Categories > Celebrities > Panic! At The Disco
Darkness Covered The Abyss
0 reviewsEvery story has a beginning; every Apocalypse starts somewhere.
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The world had gone gray. Everything once held such color and vibrancy, but like a glass with a hairline crack the color had drained until everything was just gray and brown. And maybe a little green. Or maybe it was more like when oil gets dropped into clean water and it contaminates the whole glass. Whatever. Analogies are fucking stupid anyway.
Brendon glanced across the room at Christian, who was curled up in a dusty armchair next to what used to be a window. The opening had clearly seen better days since the glass was mostly gone, the wooden trim was splintered, and the blinds had been replaced by rough two by fours, hastily nailed into place. She held a shotgun close to her chest and a fire axe was leaning against the armrest. The sharp point on the back dug into the grimy lace doily and Brendon couldn’t help but smile humorlessly at the contrast. Christian shifted in the chair and continued gazing through the gaps in the wood. She rubbed her abused, dirty hands over her face, which only smeared the dirt and grease into different patterns. Her eyes looked sunken and dark and her hair was disheveled and was begining to lose it's pink color. Brendon hoped the next place they holed up would have running water, but he didn’t want to get his hopes up. Christian was just too tired to go on, she had to rest or risk making a mistake she couldn’t afford.
This suburb had once been a nice place. Craftsman style homes with meticulously manicured lawns now lay dark, abandoned, and overgrown. Plastic children’s toys and basketball hoops still littered driveways and a few wrecked cars were strewn further down the street. You could usually tell which houses were better to hole up in and it almost always had to do with the smell. The office window Christian had chosen as her vantage point had a fair view of the lane it overlooked and the two story house had a porch roof and trellis that could easily be used as an escape route.
A damp breeze wafted through the destroyed window and Christian pulled her jacket, which actually happened to be Brendon's, closer about her. She hummed a little under her breath and Brendon recognized it as the melody from Memories. A little ironic now that there were scattered memories everywhere.
“Babe, you still have terrible aim,” Brendon tried to dredge up the tired joke from 3 months ago, simply as a way to break the endless silence and monotony. Christian shifted in her chair, her elbow bumping the axehead, and Brendon watched in horror as it overbalanced, seemingly in slow motion, and clattered to the hardwood floor. Christian gasped and leapt from the chair, shotgun cocked and ready, her eyes wild. She looked down and laughed nervously. She replaced the axe, handle side up this time, with the edge of the head wedged slightly into a crack in the floorboards. Christian settled back into the ratty cushions.
Hopping lightly off the low dresser he’d been perched on, Brendon rolled his eyes and padded out into the hallway. Christian never had been one for zombie or horror movies, the Disney-loving sap, so of course she didn’t think to check the house again after that huge noise. Inevitably, following every horror movie trope, a desiccated groan and the telltale thud-ump thud-ump of an uneven gait echoed up the staircase. It’s pale, bleeding eyes appeared over the landing and the monster let out a horrible shriek as soon as it saw Brendon. The axe clattered to the floor again in the other room as Christian started from her chair and she emerged just as the thing reached the top step. Christian was clutching the ax in both hands since they’d both learned the hard way that firearms and enclosed spaces were not a happy combination (and she certainly didn’t have the ammo to spare). The rotting creature charged, leprous hands outstretched and grasping for Christian’s neck. Brendon grabbed it’s ankles just as it passed the doorway he had backed into. A quiet swish and loud, wet crack and the oozing thing shuddered once and lay limp.
Christian ran frantically and silently through the house, checking every boarded window and doorknob until he found the gap in her security. She pushed a large, heavy dresser in front of the offending window. Next she hauled the mass of gray flesh down the stairs and dumped it into the cool basement, shutting the door after it. She also retrieved some string from the garage and fixed tripwires through all the doorways and up the staircase. All the while Brendon was following her from room to room, unable to contain his exasperation. “You really would be dead without me, is that like the sixth time I’ve saved you now?! Fuck, Chris, everyone knows zombies spawn at moments like that, it’s in like, every video game and movie, ever!” Brendon followed Christian into the office as she collapsed back into the armchair and pulled her knees up, propping the shotgun at her side.
Brendon’s mood softened when he saw the haunted, hollow look in younger’s eyes. He leaned down to kiss the top of Christian’s head and was hit with an almost familiar pang of loss and emptiness when he felt nothing but a tingle when his lips passed right through. Overcome once again with frustration Brendon pulled back and socked Christian in the back of the head as hard as he could.
“Ow!” Christian pitched forward and a hand flew to her neck. She spun around, wild eyed and panicked, searching for the source of the blow, who was leaning on the back of the chair staring at his own hand. Christian looked straight through him though since Brendon was completely and thoroughly dead.
“Oh, that’s just low!” Brendon ranted at his own hand, then vaguely up at the ceiling, “I can smack her, but I can’t fucking comfort her? Who made these fucking rules?! Being a ghost sucks.” He fumed as Christian settled warily back into the chair. Brendon watched as Christian’s hand absently began to trace the shape of the ball chain, the one she had gotten Brendon for his 19th birthday and the on ehe never took off, around her neck as she scrubbed her eyes with the heel of the other, pushing her glasses, really Brendon's, slightly askew. Brendon could see the failing light gleaming on the wetness now spread on Christian’s cheeks. She hunched her shoulders and shook quietly while Brendon tried to stroke her hair.
Christian clutched at the beads at her throat again. Brendon’s blood had long since worn away and Christian rubbed at the round, metal links as though the friction would undo all the bad things that had happened. “Brendon, I wish you were here.” She whispered through tears.
“I am, sweetheart. I just wish you could see me.” Brendon continued stroking Christian’s hair until the gray light faded completely and Christian had drifted off, dreaming fitfully of a world that used to have color. A world full of love and fun, but most importantly a world in which she could share with Brendon.
Brendon glanced across the room at Christian, who was curled up in a dusty armchair next to what used to be a window. The opening had clearly seen better days since the glass was mostly gone, the wooden trim was splintered, and the blinds had been replaced by rough two by fours, hastily nailed into place. She held a shotgun close to her chest and a fire axe was leaning against the armrest. The sharp point on the back dug into the grimy lace doily and Brendon couldn’t help but smile humorlessly at the contrast. Christian shifted in the chair and continued gazing through the gaps in the wood. She rubbed her abused, dirty hands over her face, which only smeared the dirt and grease into different patterns. Her eyes looked sunken and dark and her hair was disheveled and was begining to lose it's pink color. Brendon hoped the next place they holed up would have running water, but he didn’t want to get his hopes up. Christian was just too tired to go on, she had to rest or risk making a mistake she couldn’t afford.
This suburb had once been a nice place. Craftsman style homes with meticulously manicured lawns now lay dark, abandoned, and overgrown. Plastic children’s toys and basketball hoops still littered driveways and a few wrecked cars were strewn further down the street. You could usually tell which houses were better to hole up in and it almost always had to do with the smell. The office window Christian had chosen as her vantage point had a fair view of the lane it overlooked and the two story house had a porch roof and trellis that could easily be used as an escape route.
A damp breeze wafted through the destroyed window and Christian pulled her jacket, which actually happened to be Brendon's, closer about her. She hummed a little under her breath and Brendon recognized it as the melody from Memories. A little ironic now that there were scattered memories everywhere.
“Babe, you still have terrible aim,” Brendon tried to dredge up the tired joke from 3 months ago, simply as a way to break the endless silence and monotony. Christian shifted in her chair, her elbow bumping the axehead, and Brendon watched in horror as it overbalanced, seemingly in slow motion, and clattered to the hardwood floor. Christian gasped and leapt from the chair, shotgun cocked and ready, her eyes wild. She looked down and laughed nervously. She replaced the axe, handle side up this time, with the edge of the head wedged slightly into a crack in the floorboards. Christian settled back into the ratty cushions.
Hopping lightly off the low dresser he’d been perched on, Brendon rolled his eyes and padded out into the hallway. Christian never had been one for zombie or horror movies, the Disney-loving sap, so of course she didn’t think to check the house again after that huge noise. Inevitably, following every horror movie trope, a desiccated groan and the telltale thud-ump thud-ump of an uneven gait echoed up the staircase. It’s pale, bleeding eyes appeared over the landing and the monster let out a horrible shriek as soon as it saw Brendon. The axe clattered to the floor again in the other room as Christian started from her chair and she emerged just as the thing reached the top step. Christian was clutching the ax in both hands since they’d both learned the hard way that firearms and enclosed spaces were not a happy combination (and she certainly didn’t have the ammo to spare). The rotting creature charged, leprous hands outstretched and grasping for Christian’s neck. Brendon grabbed it’s ankles just as it passed the doorway he had backed into. A quiet swish and loud, wet crack and the oozing thing shuddered once and lay limp.
Christian ran frantically and silently through the house, checking every boarded window and doorknob until he found the gap in her security. She pushed a large, heavy dresser in front of the offending window. Next she hauled the mass of gray flesh down the stairs and dumped it into the cool basement, shutting the door after it. She also retrieved some string from the garage and fixed tripwires through all the doorways and up the staircase. All the while Brendon was following her from room to room, unable to contain his exasperation. “You really would be dead without me, is that like the sixth time I’ve saved you now?! Fuck, Chris, everyone knows zombies spawn at moments like that, it’s in like, every video game and movie, ever!” Brendon followed Christian into the office as she collapsed back into the armchair and pulled her knees up, propping the shotgun at her side.
Brendon’s mood softened when he saw the haunted, hollow look in younger’s eyes. He leaned down to kiss the top of Christian’s head and was hit with an almost familiar pang of loss and emptiness when he felt nothing but a tingle when his lips passed right through. Overcome once again with frustration Brendon pulled back and socked Christian in the back of the head as hard as he could.
“Ow!” Christian pitched forward and a hand flew to her neck. She spun around, wild eyed and panicked, searching for the source of the blow, who was leaning on the back of the chair staring at his own hand. Christian looked straight through him though since Brendon was completely and thoroughly dead.
“Oh, that’s just low!” Brendon ranted at his own hand, then vaguely up at the ceiling, “I can smack her, but I can’t fucking comfort her? Who made these fucking rules?! Being a ghost sucks.” He fumed as Christian settled warily back into the chair. Brendon watched as Christian’s hand absently began to trace the shape of the ball chain, the one she had gotten Brendon for his 19th birthday and the on ehe never took off, around her neck as she scrubbed her eyes with the heel of the other, pushing her glasses, really Brendon's, slightly askew. Brendon could see the failing light gleaming on the wetness now spread on Christian’s cheeks. She hunched her shoulders and shook quietly while Brendon tried to stroke her hair.
Christian clutched at the beads at her throat again. Brendon’s blood had long since worn away and Christian rubbed at the round, metal links as though the friction would undo all the bad things that had happened. “Brendon, I wish you were here.” She whispered through tears.
“I am, sweetheart. I just wish you could see me.” Brendon continued stroking Christian’s hair until the gray light faded completely and Christian had drifted off, dreaming fitfully of a world that used to have color. A world full of love and fun, but most importantly a world in which she could share with Brendon.
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