This great big subject ruled by fear, every wave is tidal if you hang around your going to get wet, I can't prepare for death anymore than I already have.
Warning: Emotional Abuse, Depression.
POV: First Person.
Summery: ‘This great big subject ruled by fear, every wave is tidal if you hang around your going to get wet.’
AN: Hey guys, just gonna give you an extra warning that this deals with some heavy subject matters so if you are easily upset this stroy may no be for you. The title of the story comes from ‘Kings Crossing’ by Elliott Smith off of ‘From A Basement On The Hill’. Okay,
Disclaimer: I do NOT own Elliott Smith, or My Chemical Romance nor am I affiliated with either parties, I DO however own Claire and this story so please don’t sue or steal. Thanks and enjoy.
Tap, tap, tap, It continues and continues. The drumming of finger tips on table-tops and counters, desks, chairs, and windows. A broken down truck sits in the yard. It has to be a thousand years old… as old as I feel. No sun, never any sun. Rain, rain, rain and more rain, Pitter-patter, pitter-patter. I keep the drapes shut on that old truck and anything else that wants to see inside. The pages in my book are curling at the edges and browning at the seams. Black bindings and silver lettering, ‘Eclipse’? I’d never know. The silver sky light can’t push its way through the deep burgundy curtains. I really doubt it wants to get in anyway. The only thing it would find in here is me. A few old books perhaps some CDs and a broken television. I should have gotten it fixed long time ago. Everything smells of musk and dust. Last time wind came through the windows was the last time I saw daylight, let’s just say it’s been a while. The carpets are stained and tattered after all their use. Pacing is a hobby I have come to endure, Back and forth, back and forth. Day after day I pace these halls and feel life slipping slower that it was ever supposed to. The blood that they say is in my veins moves slowly like honey and much like the rest of my movements. I keep no mirrors either. I can still recall the colour my hair was before all this occurred and often find myself wondering if much has changed. But in the end, does it really matter? No one sees me anyway other than the air. The couch where I make my residence is ripped and the colour of roses, or what’s left of the ones I can still remember sitting on the kitchen table. Time doesn’t really exist, I can’t remember when the clock last chimed, or if it was the correct time… surely daylight savings has already come and passed. Not that it matters. The lost sounds drifting from memory. I haven’t heard anything but silence in the longest time. Music doesn’t hold much interest for me anymore… Did it ever? My dress is wrinkled and ripped; the pretty purple fabric is now faded and thin, much like the rest of me. I walk up the creaking stairs to what I know is a bedroom. I don’t really sleep when I’m in there, in fact I can’t particularly recall what sleep feels like. I’ve spent so many sleepless hours lying on top of the perfectly made sheets and staring at the ceiling. The rough texture of it entrances me out of sleepless stupor. The stupor is now permanent; ‘Cabin Fever’ is what my… some people used to call it. Everything exactly how it was before, everything in the same exact spot, except me. If only I had a particular spot. Somewhere I could stand, years from now, when the honey was finally wax, they would move me and all that would be left would be a ring of dust around where I had rested. Just like the figures on top of the dresser. Frozen. Frozen in time, in emotion, in spot. Lying down set my back into place, collecting a moment of pleasure. The only pleasure of any kind that can be claimed within these walls.
Dust. I can almost assure that I hear dust in the distance. It feels good to hear again, even if it is in my mind. Even my hallucinations had stopped now. Revving. A car? No never. In order to hear a car it would have to either be approaching or fleeing for its life. I could feel my feet swing over the edge of the mattress pressing against the rough carpeted floor. Up, up, up. I get up. My feet leading I move to the window. A car. Idling in the driveway. What does it want? What could it be doing all the way out here, where it’s been years since anyone has cut the grass or trimmed the trees. The place where the lonely girl still sits on the old couch cursing the thousand year old truck for making her feel old. Open the door. A person steps out. Another human being, could it be happening? Black hair, black clothes… Thief? Not much to steal anyway. Murderer? Nobody worth the effort of dressing up, not when they’d ask you to do it anyway. A door bell hazily kicks to life. Down the creaking stairs I went. Pulling-with as much force as I have left-the door open. Eyes, mouth, nose… face. A beautiful face. “Hello.” The man smiled slightly. Off… something about the smile was off. It reminds me of the only memory I have. A smile very similar followed by the packing of bags and the shutting of the door behind it and in front of me. I couldn’t find my voice. Years of not using it. “Hello.” I rasped. The man took a deep breath- also reminding me to breathe- and looked me over. “Are you Claire?” He asked softly sighing. Claire. Claire… Claire…
“Claire, come to daddy.” He spoke in caring tones. “Come on, Claire bear.” The little girl moved on her tiny feet. Forward, just a little closer. “Good girl!” The man lifted her up into his arms. “Donna! Claire just walked.” The man enthused before cooing into the little girl’s ear. The mother came rushing in praising her as well. “Claire Bear, you’re gonna grow up just lovely.” The mother kissed her cheek. Claire bear… Claire… Claire…
“Claire Way?” The man asked again. I was dizzy. Who was he? Claire? Was that me? I pointed to myself. “Claire Bear.” I whispered. The man looked at me strangely like I knew he would, like everyone else would. “Claire, I’m Gerard. I’m your brother.” He said. Claire Way. Claire, Claire… And Gerard. My brother.
“Mommy?” The little girl called out. No answer came. “Mommy?” Stillness and quiet. “Daddy?” Panic set into the little girl’s tiny heart as she frantically searched for mother and father. Up the stair she found them and their suitcases. Confused she poked curiously at the cases that rested atop the perfectly made bed. “Where are we going, Mommy?” The mother spoke not a word. It was her father that gave her what would always last in her little mind. He smiled at her softly. Not reaching his eyes. He put his hand out for hers padding her along the dusty pink carpet. Down the stairs and into the kitchen. Milk and cookies sat unsuspectingly on the table in front of the blue vase full of red roses. The little girl climbed up on to the chair and reached for a cookie. A banging disturbed her dunking of milk; over to the door her eyes wandered where her mother was pulling the suitcases down the stairs. She looked over to Daddy… where was daddy? Where was mommy going? Back to the door where she heard the car idling and her father stood smiling the off smile. “Goodbye Claire.” He whispered before he shut the door and clicked the lock shut. “Daddy?” The little girl called confused and afraid. Down she got forgetting her cookie. Pulling frantically at the locked door knob she yelled. “Daddy? Mommy! Where are you going? Come back! Please come back!” She cried hysterically. Up the stairs she tore open their dresser where clothes no longer were folded. Opened the closet where her mother’s dresses were almost all gone. She looked all over the house calling out for them. “Mommy! I’m sorry! Please come back!” What had she done? What would she do? Where was Mommy?
I felt myself go pale. Mother. Father. Brother. Family? “Brother?” I asked. I didn’t have one did I? Where had they gone when they left me behind? What does he want from me? I have nothing to give. “I have nothing to give.” I whispered. Gerard sighed and touched me. Hands on my skin, touching my arms. I had never been felt. Pulling gently on my wrists he brought me forward. His arms around me. Holding me. Caring enough to hold me. The first drop of rain fell on his shoulder, it came from me. Tears. Tears, tears and more tears. “And I don’t want to take.” He whispered. “I love you.” Holding me he told me. Doors to rooms full of wilted flowers and dusty figurines slam shut in my head. The wax in my veins melting and my figure being held. I would never leave behind a ring of dust.
AN: Hey, okay so this story is not really meant to be taken literally. There are lots of symbols in it, so if you read it and were like “What the hell?” You probably should think about it less as what’s literally happening and what’s happening between the lines. I know the subject is a bit harsh but it’s an issue that should be tackled. The story is a symbol of emotional abuse that can occur at an early age and what it does to people. That’s all I’m gonna say about it cause I could go into great detail about what each part was meant to symbolize but I think that would ruin it. Think for yourself and I’d love to hear what you interpret it to be about also feel free to ask me questions about it, I’m always lurking and always up for a discussion about symbolism and psychology. I hope you liked it… Comments of all sorts are always welcome in my world! It’s all about the love. Think about your actions and the consequences and the pain that will be inflicted on the people around you by your actions. Love ya all: Sblood311