Doomed (Fransykes)

Crucify Me

Crucify me and nail my hands to a wooden cross
There is nothing above, there is nothing below
Heaven and Hell live in all of us
And I've been cast astray

I am an ocean, I am the sea
There is a world inside of me
Lost in the abyss, drowned in the deep
No set of lungs could salvage me
Only a shipwreck, only a ghost
Merely a graveyard of your former self
We just watched the waves crash over
And I've been cast astray

Oh, if we make it through the night, if we make it out alive
Lord have mercy and pray for the dead
And you say that you can save me, don't hope to ever find me
And I fear I'm too far gone, pray for the dead

~•°•~•°•~•°•~•°•~

A step, a crack, a flicker. Breathe in, breathe out. The street lights were far too dim but they shone out enough to see. It was creepy as fuck. A swallow.

Oliver's steps were light, so light that one would doubt they even touched the ground, his breaths so null and void that you'd look over and over to make sure he was even breathing and even then you could never be sure, his face so blank you'd wonder whether he was an android or a boy. Oliver looked like a faint ghost, carried himself like one. Oliver was too chimerical.

Sometimes you wake up so suddenly that you're not sure of anything. Sometimes when you wake up, everything around you is too illusory and insubstantial. Your own body feels like nothing but a dreamt-up fairy-tale that you can only wonder no matter how many times you pinch or slap yourself, no matter how many times you try to move, everything feels anything but genuine. That was Oliver.

Remembering that you don't remember is an odd thing. Not remembering doesn't matter much; you're there, going on with your life, whatever that passed has faded away already, it's unimportant now, for better or for worse. Remembering can be painfully sweet or just plainly hurtful; the good or bad can hold you down or free you too much as sweet and sour as it is, but remembering that you don't remember is a whole new agony. You wonder and wonder and it's on the tip of your brain, an unscratchable itch that you can't reach no matter how hard you try and it leaves you restless to dwell and squirm until you tear yourself apart - depending on how valuable you know that that memory is for you.

Oliver remembered remembering and it flipped everything upside down to the point where his life seems like a nebulous myth. A phantom of a misled character placed on the wrong show with a third party's speeches.

He knew there was more. He knew that the life he lived was fantasised. He knew there was so much more to unveil.

He dreamt a lot. Disassociating off of reality was something as easy as breathing to Oliver. Ethereal dreams would easily play behind his eyelids with such crucial relevance that discerning reality from these daydreams often became challenging.

Oliver was no more than a memory those times.

But now it felt more tangible.

Oliver would never be saved if not by himself. Just like on all of his fool's paradises where Oliver or his invented flawlessly filled-with-flaws characters would manage to always save themselves just so Oliver could have something, someone to look up to. But back then was different. Back then, rocking back and forth on the corner of his room, arms laced tightly around his legs as his eyes wouldn't dare to close due to the flaming fear coursing throughout him, there was something caging him down. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was fate, maybe it was god's sadism, but Oliver could never even dream of trying to save himself back then. He was dependant, awfully dependant of an illusion that knights in shining armours would come up to him and tear him off of the beast's claws.