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Are Lie's Real?
The scene was grotesque in its right integrity. Some might have thought it a lover's suicide, but it could never be one. It all started one morning, weeks before this display, months after she came.
She had lived in this old house, a newly inherited home; It was a big old thing, it even looked all nice and pretty, but it was in the middle of no-where, in the countryside. What could it have been that made this place livable? The rose wood furniture? The fine satin fabrics? Was it the age of the home? Or was it that the house was exceptionally clean for having not been lived in for a few months before this girl showed up. What was it that drew her here to stay? She had even brought her girlfriend out to show her. Unfortunately she stayed, but her girlfriend had to go back. What was it that kept her here?
So she held onto a basic life, in this grand house. Every week making the hour tread to town, and then making the other hour back. Simple. Though nothing ever was simple, yet it was simple to her. 'Maybe it's keeping me from relapsing?' She would think most of the time.
But then it started, the relapses. It had all started out small, just a sleight of vision; then came the sounds. Just small things to make her wasn't long before they started to get worse; much worse. The house was the battlefield once it started. With each attack she would feel worse...either breaking down into hysterics or off to destroy the inside of the house.
Suicide was evident everyday within the mind of the withering girl as she often ended up convulsing on the floor after it was all over. She wanted it all to 'STOP'! Wanted to have herself off and gone. Several times, and most often than not, she would find blood about the house, being it her or not she never was sure. The sight of the blood would be how the attack would start. Was it her own? Was it her mind? In the end, most of the time it was all in the figments of the loosely constructed mind the poor girl had. A few choice times a knife to her arm, or to her leg might result inside of an attack. Trying to rid herself of whatever it is that is going on.
Fragile. So very much so. Though so is time and space. Never so solid, always fragile. The thin strands of a crimson line telling what happened when the fragile state was almost broken.
Then it stopped. It all stopped. It confused her, drove her to question wheither or not she had killed herself, or if she had been dreaming this whole thing. Having this paranoia...the hallucinations; everything that would allow her to further process more into the recesses self destruction
It was a sunny day when it stopped. No wind, no sound. So very common for this simple place. Beyond the door of the home though, there layed a body. A thin fragile thing. Feminine, but male. She knelt down next to the boy. His hair splayed and covered his face. The fall and rise of his chest alerted her that he wasn't dead. A good thing perhaps?
She wondered why he was here, or more so on the porch. She touched his pale neck. Warm...could it be he had a fever? She felt the need to bring him into to the house, but she was too small to bring him in. So she waited. Only about an hour or so because he then stirred (though frightened when he awoke). He sat up, dazed and confused. He had not seen the girl yet.
"How...Do you feel?" She spoke softly staring at his back. He was startled at the soft words. She waited for his response, or anything at all. For all she knew, he was deaf, blind or even mute. He slowly turned around, still sitting. His head was pounding, and trying to think was out of the question. He saw the girl sitting with in a small wicker chair. She gave a smile, but he looked down in confusion.
"My name is Ariana, do you know what your's is?" spoke the girl to the boy. She felt bad, he face showed such pain and confusion, something she knew quite a large amount on how it feels. The boy tried to think of his name, but he couldn't think of what it was. He strained to know. "I..don't..I don't know my..name" he said, with pauses. His voice was feminine like.
Ariana got up from her chair and knelt down in front of the boy. He was odd, he was wearing a skirt over a pair of black jeans and a female blouse. He could have been a girl with how he had dressed. "Lets take you inside" she said, grabbing a hold of his wrist, standing up. Raised scars could be felt under her small fingers.
Leading the boy inside, she sat him upon a chair in the sitting room. Ariana brought him a glass of water and handed it to him. She was going to ask him something, when he spoke. "I don't...remember anything" he said, not looking at the girl. "Nothing? You remember nothing at all?" She asked, alarmed slightly. He only nodded.
She had let him stay. It was the least she could have done. He also kept her company. He never asked for anything, not that he ate much or did much. He was a very quiet boy, depressive by the looks of it.
Ariana was glad for having this boy stay. She had yet to have a relapse back. Being alone seemed to allow her mind to cause her to be destructive to herself, to try and stop the complex struggle inside the simple life.
It changed though; although it did not start with Ariana. It started with the boy. It was a dream, it scared him because it revealed a memory, through his self that he did not know. It was violent and two screams (though a third was his own while being asleep) coming from two people in this memory. Blood drenched everything, including himself. Gashes on his body and on the male's body in front of him. The body was fully dissected, just like some expert could ever do. "What has he done?! Why was he doing this?!" were the words shouted at him from the other people who had discovered the scene.
Then it was over, the dissolute memory gone. The fragmented figment so boldly sitting there, screaming, cutting his mind. Pain surged through his whole body, frozen in a state of paralysis in the spread eagle position. He was breaking...he knew he was.
Ever since that dream memories would pop up. There were good ones, simply brought on by some small thing. Mostly though he suffered through the ones he never wanted to see. If a memory would attack him, he would collapse, convulse and scream. Ariana could not comfort him or help him anymore. Even if she would have tried he would scream for her to go "away", afraid he would cause some harm to her.
Its not to say that nothing was going on with her. It had came back...The hallucination and sounds. They hit her with so much force that at times she had almost died...jumping off the roof...lighting her body on fire...anything to stop them. The boy hadn't particularly been violent during his attacks against Ariana, it was just he was destructive against himself. He had severe wounds on his arms and legs from cutting himself with a kitchen knife. After doing such...he would self sutured himself. It was easy! Just thread a thick needle with some thick thread and doing the overcast stitch on the skin. This never hurt him because he was only in physical pain. A simple needle prick would not hurt him much.
It was really an odd scene really. Quite particular in how these two have become? Such a hazard for themselves aswell as each other.
Eventually, it got to the point where they were at each other's throats. Ariana with her hallucinations, the boy with his violent lost memories. She had started to believe the boy was a hallucination trying to hurt her. Her hand would close upon his frail windpipe and he would try to strangle him. It only brought on a memory and he fell submissive to her, and to the memory.
A woman in her early Thirty's. She was fairly pretty but with the sour look of depression etched within the lines of her face. She was sitting on something...someone, a small boy. Her face showed impassion as her hands were around the small boy's throat. “You're a Monster! You are not the Camren I had! What were you thinking hurting that girl!?” The woman screamed at the boy below her. She tightened her grasp on his windpipe. All the boy could do was be submissive to all this. A knife happened to be laying carelessly next to the mother. He could just grab it, just to defend himself. If he was able to contain himself he would only defend...yes only defend. “Just Die...Just Die and leave me alone you Monster!” shouted Ariana as he came back from the memory that was repeating right now. Camren was too weak to try and fight back with his arms. He was afraid, broken, on the verge of death once again.
But there, a glint of a fluid next to a picture frame that was knocked to the floor and caught his eye. Though it was never liquid, if it could have been it would have been a hallucenation? No it was broken glass; jaggedly broken with a sharp looking point. Camren reached out a arm to grab it. Almost out of reach, he reached almost to the point where his arm could have came out of its socket.
'To defend myself'he thought, fingers sliding over the hardwood flooring, fingers grazing over the glass.
'No, KILL HER. She is just like that Woman....TRYING to KILL ME!' he screamed to himself in the confinds of his mind. His fingers felt the glass fully, and grasped it. Fingering to have the protruding sharp point ready, he then swung his arm up, plunged the glass into her neck, puncturing major artery in her neck. She never did scream, was that weird? Blood spouted out, and her grasp soften on his neck, his lungs able to take in more oxygen than before.
Shoving the limp body off of him he was now on top of her, glass in hand. Her blood poured out from her neck, and blood from his own hand trickled out. He took the glass to her neck and dug it deep into her throat, hoping to crush her windpipe.
It was over for her, but he was far from done...of course. He then proceded to dismember her. For what reason no one could tell, including the dismemberer, Camren. Though all it reminded him of the first memory, the first inpact of a past self coming to light.
In leu of his dismemberment of the girl, took the glass to himself. First taking it, trying to stab himself in the stomach, then in the chest. In the chest he punctured a lung, breathing was dampened by this act. Weaker...wanting this death to happen...he stabbed his neck with the glass, and falling face forward, as to have the glass be pushed and tear its way through his neck as the hardwood floor was his main site of vision till the blackness sucumbed him to his death.