
Purple touches her face.
And feels two moist trickles, one down each cheek.
-
She’s crying in the corner of her room.
The smoldering pile of embers that was all she had left of her pretensed life of happiness flickered, leaving her in total darkness for just a second.
But that second is enough to make Purple regret so many of her decisions.
Like pretending, for one.
She was so done with everything, with everyone.
Done living…?
Blood seeped quietly from deep scores on her face, staining a part of her bangs a brilliant red that glistened and shone like a beacon in the middle of nowhere. She could hear each drip of it as it fell drop by drop to the floorboards, pooling dark crimson.
She doesn’t understand why Navy would hurt her. But at the same time, she does, because this is exactly how Pink died.
Purple just stares down at her jeans. She watches little drops of tears soak into the fabric, spotting it dark blue.
Why is she still wallowing in her own misery? She should go and find Pink. Say sorry, even though she’s unsure what she has to be sorry for.
The magenta figure stands up, back hunches and arms hanging, and proceeds to turn the brass-colored doorknob. It emits a squeak, and Purple curses, hoping beyond hope that it hadn’t alerted Navy again.
When no noises of movement come from downstairs, she can almost breathe again.
Then she turns, her arms swinging loose at her sides. A fleeting sense of terror engulfs her at the sight of Pink’s room–but she can’t seem to remember why.
Maybe it’s because this is where Purple found her mother’s body, dragging a trail of bright scarlet behind it, knife lodged halfway up her torso.
Even now, she smells the faint scent of sickening, metallic blood.
Was the door to Pink’s room always this red?
She’d expected her mother to be sitting on the end of her bed, greeting her with a warm smile. Instead, the bedstead was bare, almost duller than the graying walls splattered with blood.
Of course.
Her own mother was also a figment of her imagination.
Great. You came to this room. Now what? Purple grumbled inwardly, and then just sat there, rocking herself back and forth while trying to prevent more tears.
It’s then that her fingers, grasping pointlessly along the floor, find the noose.
A rope.
And why is it that, immediately after, her eyes lock on the battered footstool next to the empty bedframe?
-
It doesn’t take long.
She’s standing on the rickety wooden stool, neck partially in the little loop of rope, tears finally finding their way and cascading down her cheeks.
It has to be this way.
And she kicks the stool away.
The racket that it made while clattering into the spiderwebbed corner will surely summon Navy, and Purple knows exactly what he will find.
A cold, limp body, strung up on a noose and spinning in endless circles as if trying to get free.
She doesn’t have premonition, but she knows that Navy will not cry for her.
The same way he didn’t cry for Pink.
Everything felt freezing, empty. Her vision grows ever more fuzzy, black spots creeping sneakily up on the edges… but she doesn’t feel any pain, any instinct urging her to stop and live.
Her fingers slip away from the noose, dropping to her sides in a show of acceptance.
Acceptance of defeat.
And as her choked breathing grew ever more ragged, as her eyes seemed to stop working, as her last seconds neared like the rushing of crow-black wings–
She found a final thought to cling on to.
I’m sorry.
Until The End - Grapeduo[]
Flames licked at the towering structure that loomed before them, half hidden by overhanging shadows. The air here in the Nether was stifling, putrid scents lingering everywhere.
The scent of decaying bodies, left out in the sun to rot and bake.
Purple squinted up, shielding here eyes with a hand to stare up at the forbidding stronghold and flinching when they connected with King Orange's. She had no idea where all the light came from, but it was unbearably bright, brighter than it should be in a place lit only by the glowing orange lava that hissed and popped menacingly below their feet.
The rest of the Gang warped in through the portal, appearing from what seemed like a circle of thick violet mist. They had their hands on their knees, panting, with a sheen of sweat on each of their foreheads.
"What happened? Y'all afraid to do some light running?" Purple teased playfully, knowing that she'd sprinted the last stretch across the grass just to get on their nerves.
Green twisted his face into a half-forced wry smile. "We aren't here to joke. We have a bigger problem, and that problem is standing on his balcony, staring down at us." He said in a much more serious tone. "Plus, minor detail, he's trying to use a magic staff to destroy Minecraft. And us. Also us." He added, pointing to KO then himself with his index finger. The tall orange solid-head held a staff above his head, raising it so that a beam of pure white light shot out of its tip.
Second nodded their own silent agreement at their friend's statement. Red punched the air with a balled-up fist, shouting 'yeah!' in an obnoxiously loud voice. Second pressed a finger to their lips and made a 'shush'ing gesture, miming a stick turning the volume down. Red giggled in response, hugging the hollowhead around the middle as if to tell them that he'd comply.
Yellow tsked, clucking his tongue impatiently.
"Alright, you two lovebirds, get on with it. We have to defeat a very evil person and you're flirting?" He quipped. Red giggled harder while Second blushed. Blue bumped Yellow's arm with an elbow.
"Look who's talkin'," She said, an eyebrow raised but mouth forming a wide grin in the shape of a shallow 'u'. Yellow flushed bright pink, subsiding immediately and muttering things about 'just joking' and 'trying to get in order'.
"Okay! Okay!! We really need to pull ourselves together now!!" Green shout-whispered urgently while waving his arms in wide arcs to get everyone's attention, and even Purple felt her lips tugging upwards in an amused smile despite herself.
"He's already seen us," She offered timidly. "There's no point in stealth anymore. I really thought we'd come out somewhere more sheltered. Sorry."
Green put a gentle hand on her shoulder. Purple didn't exactly know why, but she enjoyed the warmth and comfort that it gave her.
"Don't worry. It just means we have to use Plan B."
Plan B, apparently, consisted of Blue growing a jungle tree, Green going behind the lines and trying to catch KO unawares, Yellow reprogramming the security system while Red and Second held off the piglin brutes for as long as possible and Purple charging at KO to distract him.
Before the group parted ways, however, Purple glanced back and saw something. Gold glinted at the top of his head, and perched comfortably atop it was a-
"A crown." Purple whispered softly, mostly to herself. "He's wearing a crown."
The Gang seemed to have caught her words, though. They all turned in sync to face the silhouetted stick figure high above them.
It was Second who spoke first, with a strange sort of grimace on his face.
"Then let's go dethrone a king."
- - -
A mistimed leap.
That's all it took for the entire plan to be foiled.
Purple had prepared to jump onto the next ledge, one that was gravelly and a little bit precarious. But the muddy red netherrack looked like it would've held strong. It did, except that all the little pebbles rolled below her feet, causing her to trip and fling herself backwards, nearly right into the lava below. She'd caught the edge just in time, one-handed, and watched as each tiny stone fell into the lava and disappeared with a hiss and pop. That could've been her.
Purple tried to hoist herself up, but it was impossible with only one arm to work with. She could only cling here in desperate hope that the next thing that came to find her was her savior, not death.
Soon, urgent footsteps clip-clopped against hard rock, a pair of emerald green hands reached out, grasped her wrist and pulled her out. Green shook his head at her, face painted and lined with worry.
"You had us all concerned when you didn't appear at the signal. Blue's trying to treat Red and Second, and Yellow... Yellow's in a bit of a temper that you messed up." He reported, sighing on the last comment about Yellow.
"I-I'm sorry..."
"No, don't be."
"Why?"
"Because everyone makes mistakes."
"Why are you defending me over your friends?
Green started, momentarily surprised at the question.
"Aren't you one of my friends too?" He asked, the genuine confusion in his eyes and tone making Purple want to cry right there and then.
"Forget it. I am a mistake, and I won't ever be anything else."
The forest-colored stick before her smiled a sad smile, and his eyes softened. He continued in a much more gentle voice.
"You aren't. Now let's dry those tears and try again." He seized a tissue and began wiping the streaks left by tears on Purple's face.
- - -
The agony is so much worse than what she's prepared for.
It's like each bit of code is being ripped from her body, piece by piece. Glitch marks streak her limbs, and her hair whips around as if caught in the strongest gale they'd ever seen. Every time KO forces more power into his staff, she gets knocked back by what feels like a supernatural gust of wind, the kind you'd usually get in the middle of a tornado.
Despite the pain, she forges on, each step bringing her just a little closer to the king ahead, with his narrowed eyes and screwed-up expression of absolute concentration. Despite everything, she continues to make her way forwards, trying to repay the debt that she owed the Gang for being the first real friends she'd ever known.
The light was blinding and instantaneous when she stepped into its path, but Purple has gotten used to it. It's nothing now, really, compared to the physical hurt she was going through.
It was a shame that she hadn't spotted Green earlier, hadn't had time to even attempt to shout 'no' over the roaring of blood in her ears, the pounding of her heart.
He leapt into the flow of light, fingers barely brushing hers but managing to latch onto her anyways. Purple tried to push him away, away from the danger, but instead, Green used all of his momentum to swing her out of the beam.
She screamed as she flew in midair, arms and legs splayed out in such a way that she looked almost like an angel about to ascend.
And then Purple hit the ground with a thump of near finality.
All the breath was knocked out of her lungs on impact, and she simply lay there, trying to regain the ability to breathe. Her limbs still contorted with strange glitches, but they got fainter and fainter with each passing second of stillness. Her chest heaved, up and down and up and down.
"Green--" She panted, crouching in an attempt to get up. A cyan figure flounced over, appearing in Purple's peripheral vision.
"Slow down there. It pains me to see him like that too, but it you'll just drink this--" Blue began quietly, her eyes flicking over Purple nervously. Purple knocked the glass vial that Blue was holding in front of her away, leaping to her feet. She shot off in the direction of Green without apologizing, skirting the edge of the ominously pink puddle that she'd made when she spilled the potion.
Green was still trying valiantly to fight the staff's power, to no avail. Purple launched herself at him, catching a part of his blood-stained, ripped sweater. She dragged both of them out, pulling green by the hood with superstick strength she didn't know she'd had.
Purple bent low over Green, dropping to her knees and cradling his head in her cupped palm, everybody else forgotten.
She twined her fingers with his, crouching low, her legs just barely brushing the edges of his body which lay flat on the hard, cold blackstone. Green's breathing was shallow, unsteady. Purple could see that he was gulping for air, the frantic and scarily small gasps telling her that he didn't have long. He opened his mouth, paused, and she watched him struggle to speak, paralyzed.
"Green, no," Purple chastised him, finding words at last. "Save your energy. We can get Blue to heal you-she's great with potions-and... and what would I do without you?" She choked on the last few syllables, barely able to get them out.
She was running from an inevitable fact: That Green was going to die.
Purple felt hot tears pricking at the edges of her eyes, threatening to spill in front of the entire Gang. At this point, they were basically side characters. She couldn't see anything but Green, lying on the floor in front of her and dying while she did nothing.
The voices of her other friends seemed distorted, as if twisted by wind or echoed down from a long tunnel. Someone lay a comforting hand on her shoulder, but Purple didn't care who it was.
She squeezed his hand, wanting to ball it into a fist and punch him, force him to live.
But she didn't.
From the way that Green flinched, it must've hurt, and she immediately stopped her crushing grip. It was too late anyways. When Purple closed then opened her eyes again, he was straining to speak, bottom lip trembling. With fear or determination, she didn't know.
He took a deep breath, possibly for the last time.
"I love you."
After that single line was spoken, his fingers loosened from hers, and fell limp and cold to the ground beside her.
Purple was falling, falling, falling.
The world was frozen in time, twisting around her as if laughing wickedly at her loss-her loss of everything that'd mattered, at least until a moment ago. Her vision blurred at the edges, not much but enough to make her think that she was going to die too. She almost wished for it.
Scratch that.
She did wish for it.
Grief and loss and heavy sadness weighed down on her, washed over her in a wave, almost like a whirling kaleidoscope of emotions.
She could just pretend that she was fine, she'd always been fine, she would be fine--
But she wasn't fine.
Barely contained sobs hitched in her throat, her eyes stinging with a renewed vigor.
Purple's stupid, worthless tears fell with soft splashes onto the the now still body of her best friend.
When I Dream[]
Second blinked once
Twice.
Their emerald green eyes glinted in the dark, reflections dancing across its blank, glassy surface. Their eyelashes fluttered, a barely perceptible movement but still there. A sign of life. A sign of vitality.
One, two, three.
Count down and take a deep breath because you'll be fine.
Three, two, one.
As if emerging from dark water, Second gasped, clutching their head with strained, ashy orange fingers.
Eyes flickered red. Body flickered dark, dark black, black of the night and black of his brother, Chosen.
Blank stares and blank, blank mind.
Second is who they are because that's what they believe but when does that become unreal? No matter how much they believe it, Second is not who they are. They are a toy, a puppet, a mere, frivolous copy of their far greater older brother.
So when does reality begin to merge with what they cannot be and what they can be? When will the time come that Second is able to choose who they want to be?
Those are the things that cause their shadows.
They wonder what the rest of the Gang might think. If they'd believe them.
Red, certainly. Red understood because he had been possessed by Herobrine. Who else would know how it felt to be you but not you at the same time? He would cry for Second because that's just how terrible it was.
Blue was sympathetic. Of course she would comfort Second, tell them that everything was going to be fine, okay. But would she feel what it was like to be them? No.
Green is Second's best friend. He'd know what to do. He'd make Second more cheerful, but his arrogance could get in the way of them sometimes. Perhaps Green might scoff or laugh at the hilarious idea that Second was afraid of the dark.
Yellow, too logical. Yellow wouldn't admit that shadow creatures existed, no matter how much he woke up screaming in the middle of the night, haunted by nightmares of the Orb.
...Purple? Second didn't know much about Purple. She was a mystery to them, if not to everybody.
Is a name of their own too much to ask for? Something else, instead of chaining them to their brother? But it's their destiny to be known as The Second Coming. The Chosen One's Return. They can't, won't, will never be their own stick.
It means that they can't, won't, will never be free or freed by anyone or anything. They keep this namesake and maybe one day will know The Third Coming, and all the Comings after that.
The shadow behind them blinks one, twice, and Second has to bury their face in their hands to pretend it is not there.
The Third Coming.
Doesn't that sound nice, Second?
Whisper whisper whisper, soft fluttery voice everywhere but not there at the same time. The shadows twist and bend and cursors above it is beautiful yet terrifying. The way its crimson-aqua-electric green eyes hypnotize and stare blankly but so purposefully at Second.
They know that it is obviously there for a purpose.
Thoughts crowd their mind, invade them, no matter how much they don't want it because because because-
One with faux wings of an angel and a faux name to match-
Eyes flickered deep crimson like their brother and body flickered night black-
I am a puppet, a toy, a plaything for another's pleasure or whim, and so I am nothing-
Green light and chartreuse colored death-
That last one wasn't supposed to be there.
"No," Second breathed, breath let out in a softly crackling lime essence that fogged the air despite it being very warm in the room. "No no no no no no no no-"
Their head hurt and the world spun and why was it so damn cold?!
Has it always been this cold?
The darkness in the corner blinks in hive-mind synchronization, not creepily but in a way so that Second understood it was listening to their frantic panting and hyperventilating. In a way so that the hollowhead understood it was enjoying the taste of their fear, and was maybe craving their mind as dessert.
Do you understand?
Needles of pain jabbed at their temples, icy claws snagging their way along their spine. Their palms were sweaty. Pale. Clammy. They felt like screaming but also like curling up into a ball and never getting up again. If they called themselves nothing, did not have a name, did they matter any more than a dawdling breeze?
An insignificant speck in the Outernet?
Freedom of choice but no freedom to choose.
Second's eyes gleam and there is something lancing through the mist-fog within them. The moment passes quickly, though, and the dull, glassy, orangey-green of their pupils grows unfocused once more.
Tentacles of murky black reach for them.
They let themselves get pulled into the inky embrace of merciful unconsciousness-
-and a stick whose name was The Second Coming slides to the floor, still.
The Third Coming.
Doesn't that sound nice, Second?
Velvet Bones[]
Dark can feel the weight of everything, the weight of his responsibilities, fall on his shoulders and his shoulders alone because he’s supposed to be the one who carries it all.
(Chosen had never actually said that it was his burden. They were the older sibling,which made them superior and more responsible, but it’s like the entire ***d*mn world was dropped onto Dark without any sort of preamble.)
He’s supposed to be the tough one, and if the universe demands it, he’ll let it be so.
Since Chosen left, he means.
Since Chosen padded into the evergreen forest, late evening light projecting onto their weather-beaten face and softening it for maybe a second under its golden-yellow limelight. Their wings were ruffling like hands, fluttering in a sort of dance that the two had come up with. Sign language, with wings. Dark’s own blood red feathers wave cheerily back, because he thought they’d just go through the woods for a small walk after dinner.
He didn’t ask to join because it would be Chosen’s drawnday soon, and he was building his newest present.
Dark didn’t know that they wouldn’t come back.
(In all honesty, he’d wanted to go, but then they would likely both be curled up on the spring-softened grass stems, maybe reduced to thin slivers of flesh and pearly white bone by now, with no one else to bury them because no one else knew or was supposed to know.)
He loves like a crow and that’s why he’ll bring back trinkets from each lost battle with life, he loves like a crow on broken wings and that why he cries harder than any other for his losses; Dark loves like a crow and it’s nothing personal, just that he’ll cry and cry and cry because he’s supposed to be the bad guy he never wanted to be.
But he won’t cry because he’s the bad guy and nothing will change that. He refuses to cry, and maybe the one good thing about his creation was that he was drawn with enough spite and hard-set will to outlast all of eternity.
(What Dark doesn’t tell himself is that he was also drawn with more affection than he can ever show and more tears to cry than he’ll ever allow himself to cry.)
How much did he miss Chosen?
He didn’t know it was this hard to be the oldest sibling because you’re the only one alive. Well, hah, half alive since there’s really no tether for him anymore, nothing to keep him to the Outernet. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought that his code might’ve floated off into the blue by now.
Black water swirls around his nose and drowns him, chokes him, doesn’t let go until it has its firm, icy tentacles wrapped around his brain.
Dark lets it hold on because he hasn’t got any reason to pull the faux, lingering strings of anger off his heart.
(He can’t bring himself to smile, either, not in the slightest. His heart is somewhere else, at Chosen’s grave, because it’s unfair that they should be chained to that hellhole of a place, all alone. And so Dark offers his heart as a petty compromise instead.)
The drawnday gift sits in the corner of the red hollowhead’s polished wooden work surface, seemingly rusted and archaic like the playthings of an ancient race, buried and forgotten for future generations to mull over.
For some strange, otherworldly reason, Dark is reminded of piles and piles of velvet bones glowing under moonlight, blood oozing between the gaps and slowly dyeing the grass a wonderful new shade of crimson.
(Actually, the red could’ve been anything. It’s not necessarily deer blood. The other thought chills him right to the core, sending shivers rolling down his spine.)
A single flickering ornate lamp illuminates the room, bathing it a gentle primrose. Beneath him on the first floor, the old grandfather clock chimes 12 AM. Dark wonders if it means he should sleep.
Chosen would usually make sure he got to sleep before midnight, because he always stayed up late to cause shenanigans and bother them.
It rains and it never stops raining, the endless blank white noise washing over him like a wave, like a fuzzy, worn old blanket, like stories at night and comforting hugs. Except Chosen wasn’t here to tell Dark how many more soothing things he could think of when he was stressed.
(Which was most of the time, ever since his sibling had left his life. They’d departed, but maybe not forever. Chosen would always be there, in a way, so there was no need to try and heave all the responsibilities onto his back, square his skinny shoulders and run on, head first, into really actually living. He did it anyway.)
It rains.
It keeps raining.
It doesn’t stop raining.
It’s still raining when Dark closes his eyes to the lullaby of nature, the song of love from the clouds, a tune he had listened to with Chosen by his side and now listens to still, even when they are not at his side.
If Dark squeezed his eyes shut and forcefully shunned out the world, he could bring in the black water even though it swirled higher each time. He was underwater so no one could ever hear him screaming out all the pain in the world, crying his eyes out.
(They’d only see the bubbles, the aftermath. Just like they would only see bubbles if he happened to choke on the putrid, stifling black water. The body would float up after, a morbid imitation of a life raft.)
His tears could blend in with the rest, leaving no ripples in the water but maybe more salt than before. His tears were not false; maybe the ones of anger were, because he really needs something like anger to mask everything else.
It’s far easier to be terrifying on the outside than brave on the inside.
If it was in his nature to kill, so be it. Dark buries his head in the crook of his elbow, rain pattering on the window panes like a constant barrage of bullets against metal. It’s not clanging, though. It’s smooth and rolling, constantly present. Like the water that lapped at his throat and washed over his face, like the high tide at a beach.
He throws his head back, tossing his mussed-up ponytail in absymbal directions.
(The thin scarlet strands spread out on his desk, reminding Dark of velvet deer bones once more. Muscles, sinews, veins and capillaries all piled into one giant freak show.)
In his dreams, the ocean murmurs at his feet.