forgot to tell you, gotta tell you how much i vibe with you.
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ITS HARD to look at yourself in the mirror and know you aren't a person. Not, really. You're alive, but not living. You are only a collage of stolen bits from those around you. When you see yourself, you know that you don't have a personality. You barely have a body because it doesn't feel like yours. Poking and prodding at the skin covering your bones and muscles and you want nothing more than to rip it apart, only to see if it's truly flesh underneath the pale covering, or if it's something else.
What is it like to feel?
The late July heat was blistering, and the sun was unrelenting. The birds chirped, and insects flew by his window, but Elias fanned them away. They rudely interrupted his much-needed smoke break, even if it was only half past eight. He watched as the circles of smoke came from his mouth and disturbed the almost perfect Aurelian color cast from the sun above.
Elias was standing near his window, head sticking out as he allowed the sun to beam down on his face. It was the morning following Hurricane Agatha, and what a wicked thing she was. He'd listened to the damage she made all last night, and he could tell without seeing anything that she had taken no prisoners. Agatha had not discriminated against the rich and poor, and the havoc she had inflicted upon Kildare Island was going to be remembered, Elias was sure of it. The rain may have been over, but she left a blanket of humidity in her wake, and it was not treating Eli kindly.
Despite this, he continued to mind his business and smoke in peace. He listened to the whisper of nature surrounding him. The whisper grew louder as time went on, and it wasn't a natural call from Mother Nature. No, all he heard was the voice of a man he wasn't sure he could call his father.
"Elias!"
Although he knew the voice all too well, he decided to ignore it. If he needed him that badly, he'd walk up and get him.
Elias could hear the deep sigh that followed and he almost relished in it. He got a certain joy from getting a rise out of his father. It was truly a feat not many could accomplish. It always ended badly, but he would rather have his father scream his head off than show no emotion at all.
Elias and Alexander Brooks were alike in many ways, in their eyes, hair, and physique for instance. All superficial, of course. But, when examined closer they were so very different that it physically hurt.
Take their anger for instance. They say there are two types of it; dry and wet. Elias had wet anger. The type that made you scream at the top of your lungs until your throat was raw. Anger that made you sob, because you had no other way of expressing it. Clutching your hair and bashing your knuckles into the wall until they bled. His mother shared this. Her mascara would run as she cried angry tears. Her cherry-red lips let out guttural screams, begging to be heard.
