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by disastres

by disastres

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the shaky boy stood to his feet.

dark, dazed eyes absently grazed over his lack of surroundings. there was a narrow bed - white. a dusty mirror adorned with an intricate, wooden frame - white. an untouched, wooden table - white.

and a withered, beaten journal that lied atop - blue. the colour of the sea, the colour of the sky - the colour of him. he felt blue. blue crawled up his spine and into his perspiring skin, leaving him with a heavy heart and heavier eyelids.

he took a slow step, bare feet padding against a boundless, pale tile floor. even such a small movement granted the trembling boy a calm rush of weariness. the bed called to him, promising him reprieve from this cyclical ataraxia. he felt teeth at his ears, contradicting whispers creeping down his spine.

the blue was loudest. it had a small, lingering voice, so faint he could hardly identify it, but rattled in his heavy chest. it called to him in ways the empty promises could never. the blue held his bones together, flowed with each inhale and exhale. it promised to never leave; it assured the wary boy an abundance of happiness.

he hardly knew what the word meant - happiness - yet, he took another step.

with each hesitant step, the whispers grew more deafening, yet never exceeded the volume level of a faint, oily shadow of a word. the blue developed a bold voice. it spoke in a promising, confident way that eased the lethargic boy. in that timeless moment, nothing mattered more.

the whispers halted when he reached the table. his surroundings grew more dearth as his extended hand reached for the journal. the torn faux-leather beneath his unknowing fingertips ignited a flame within him - the most torrid of flames, displaying a peaceful, azure shade of ruin.

he had never felt so warm.

he sat on top of the table. the bed would try to persuade him into abandoning the heat, convince him that where he belonged was beneath the cool, silky sheets. the table, however, expected nothing from him. it told him to come as he was, promising no accommodations.

the bed just wanted to catch him. to comfort his inevitable collapse. each page brought him closer and closer to midnight.

every midnight, he fell.

every midnight, he awoke.

every midnight, the shaky boy stood to his feet.

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this was rushed buT ANWYYA

word count: 405
2017.02.24