Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > A Splash Of Life
A Splash Of Life
0 Reviewseveryone has to leave, its just how it is, but if you forget who you are how can you move on?
So, this is an idea that was born out of watching the lovely bones and listening to a really depressing string of songs before a happy one broke the sadness. I may just leave this as a stand alone piece and come back to it in a little while or i might drop my other story (which i am losing interest in) and focus on this. Anyway, i hope you enjoy.
To The End
It was a cold, rainy June day. The clouds had come from nowhere and blackened the clear blue sky in seconds, the dense grey clouded overhead without a hint of the white candy floss wisps that usually come first, just a thick black carpet of cloud. The rain had been sudden too, it had waited and given false hope to those who were running for shelter, it had barely been thirty seconds where the different air pressures pushed against one another and brought the metallic smell of their conflict to the senses before the rain fell, droplets the size of bullets that hit, with tremendous force, anything that impeded the path to the ground.
I had been caught out in the rain, I had been wearing a short sleeve t-shirt which I had stolen from my brother so I’d have something clean to wear, black jeans and a black leather jacket to match my boots. I had made the agonising journey to the mall alone for the first time in almost a year so I could get art supplies, there was a canvas painting at home which was sitting, half finished, propped up against my desk. I didn’t like it at all so I needed colours, lots of colours. The colours I had already just weren’t good enough, they needed to be fresh.
I had used some of my birthday money to acquire my new paints and a few A4 sketchbooks – I’d even gotten myself a new set of acrylic brushes as a treat. I was walking home when the rain had appeared, I hadn’t been paying attention to the sky since I’d stepped outside my house to see the obnoxious wide blue sky and the sun taunting me with the heat and light it produced. Now instead of the blue there was grey, angry grey and black swirling around up there in the atmosphere, sending torrents of rain down on the earth.
I ran, I remember someone told me if you walk you don’t get as wet but I ran anyway. I think it was the shock of it all, the sudden lashings of rain, that spurred me into unnecessary, defensive movement. There was something very primal about it. I clutched the plastic bags which held my supplies tight to my chest, hoping to shield the sketchbooks inside from the rain which would wrinkle and ruin their fresh, flat surfaces.
I had taken the long way to the mall earlier, shielding myself from the scorching sun by sticking to the shadows, which had unfortunately lead me past a load of seedy looking people and down back alleys where it was almost expected you’d get stabbed, or kidnapped or you’d just disappear. I, luckily, hadn’t been mugged on my way to the mall and now it was raining I didn’t have to worry about staying in the shadows so I wouldn’t run the risk of passing some drug dealers, pick pockets or prostitutes.
I ran down one of the last streets before my own when I had to cross through a short alleyway to get home. I turned into the dark, rain flooded alley and slowed my pace. I could see the end of the alley, the cars speeding riskily down the road, wipers on and spraying the rainwater every which way. I looked down at the bag which held the items that were so precious to me and carefully moved away the plastic to check that everything inside was still dry; it was. I folded the plastic back over at the art supplies and smiled down at the bag before I looked up. I looked up just in time to see the knife.
Then it all gets rather blurry and everything was pain. I remember the knife, the shining metal slicing through the air towards my chest. I also remember the cold, dark eyes of the person holding the knife, the deep brown, almost black, orbs were sparkles, lifeless and hard. Whoever was in front of me, standing over me with a knife had no soul, no connection to humanity. The knife grew closer and in those few seconds all I could do was stare at the gleaming blade, unable to move from my position, petrified by the possibility of my imminent death.
The metal cut into me, tearing at my insides and spraying my crimson life into the cold, hard eyes that suddenly held a dimmed spark of humanity. I fell, hard, my head cracking against the wet concrete floor. I felt the knife leave, taking my body heat with it before the blade slashed down and into my chest once again, this time there was some resistance and I heard the cracks coming from my body, my arms regained motor function and I dropped my precious art supplies.
I don’t know if I screamed at all, I just felt heat ride up my gullet before I sputtered out blood and began losing my sight. I felt tears well up behind my eyelids as I grabbed blindly for the arm holding the knife, hoping to stop the onslaught of pain and the fading colours around me. I searched for my bag too, thinking somehow that art, my beloved art, would keep me safe, be my salvation.
Everything was grey, or had it been like that before? There was rain, washing it all away, taking my life with it as it rushed down the alley to the storm drains in the street. Then I remembered my brother. I was almost home, I had to get home. I promised I was going to watch all the star wars films back to back with him. I wanted home, I wanted my brother, I wanted safe. I clawed at the ground beneath me, trying to get a hold on anything that could help me get home to my family.
There was nothing, nothing but ever darkening sky, the dampening pain and the bright red spray of my life which my body insisted on continuing to cough out into the air. There was no sound, only a ringing in my ears until suddenly a manic laugh filled the air. The laugh was so broken, so unhinged that it sent a jolt of unnecessary fear through my already lost body. The light faded, the spark leaving my eyes. I saw the bright, white sparks float above me. I watched them intently, seeing they were ringed with gold and that they pulsated with light. The laugh continued as I stared at the lights in front of me which floated close above my face before shooting back into my eyes and plunging me into eternal darkness. Everything went dark, everything went silent. There was no pain and that is when I realised I was gone.
My name is forgotten, lost among endless murder cases yet to be solved. All I know is I am 17 years old and on June 18 1996 I was murdered in an alley only a street away from my family’s home in Newark, New Jersey. This is my story, this is how I found out who I was.
Let me know what you think, i'm always up for reviews. criticism helps (to a point) and i may be posting some more on this soon. Until then xoxo T
To The End
It was a cold, rainy June day. The clouds had come from nowhere and blackened the clear blue sky in seconds, the dense grey clouded overhead without a hint of the white candy floss wisps that usually come first, just a thick black carpet of cloud. The rain had been sudden too, it had waited and given false hope to those who were running for shelter, it had barely been thirty seconds where the different air pressures pushed against one another and brought the metallic smell of their conflict to the senses before the rain fell, droplets the size of bullets that hit, with tremendous force, anything that impeded the path to the ground.
I had been caught out in the rain, I had been wearing a short sleeve t-shirt which I had stolen from my brother so I’d have something clean to wear, black jeans and a black leather jacket to match my boots. I had made the agonising journey to the mall alone for the first time in almost a year so I could get art supplies, there was a canvas painting at home which was sitting, half finished, propped up against my desk. I didn’t like it at all so I needed colours, lots of colours. The colours I had already just weren’t good enough, they needed to be fresh.
I had used some of my birthday money to acquire my new paints and a few A4 sketchbooks – I’d even gotten myself a new set of acrylic brushes as a treat. I was walking home when the rain had appeared, I hadn’t been paying attention to the sky since I’d stepped outside my house to see the obnoxious wide blue sky and the sun taunting me with the heat and light it produced. Now instead of the blue there was grey, angry grey and black swirling around up there in the atmosphere, sending torrents of rain down on the earth.
I ran, I remember someone told me if you walk you don’t get as wet but I ran anyway. I think it was the shock of it all, the sudden lashings of rain, that spurred me into unnecessary, defensive movement. There was something very primal about it. I clutched the plastic bags which held my supplies tight to my chest, hoping to shield the sketchbooks inside from the rain which would wrinkle and ruin their fresh, flat surfaces.
I had taken the long way to the mall earlier, shielding myself from the scorching sun by sticking to the shadows, which had unfortunately lead me past a load of seedy looking people and down back alleys where it was almost expected you’d get stabbed, or kidnapped or you’d just disappear. I, luckily, hadn’t been mugged on my way to the mall and now it was raining I didn’t have to worry about staying in the shadows so I wouldn’t run the risk of passing some drug dealers, pick pockets or prostitutes.
I ran down one of the last streets before my own when I had to cross through a short alleyway to get home. I turned into the dark, rain flooded alley and slowed my pace. I could see the end of the alley, the cars speeding riskily down the road, wipers on and spraying the rainwater every which way. I looked down at the bag which held the items that were so precious to me and carefully moved away the plastic to check that everything inside was still dry; it was. I folded the plastic back over at the art supplies and smiled down at the bag before I looked up. I looked up just in time to see the knife.
Then it all gets rather blurry and everything was pain. I remember the knife, the shining metal slicing through the air towards my chest. I also remember the cold, dark eyes of the person holding the knife, the deep brown, almost black, orbs were sparkles, lifeless and hard. Whoever was in front of me, standing over me with a knife had no soul, no connection to humanity. The knife grew closer and in those few seconds all I could do was stare at the gleaming blade, unable to move from my position, petrified by the possibility of my imminent death.
The metal cut into me, tearing at my insides and spraying my crimson life into the cold, hard eyes that suddenly held a dimmed spark of humanity. I fell, hard, my head cracking against the wet concrete floor. I felt the knife leave, taking my body heat with it before the blade slashed down and into my chest once again, this time there was some resistance and I heard the cracks coming from my body, my arms regained motor function and I dropped my precious art supplies.
I don’t know if I screamed at all, I just felt heat ride up my gullet before I sputtered out blood and began losing my sight. I felt tears well up behind my eyelids as I grabbed blindly for the arm holding the knife, hoping to stop the onslaught of pain and the fading colours around me. I searched for my bag too, thinking somehow that art, my beloved art, would keep me safe, be my salvation.
Everything was grey, or had it been like that before? There was rain, washing it all away, taking my life with it as it rushed down the alley to the storm drains in the street. Then I remembered my brother. I was almost home, I had to get home. I promised I was going to watch all the star wars films back to back with him. I wanted home, I wanted my brother, I wanted safe. I clawed at the ground beneath me, trying to get a hold on anything that could help me get home to my family.
There was nothing, nothing but ever darkening sky, the dampening pain and the bright red spray of my life which my body insisted on continuing to cough out into the air. There was no sound, only a ringing in my ears until suddenly a manic laugh filled the air. The laugh was so broken, so unhinged that it sent a jolt of unnecessary fear through my already lost body. The light faded, the spark leaving my eyes. I saw the bright, white sparks float above me. I watched them intently, seeing they were ringed with gold and that they pulsated with light. The laugh continued as I stared at the lights in front of me which floated close above my face before shooting back into my eyes and plunging me into eternal darkness. Everything went dark, everything went silent. There was no pain and that is when I realised I was gone.
My name is forgotten, lost among endless murder cases yet to be solved. All I know is I am 17 years old and on June 18 1996 I was murdered in an alley only a street away from my family’s home in Newark, New Jersey. This is my story, this is how I found out who I was.
Let me know what you think, i'm always up for reviews. criticism helps (to a point) and i may be posting some more on this soon. Until then xoxo T
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