lately i’ve been feeling dead inside
like my guts have dried up and died
but every night i water them back to life
-alkaline trio, my little needle
my hands open
and my eyes open
i just keep hoping
that your heart opens
-snow patrol, hands open
hey kids, i am still doing these color pals., and i have a lot to do i’m really excited about , but my computer is going to be out of commission for a few days so i can’t do any digital work on it. in the mean time, here’s a collection of the ones finished.
i lied my face off when i said that i would be okay
-alkaline trio, i lied my face off
He had learned by then that the deaths that really mattered did not sink in quickly. They fell on his ears deafly and he found himself moving without real thought or feeling. He went to him because he knew she’d be with him. He was soaked in her blood, cradling her body and sobbing. He felt his presence and his head shot up, his face filled with so much emotion but mostly he just looked helpless. He said things and they registered meaninglessly. He bent down to the girl, her eyes still open and watery. He closed them carefully then removed her from the boy’s grasp. He was reluctant but he could not refuse. The guilt was already filling him. Yan could not deal with him now. He knew everything would sink in later. Anger, resentment, blame, hate for this boy, but right now he just needed to take care of her.
He walked into the house to see the boy on the floor choking on his own blood. It brought a flash of the past that surely showed on his face because the Ram managed a smile at him. He offered the boy his own grimace of one and sat by his side, petting his hair and waited. The boy kept a soft smile, his eyes closing gently. He had known he was dying and he knew how he was going to die and all those funny looks he had given him in the past made sense. He knew he would be the last person he saw. The bond broke for the sacrificial lamb and he wasn’t sure he was looking forward to the next.
He made it quick, not that she deserved a quick death. She taunted him until the end and if she was right, offered him a fine punishment for killing her. The Madam was always right. He stared down at the lifeless old hag and his memory flickered over the time he first met her and she called him out on liking the sound of his own voice. “If you act right your life can be rewarding.” He thought to that even now, accidentally. He leaned forward and closed her eyes silently. Another thing she did not deserve but he could not escape the lingering fondness he had for her. Perhaps it was best the stranger was dead, he would likely fall victim to her even now. The Madam in his mind was the closest thing he had to a mother, closer than his biological one, and still not one anyone deserved. He felt no guilt in killing her, some relief actually, but found that the respect beaten into him for so long, so long ago, was hard to defeat entirely.
His soul split away, his body was lost and in the end all he had was his existence. His existence in this place. He often wondered, in this time, and his life before it, why he held on so desperately to his existence. He had long forgotten Endʼs warning of not being able to ever escape this if he did. At that point of desperation you did what things were driving you to do or just kept fighting against it. It was shearing. You wanted to just let go to it, become pain itself, to have nothing but pain and so the taunting game would end. There would be no more hope of madness. Actually, he was a pessimistic person for things of this level. He long had no hope. It was just in his stubborn nature not to give up. Sure, heʼd let himself blow himself up, do stupid things that could easily end up in him killed, but he always kept on against it, fighting stupidly without even realizing it, without even wanting to. Just like now.
He was a friend, if people like them had friends. They had taken on lives where death was a prominent feature and people died all the time. They caused death and they handled it but he was still someone to be missed, however briefly. He wondered if she was more upset then she let on or if she felt numbed to it as well. It was a strange feeling, a bordering state where he knew he should feel more but he couldn’t. Not then. Not anymore.
He’d never seen that amount of blood before. His memory sorted through in flashes, memories of a woman who made him bleed, the beatings he’d received in punishment, the fights with Shin, the accidents, but there was never this much blood. The man’s face was so pale and he’d seen it as such in the past out of fear. At that point though, it had been fear for him and his blood after the woman was done with him. He wondered then if he looked as much a ghost as the dying man, because he must have been just as horrified. The murderers left and there was no space for goodbyes. He tried to cover up the wounds, to stop the blood, even to try the tricks Shin did with healing but nothing was good enough. There was no heartfelt good bye from his father, only the sound of choking followed by an empty stare.
I usually hate finishing a drawing because even on the rare times I feel pleased with it there’s still the daunting “shit, what do I do now?”
Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to turn to a life of crime. Probably the same.
I did this art a bit ago now and had to send it in the mail~ and the person received it and posted it to facebook so now I can post it here! I had some fun with this initally. The bee crochet pissed me off so much though OTL Based on this pattern but I shortened it when my stitches got way huge somehow and added little legs. I did a facebook art pay it forward so this is for a friend of mine who is in this band. They’re pretty super. Dave is a really awesome lyricist~ A Photo in California and White Rubber Room are definitely on my giant list of favorite songs. Also an excuse to draw beekeepers rocking out COME ON. How could I not?