Daily Prompt: Unravel ( The rest of me 残りの私)

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My bones are brittle and I know they will break if I continue moving so carelessly. My heart is just as fragile; it will crack against my rib cage if I fall unwittingly. But what use are my bones and my heart when my mind has long been crushed along the walls of my skull; nothing but bloody pulp sloshing and splashing around. It’s funny how the world sees me as whole human being when, in reality, I am not even a quarter of the person I once thought I was.

I thought; but I never was and I never will be. I am just a mere anomaly, walking amongst the living when I should be with the dead.

My bones are brittle and my heart is just as fragile; yet I dance and love like they can withstand the strongest blows and highest falls. I want to hear the snap and crack of my bones as I pirouette. I want to see the bruising of my heart after I squeeze it betwixt my very own fingers. For there is peace in seeing my own person break down; if I am going to bleed, it will be at my own hands.

If I could, I would peel my skin off; slowly. Oh-so-torturously-slow. I would let my blood pool at my feet and let it stain. Then I would shred my raw muscles and leave them on the floor for the rodents to pick at. I would pull out my organs and throw them against the walls or out the windows for I no longer have any need of them.

I would leave my heart and my bones intact; with my mush of a brain, ebbing and flowing against the remainder of my sanity.

Just how brittle and fragile are my bones and my heart without the rest of me?

Unravel

Daily Prompt: Vision

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People around me have always wondered my need for solitude. At some point during the length of time that they have known me, they got used to the idea of me going off on my own, finding a place where my thoughts will not be disturbed.

I am a person that needs time alone, even if it’s just to think about the most mundane of things like what book I’m going to read next, what country I’m going to visit this year, or which restaurant I’m going to have lunch at. In between thoughts of reading, traveling, and eating, my mind recedes into a world of my creation. Where high elves, aliens, vampires, and other magical beings are not just mere imagination. For one thing, I am already in the deepest recesses of my mind and for another, I often feel like this is the world that I should be living in–my reality as opposed to the one wherein my physical body lies.

I always find myself in a coffee shop with a table all to myself, nursing a cup of coffee or a bottle of juice. I automatically put on my earphones and play music to block out the noise. The moment that I tune in is also the moment that I tune out. On the outside, I look as close to normal as the next person; sipping my drink, checking my mobile phone, and smoking a cigarette. In truth, I am nowhere near that table nor am I anywhere on this planet. I could feel my muscles reacting to whatever’s happening in my mind. My thighs contracting as I see myself run through a dark forest, away from some ominous creature that’s sending chills down my spine. I could feel my skin pimpling with electricity if the tempo of the song I am listening to matches the right moment that I jump off a high cliff, only to unfurl my wings and soar towards the bluest of skies. I could feel my heart beating faster as I dance and laugh with Marie Antoinette’s courtiers, and as I steal glances at the handsome gentleman who chose to drink his wine on the side of the dance floor.

People around me may have always wondered my need for a Psychiatrist.

From my perspective, it is the lost souls that do not dare venture out of the physicality of their lives that need one, not I.

 

Vision

*Photo: Pixabay

Daily Prompt: Survival

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“The King has ordered us to Scotland! Tell him to ride with nary but the clothes on his back for we must away ere he finds himself the first amongst the four of us to be held in a donjon*,” shouted his lord, Sir Reginald Fitzurse, whose wine glass has long shattered against a barren stone wall. The knight turned towards his squire and said, “Pack what you need and hastily. I need de Morville informed immediately–de Tracy and le Breton should be with him. The journey should take three days in good weather. Two if you can help it. Now, go! Away with you!”

It has been over a day and a half since he last saw the face of his master, which was twisted in anger and urgency as he gave him his orders. The young squire was to journey to Knaresborough so he can deliver the message himself to Sir Hugh de Morville, Lord of Westmorland and Knaresborough. His lord, Sir de Morville, and two other knights were charged with the murder of Archbishop Bennet. And rightfully so, thought Zuan. None of the four knights made secret of their wrong doing for they claimed to have done it in the name of Henry II.

Five and ten years of age and having been bequeathed the role of a squire a year earlier, Zuan never imagined he would immediately be tasked with a mission such as this. Having fallen under the tutelage of Sir Fitzurse, he had no choice but to follow out of loyalty or be shamed for spitting on the oath he has taken. Either his master and his three brothers-in-arms were misled by the King or their sense and reason simply fled them in an attempt to rid their monarch of a supposed troublesome clergy man; none can say for sure. All Zuan knows is that he must reach Sir de Morville the soonest he can. He’s been riding his horse to the point of exhaustion for the last couple of days but he had no choice. His master gave him direct orders to ride hard and fast, and so he raced the sun and the moon, sparsely stopping and only then to rest his steed.

The sun has long since sunk on the second day of his journey but he dare not stop again. He will push on to Knaresborough and urge the de Morville to come with him. If luck would have it, he would also find Sir William de Tracy and Sir Richard le Breton with the said lord, and be on their way with no further delays. He will persevere and serve his lord knight true.

Zuan leaned further down to the point wherein he can feel the destrier’s mane whipping against his face. When he accepted his lord’s orders, he felt his sense of chivalry shrivel for he is helping in the escape of murderers. But what is chivalry without loyalty and loyalty without brotherhood? Perhaps he was too tired to decipher where one ends and the other begins, or wherefore these two values are set aside for a much higher cause, whether true or imagined.

If he survives long enough to journey with four wanted men and scale the mountains of Scotland while praying that the druids do not take offence for their trespass; maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to think about the worthiness of his choices.

 

Survival

 

*dungeon

*I decided to write a short piece of fiction for today’s “Daily Prompt”. I have been reading a lot of historical romance novels recently and I have taken a liking to the way they are written. Admittedly, I have researched a fair bit before writing this very short story for if go by with what I know, I might end up writing a fan fiction of the books I have read. Forgive any inconsistencies for this is the first time I have written a story of this sort. I am, by no means, an expert in history nor am I a blessed with the wit of published authors. It’s a start though.

*Critiques are welcomed.

*Photo: Pixabay

Daily Prompt: Generation

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I look at my social network feeds and all I see are battlegrounds.

The recent election has caused so much uproar that it has incapacitated me to the point that I can’t process anything properly.

In a day and age wherein everyone’s opinion is right and should be respected, I never felt more at a loss for words.

I feel ignorant and much more of a nuisance. My participation greeted with sarcasm at best or received with a cold reception at worst. During a time wherein every word should matter, I have successfully turned myself into the ass, the clown, the petty child.

So I cower in paranoia, thinking way too much of people’s opinions of me. Even worse, I feel like a chewed up mass of unwanted food; spat out instantly and forgotten. They move on fast. Me, well, I’m still processing.

In a day and age wherein I should feel empowered by my anonymity, I am weakened far beyond help.

To have come so far only to go backwards.

 

Generation

 

*Photo: Pixabay