Hello and welcome to EXTRA!. This is just a bunch of random stories that might be multi chapter or just one shots! Basically the lone wolves who don't have or need a pack. To those who read, please enjoy!
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Burn
It's frightening to ponder that those who are fixed can easily get broken again by those who have never broke.
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Act 1 - Broken
"I'm sorry, Arthur. But I just can't. I cannot do this anymore. I'm sorry."
My fingers danced across the keys lightly, making sure no sound came from the grand piano. It was quite late in the night, the sun set long ago, but I was still restless. Such behaviour was abnormal for me. Usually I would long ago be fast asleep, all worries put on hold for the future me to worry about. Not today.
A single note erupted from the piano catching me by surprise. I looked down and confirmed the note I had accidentally played- D. Seating myself, I continued playing- a tune subconciously forming. The notes held for two beats. A sad smile played at my lips when I named the tune. Pacabel's Canon. The bass line. Repeatedly played throughout the composition. Over and over. A melodic rhythm forever repeating to infinity.
"Arthur?" A voice from behind the open the doorway called.
I did not reply. The music had entranced me. Pulled me too deep. Guiding me until death had me in his grasp.
"Arthur!" The voice called more cautiously, shaking me from my delusion.
I looked up, my fingers stumbling onto the wrong keys. My sister's eyes bored into mine. They burned my soul so I pulled away from her hypnotic glare.
"What?" I mumbled.
"Arthur, it's almost midnight and you're playing the piano!" Fi whined in her soft voice.
Fi's voice is very weird. It's elegant but also very energetic. It was a voice that was perfectly suited for singing or voice acting but she never used it for anything like that. Instead Fi stays home and works as an artist. What a waste.
"Arthur! Are you even listening?"
I sighed and pulled off my glasses. The world in the distance blurred as I glanced at my sister once again.
"Fi. I'm sorry. I lost track of time."
"I don't care. Get your sorry butt to bed or I'm calling Dad."
I sighed and gave in, quickly retreating to my bedroom- my prison of memories. As I set myself upon my bed, a single tear started the downpour that flooded my face.
Why? Why did she have to die? No. That isn't the right question. I know the answer to that one. The real question I need to ask- why did I kill her?
I looked across to the corner of the room and shuddered. A body hung from the ceiling, a noose gripping her neck.
Why? Why did I do this?
With a thump the body fell and I gulped. It was me. I did this. I couldn't avoid this. It was me.
It was all my fault. I could have stopped this. I could have saved her. But I didn't. I left her alone. I watched her slowly rot from the inside out.
I killed her.
Act 2 - Crazy
From then on things became worse. My delusions became more real, more breathable. I saw her face on other people's. I ended up sentencing myself to solitary confinement. I never stepped another foot outside with the fear that I would have to face her again and again. The only sources of comfort I had were my sister and the occasional phone calls from my parents.
But remaining inside of a three floored house also had its episodes of hell too. Sometimes I'd see dead bodies all with her face on it. All killed in different ways. I know how she had died but now I wasn't so sure.
I'd also find myself in the most random of places and not know how I had got there.
Just yesterday, I had become conscious that I was on the edge of the roof. The last thing I could remember before that was being in bed.
My sister became more stressed from worrying over me and pressure from work. I could tell she was scared. Not only for me but herself. If I'm not careful, I might end up hurting her without even knowing when or how.
Sometimes when I was conscious of where and when I was, I would cook. It was my favourite hobby - just a little more than I loved playing piano. When I cooked, I loved to watch the flames flicker. We never used electric cookers in the downstairs kitchen but I love to use this kitchen anyway.
From my thin fingers, I would shape and mould gourmet recipes, pastries and all sorts of desserts. Today, I was cooking my favourite- Lasagne. I hummed as I cooked. It was relaxing. I could stay clear of worry and-
A deafening scream pierced my ears and I dragged myself back to reality. The bloodied knife in my hand fell to the floor as my sister looked up at me with her eyes frozen in shock and horror. I stared at the big wound in her side and recoiled in horror. Had I done that? Was I- Was I trying to cut her up?
"Arthur," Fi gasped, "Ambulance. Pressure on wound."
I did as she instructed, wrapping towels tightly around her to stop the bleeding as much as possible.
The ambulance arrived and I watched her zoom away in that small little veichle. I watched as it slowly disappeared into a tiny speck. I watched.
Then I ran.
Act 3 - Insane
I ran and I ran and I ran. I ran until my legs were sore. I ran until my feet bled. I ran until my head pounded.
I couldn't face anyone. What would I do to them? What if I didn't even realise that I was doing something at all?
I leaned over a bridge and vomited. I had almost killed my sister. Almost ended her life. Almost sent her to her end chapter- just like Cyth.
But the worst thing?
I didn't feel anything. No guilt, no regret. Heck, I almost enjoyed it.
I leant over again and more stomach contents were churned up.
Why was this happening to me? I didn't want this at all.
I continued walking, feeling lighter now that most of the food I had recently ate was out of me. But I couldn't shake off that feeling. The feeling that made me like what I had done.
Two homeless men smiled as I passed them by.
'Look at them'
I shivered. Where had that voice come from?
'Look at them'
"Who are you?" I demanded.
The voice laughed and the world around me shook.
'Aren't they boring?' The voice chuckled, 'I think we should include them in a piece of modern art.'
I violently shook my head and peered around me. I felt my hands went and cold and looked.
The two homeless men were dead, lying broken and twisted in a pool of blood. And that blood was also on my hands.
I screamed and ran until my voice was hoarse and my legs gave way. I was outside a small, rusted barn. It was full with hay. Was I near a farm?
Music pierced the air: 'Stayin' alive.'
The voice came back once more.
'Staying alive? How boring.'
This time I had to agree. I clambered into the barn lopsided laughs escaping my throat between hiccups.
The stench of gasoline filled the barn and soon my hands were clean of blood.
Act 5: Finale
Some men just want to watch the world burn.
I guess I'm one of them.
