Editor’s note
Welcome to the first issue of my digital magazine! I created this as a challenge to myself: to write and share something new every month. Each issue will center around a different theme, giving me a chance to share my thoughts on it, showcase some of my poetry, and short stoties or novellas inspired by that theme.
For me, being a writer doesn’t mean anything grand —it’s simply the need, almost a force of heart, to express what’s inside. A writer’s voice matters, no matter the size of the audience. Writing isn’t some poetic identity to me; it just means that words never seem to fail me when other ways do. I’ve always been driven by emotion and creativity, and this feels like the best way to share that with others. Thank you for joining me on this journey. I hope you enjoy each issue as much as I enjoy creating it. - Avalon Anttila Smederevac
I do question how much of our lives we live for others and how much we live for ourselves. How many decisions we have made without considering others? I have seen some of those people and they usually turn out to be the worst people you ever meet. I just can’t wrap my head around if being human is only functioning on ego or if caring about others, what they think, how they feel, is the most human thing about us? I feel like we have to try too hard to be naturally good, we possess the effort but in many cases have difficulty to apply it. On the other side I think we would be surprised how much of us we create to please others and how much we loose in the process of wanting to be seen.
I could stare at you until I become myself, Or is it that I stare at myself, wishing I was you?
Love is a thin line between wanting someone, And wanting to be, be yourself, be them, be as you are.
I SLEEP SO I CAN SEE YOU CAUSE I HATE TO WAIT SO LONG
Sometimes it overwhelms me, all the things I would do if I didn’t hold back, if I would give in to everything that felt right I envy that life, I can’t know if it would be more alive, it’s very possible it would, but I assume it would be more chaotic as well We celebrate order and control, we praise the people that have it together.
But there is nothing we crave more, nothing we desire stronger than the life of someone who just doesn’t care. The amount of times I wished I just wouldn’t care To give in to the screaming feeling in my stomach to go where I want to go and hand over my heart to someone without hesitating how they might feel about what’s inside it.
Who am I underneath all the layers of shields and barriers built by others?
Underneath the anxieties to not damage, to not fault, to not belong?
What do I still have that is mine?
That has not been placed there by others?
I can’t really tell if I’ve ever liked something a normal amount, those things I usually let go of quickly I enjoy things that consume me, that covers the walls of my mind, that fill me up so much it’s pouring out of me. I don’t know how to not commit to something fully Either I will do my very best or I just wouldn’t even look that way to begin with. It gets exhausting at times, to not be casual about anything but I feel with every year that I learn how to navigate it better My main problem with it is that I don’t like how it defines me I want to be more than my passions, someone underneath all the things I care about. But it’s possible I got that wrong, that who I am is so present in everything I do, and maybe that’s enough
Maybe it’s more than enough. To be so full of life and love you can’t help but place them in everything around you It’s a blessing, despite it feeling like you get robbed of the experience of feeling at ease. Because the thing about your passions is that they can quickly turn into obsessions On the surface there’s nothing wrong with that but give it enough time and they start to define you more than you define them I feel that’s when it starts to be dangerous When you loose yourself in something or someone. The urge to let go, to give in is strong at times and it might feel like a sense of freedom but I think what needs to be kept in mind is how hard it is to find your way back. There is danger in losing yourself in others but also yourself
THE FEMININE URGE TO LET GO
Love unexplained
Do you see me too?
Or does the light not catch my eyes in the way it does yours?
Maybe my steps do not echo in the same way yours does? Is the screaming in my head not loud enough?
Can you not recognize me?
Because I feel as if you were mine before. Erased memories, as if my life tried to spare me.
But it is not easier to face you again this time. What makes you think of me more?
What in my face that strikes you first?
Is my presence a punch in the gut, shivers on your skin or is it like a fireplace in your heart, fierce but soothing.
Maybe I am simply just a memory, a faded taste on your tongue that you need to drink again in order to remember?
How do you prefer it?
When my hair is down and carrying my smell?
Or when it is up and you can see the shadowed parts of my face?
When you pick up a plate, do you wish it was my hand?
When the door opens do you picture my face on a stranger?
Do you guess what I like?
Place the smallest details together, to put together a person?
Do you fill the empty spaces or live for the mystery like I do?
I see your hair and imagine it is your natural color.
Was it always that light or has the sun changed its tone?
Were you born with it soft or rough against your scalp? It kills me that I can’t know the texture.
I think you were mine
Before he was yours
Or are you simply just both
And I am alone
What we don’t know, hurts us
We are cursed to be unknowing. The value of knowing how many people looked at us and thought beautiful. The privilege to be granted the awareness of someone with butterflies because the two of you happen to be in the same metro at the same time. How many people note small things about your presence even if they won’t see you again?
What did he think after he met me that one single time?
What did he feel in his chest as he looked at me?
Does he notice my presence, years later, even if I am not there?
Do you see me when I pass you on the street?
What runs through your head, something must run through your head?
We are not allowed to know, we are cursed to be loved in secret and in dark corners of peoples minds.
We made ourselves prisoners of feelings. Always entrapped by the words that come with them.
We won’t let each other know anything. Anything at all.
We can never know anyone. But we are made from each other, we can fill our heads with thoughts of them and our hearts with their being but we will never be able to be them as we are ourselves.
So how will we ever trust anything?
We are in deep need to control anything when life’s very point is made from impulsive and secret notions.
So if we don’t love them when they are ugly, why love them at all?
Love is barely anything if it is not filled with all.
“For someone who loved words as much as I did, it was amazing how often they failed me. ”
This book is the perfect embodiment of losing yourself in the freedom of exploring your very own being The novel centers around a group of young actors at an elite arts college, who live in an intense world of Shakespearean drama, blurring the lines between performance and reality. The freedom they find within this environment is intoxicating they have the freedom to reinvent themselves, to pursue their passions without anyone to tell them when it lacks morality, and to explore the edges of their identities without restraint They are free to fully embody the roles they play, both on stage and off, eventually resulting in their downfall. In their pursuit of artistic and personal freedom, they lose their grounding in reality, allowing ambition, jealousy, and romantic entanglements to spiral unchecked. Their immersion in a world without limits ultimately creates a kind of
IF WE WERE VILLAINS
self-imposed cage, as they lose control over where the performance ends and their true selves begin The tragic freedom they embrace leads them down a path of betrayal and violence, leaving them scarred and divided by the very lives they had once felt so liberated to explore I love this book for many reasons, but mostly because it captures the very dark but also the very autenhtic experience of being human How easily we are maniupulated by our
very own desires. It’s very easy to blame others but in most cases we dance to our own tune and it’s even harder to pull away and cut the ties when we are the ones holding them. To be enslaved to your own wants and needs is the deal we signed pursuing a life and I suppose how we deal with it, is what defines out at the end of it. There’s no real example what that looks like, if there’s something we will never be able to agree on is what is a bad and good person
Passion refers to a strong, intense feeling or enthusiasm for something or someone. It often implies a deep emotional drive or desire, which can be directed toward activities, interests, causes, or relationships. There is intense enthusiasm – a powerful interest or excitement, like a passion for music or a passion for cooking, romantic or sexual attraction – a deep emotional or physical attraction to someone, strong motivation – a drive or dedication to pursue a particular goal or purpose, such as a passion for helping others. Passion is usually associated with positive motivation and energy and is a necessary part of the human existence It’s vital to our identities to find things we are passionate about, I fear that not enough people are. We seek our whole lives for that feeling when it’s actually already built within us. We all have that interest, that calling but it threatens to be dimmed by the course of our lives Passion can sometimes lead to impulsiveness or extreme behavior if not balanced.
That is when it turns into obsession which is an intense focus or fixation on something, often to an unhealthy or excessive degree It typically refers to persistent thoughts, feelings, or desires that dominate a person ’ s mind, making it difficult to focus on other things. There are many aspects to watch out for in this definition but there is also something very alluring about it. As natural as it is for us to feel passion, I think losing our minds a bit is also valid to the human life path There is just something so special in allowing something to rule you, it gives a weird sense of belonging As if the urgency and grandness of your feelings towards something is able to leave a mark. Proof that you leave behind showing you were here, you loved, you cared, you gave it your all and lived the full experience. It can easily turn into something toxic, but played right obsession gives you a sense of control that allows you to loose yourself in something without any of the self inflicted judgement.
But how profoundly bewitching is not the fact that most of all the things we want in this world are each other?
Yes, on occasion money and power might argue with that but in the end what grants us more and what has the power to destroy us is love
Sometimes we ask for impossible things, like flying, magic, power But sometimes we ask for the impossible, please look my way, please love me back, please hold my hand if only for a minute, please allow me to make you laugh, please let me look at you for just a minute longer. We want, more than I think we want anything else.
We want someone like us, because we see them as anything other than what we are. We treat a person who lives under the same rules as you, as someone of a different possession of life As if they come from something greater, it was their birth given right to be loved by you It’s not even an requirement for them to love you back.
But it feels as if, they were crafted for you to look at them and think, I would give anything to be in your presence.
No matter the evil or good that rests within us, no matter what we want to accomplish and who we become in this life, we all desire each other, we all crave and undeniably so, so much of just a simple man ’ s touch, a complex woman ’ s thoughts
I can’t deny I find beauty in the feeling of being completely wrapped up in someone Excluding all the obvious examples of toxic and abusive aspects I believe that they way we hand ourselves over when we are in love is what
BELONING/ IMPRISONED
speaks volumes, about how we are able to survive on our own but never truly live without sharing it with others Being alone is important and necessary but the urge to want to be seen and to be loved is very hard to shake, if not impossible The blind surrender that happens when you love someone is the most high valued affection you can ever offer and be offered. To admit to truth about how you feel is priceless and definitely something that is overlooked especially by the way young people navigate relationships today What you share is not what defines you but the action of expression is what should be praised. We have had a clear evolution since our parents of course. We are more loud, more clear with how to express what’s inside of us. But there is still such a shame carried around in just existing. I would take a guess that most people find that the hard step is not to share your feelings to begin with
Imprisoned in solitude
If I came to you would you stay still Because I think my heart might go ill, If you leave me here next to thee How can I be sure I will ever be free?
As I look down on the ground I spot something raw and bound, It takes me longer than I’d like to admit To see what has really come to transmit
A heart once mine and carefully beaten Has now been chewed and eaten, Do I pick it up or leave it to its fate? Will I always be something you can never hate?
Can I move on and offer something new
Or will I always be that one girl you knew, If a person can be trapped inside another I will live happily in the prison of being t’other
but allowing them to afterwards float around openly in the world Once you ’ ve shared something it becomes a part of something that is not, yours exclusively, anymore Personally I don’t struggle to be open but I do with the knowledge that it’s forever accessible to someone that isn’t you. But love works like this, you hand a piece of yourself over, in most cases without even thinking about it. Hopefully not to much but, it happens. Obsession loves to grow in the absence of clarity and our generation loves to be unclear
Your(e) only present
My hammering heart longing for holding your heart as mine, Doors in my mind locked, with no keys to be found to let you out, Ease my thoughts by leaving me for one moment in peace, Release me from what I am, for what I am is yours,
Roars in my heart couldn't be louder than now, Vow to haunt me if I dare slip from you one time, Opponent at best, is the need to be left alone, In every bone, in every breath, it’s you I find through all.
Is it not interesting how we tie ourselves infinitely and invisibly to objects and people around us? To go even deeper, I have caught myself tied to words and sentences, and even the way a sound comes out from someone’s mouth? I have attached myself and strips of my soul to the most random scraps of memories I have in my mind bank. One of them being a cucumber slicer. Well, maybe it is a slicer for all kinds of vegetables but I was at this specific moment in time, slicing a cucumber. I realize as I am writing this, that it is the sole time I actually used one.
Since then I have seen one, which is why I am bringing this up. I attached someone to this memory, more specifically this action of slicing a cucumber. Which has led me to think of him every time I see one. This is the peculiar and rather amusing point I am trying to make, that we leave traces of our souls scattered everywhere we move in time and space. What Tom Riddle did with his horcruxes was not rather rare or crazy. It is one of the more human things I have ever witnessed.
We also do it to others, as I mentioned I did it to this boy more than others. I also placed him in many different things. The next, very amusing point I would like to lay down for you, is that he is very much not aware of this. Whatever whispers my soul did to him as we spent time together, mine never told him this. It did not dare look him in the eye and say You, I will place you everywhere, I will take you and make your mine without you even knowing. I will make sure to weave you with whatever moments my brain decides to bind you with.
You will stay there, in the infinite time so I can locate you and trace the lines of your soul as I would trace the lines in your palm, had you ever let me.
After mine told his this, it lived up to its promises. I placed him in smaller things like the cucumber slicer and a blue oversized fleece jacket, one of the more classical things, pages in journals and more immense things like a song album, a bus and tram station, an apartment building, actually the scope of the area around it. Most importantly a place.
The thing about this place is, that I love it very much, I love it more than I love most places, actually, it is the place I love the most. I loved it before him, and I sure do love it after him. I also associate many other things and other people with this place, not only him. But it is only natural that I mention this on my list of associations, considering this is where I met him and spent the majority of my time with him.
I think we are all guilty of seeing the ghost, the whispers of our past in things around us. We might even feel them as if they are happening to us all over again when we visit. So, I see him there of course, inevitably he is everywhere but I really do not mind.
I think the reason I tell you this story is because I really do not mind having loved him. I have loved so much in my life and I love much more today. I would not say I regret any of the people I loved before compared to him. I do not look at them with any pain or resentment. But there is another feeling close to this, which is bitterness.
A synonym to bitterness is sour and an even better one is unsweetened, which is way more well suited to describe what I feel about them and therefore explain what I feel for him.
Sweetened, all over my tongue, all over my webs of thoughts and all around the strings of my heart. Is what exists as I think of him and all things associated. Even if I tried, my body just can not seem to feel anything less or more. When your body is underwater it forces you up to the surface like a cork, when you are in danger it gives you adrenaline to run faster, this is how naturally my body feels as I reminisce about my time with him.
Sweetness is warm, round and soft. It is addicting and bad for you in huge quantities. I would say that is a pretty close replica to what I felt for him. I loved the way I loved him. It was so rare and pure, I am not sure you get placed on this earth and pick both of these two words in one person. I also think it was because of the limited time that I knew him, that this came to be. There is no such thing for me as right person, wrong time. I can not answer yet how or back it up with any logical proof but I do believe, an important keyword in all of this, that you meet people at the exact good time you are supposed to meet them. When it does not work out how your brain may have constructed it out for you and therefore tricked you into thinking that any other outcome is wrong or bad timing, it is simply fate. If you happen to meet this person again, under different circumstances and a different time, it does not make it right or wrong. It just makes it real.
Maybe our lives are not planned out to every detail and many centuries or even just years ahead of time by some version of God. But it does have a way of placing things in your way as you make your mark through life. I am not sure if there is a different way to tackle life and fate, I have personally never tried. I have actually been too busy being wrapped up in enough of what it is to be human. Rather overwhelmed most of the time, to be fair. So with all this food of life I have gathered up in my system, I have settled in a thing or two about the course of my life. I have made a notion on a few people and some I have left drifting away. Most of them I did not really pay attention to, because I was too busy consuming the storms of emotions that have come with the specific people my body’s chemistry and roots of my soul have matched with almost perfectly. I am a victim of not having figured out (if it is a thing to even be figured out, especially during only one lifetime, as far as I know) what makes a match perfect. I think I have been pretty damn close, more than once but I am, as I said, a victim like all people, waiting for a perfect that surely never will come. Maybe that is the answer, although to me more sounds like a curse, but could also to some people sound like reality. Either way, I think he happened to me at the exact time, he was meant to happen to me. – Extract from Fourth time's a charm but one got away
Is there a freedom in allowing something to consume you? Do you really give it permission or are you not just simply held captive by your desires? I for one can’t seem to tell the difference between my will power and my passions. They drive me forward, even when they are there to torture me, they are my fuel It gets a bit much when they run through my head over and over and I can’t seem to slow them down, to have the time to digest what they’re actually trying to tell me We are blessed with distractions, routines, obligations. I wonder who I would be without them, if the wall between us losing our minds and behaving normally is thinner than we dare admit to ourselves.
Rip you out
What is it to rip one ’ s heart out? To have someone feast on your thoughts?
Moths to a flame, yes But burning all the same
Dying all the same Denying all the flames
Consumes me, grounds me, fuels me A carnal need to be your eternal
Bound to want you until I no longer For what is one to get rid of such power as you?
What is it to rip one ’ s heart out? When ones heart is you
ALLOWING DESIRES
You will need at least three of these to obsess
Extract from my novel
The overwhelming question of what ifs
I remember tugging at his shirt—at the sides, from the back— trying to grasp the fabric in my hands as if I could climb his tall, lean frame. As if holding onto his shirt were a way of holding him hostage, granting me permission to ask for more.
There was a fire raging in the pit of my stomach, traveling slowly up through my chest and throat. It could easily have been mistaken for rage, because that’s the only other time I’ve felt this kind of burning before. Normally, this feeling is tied to hurt, born from pain and misplaced care. But this time, it coursed through my lungs as if his breaths were the only air they’d ever know.
That’s why my hand is now tugging at the curls at the back of his neck, drawing his mouth down to mine. He doesn’t resist, matching my desire with his own, meeting my kiss with the same longing. I can’t say exactly what it felt like afterward or what specific words to use to describe his lips on mine. All I remember is a rhythm—not the kind you try to master to call yourself a “good” kisser, but something more instinctual, as if we were dancing.
There was softness, but no laziness, none of that easy familiarity that comes when you’ve been kissing someone for hours or for years. None of that comfort that creeps in like it does when you’ve walked the same streets forever and know what will appear around each turn. This was like discovering something new, each moment the best one yet. No, this wasn’t sloppy or messy, which can so easily happen when one burns for another. It felt as if we were dancing with our mouths, though neither of us had been taught how to dance.
As kids, we might have dreamed of music and dance and love, but we never set out to perfect them. They just happened to us, when we least expected it, whether we were still or actively searching. What I do remember is the surrender and the instinct to just stay there, be still and embrace him. My fingers drags across his back, yet somehow I stay composed in his hold, resisting complete infatuation with his sudden nearness, even though every cell in me screams that I already screwed. Other people are there, watching me pull back from his kiss, leaving me standing still before him, rather below him, given his height. My heart is racing, and I can’t remember why we’re even here. That’s what’s so strange about dreaming. You get flung around, as if some greater force is holding you by the neck, tossing you through the labyrinth of your mind’s loopholes and mysteries. And then you wake up.
The human need to consume, It’s the one thing I know we all have in common. Wether you ’ re a person defined as someone carefree and emotionally neutral, it just means you ’ re better at neglecting or hiding it Because if there is something we all know how to do, something none of us have found the cure to, is caring We might do it in small doses sometimes, even responsibly and never really toying with the line of derange But we all do it We spend enough time caring how others perceive us, how they feel for us, how they react to us, to brag about “not giving a fuck”. If you didn’t care you wouldn’t adjust yourself so much to appear that
Have you ever thought about something hard enough you feel it might break your brain?
In some cases I have wanted things with my whole being but there have been no traces left behind from it,
No proof of this screaming agony of wanting, needing, longing ,craving, of this ripping in my chest,
How can we hide so much of ourselves when we are hollering inside for someone to hear,
How are the echos within my chest the only evidence of everything I have ever wanted?
way. Sometimes we may not care about the same things, the people we care about may not care about you But we all run after the idea of what others may think of us We all mold ourselves in one way or the other to ensure people look long enough to hopefully catch a glimpse of the person actually hidden underneath Passion and obsession sounds like big words not meant for everybody. But it’s built within us, we are born with it It’s what makes sure we are heard and seen. Even the most introverted person and the ones comfortable in solitude have wished to be seen just once Just one time of someone taking a look of what’s inside and burn their gaze into what they’re faced with.
“We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster, that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. “ The greatest loss is ourselves, versions of us that get slimmed down to less vibrant, scared of caring, terrified of showing, that we do actually care a great deal It’s the most real thing about us
I try to imagine that line we all have in our heads between being good, reasonable beings and losing our minds to our natural instincts. What does it look like? Is there an obvious distention between the two? A white plain field with growing flowers that turn into black thorns from one footstep to the other? Or is it more of transition, making the flowers slowly wither It feels that the path towards the more immoral side is such a path of awareness. You choose to take one step after the other toward something you earlier faught to conquer A slow surrender to what feels like the obvious choice.
Sometimes it terrifies me how quick our brains are to rationalize something bad just because it’s something we want. Giving up is handing yourself over to what you desire instead of controlling it, you ’ re allowing it to rule you? But does giving up mean defeat? Have we completely lost ourselves if we always go after what it is that we want in that moment? Are we defined by what we want or what we do about it? My idea of it is that doing something wrong is keeping your eyes open and staring at the consequences, still choosing to do so But wrong is not always bad, selfish maybe but also free.
The things I would do to behave as if in a dream, to roam about as I please
With my eyes closed, with no consequences, but the feeling left in my chest when I wake
What I would do, to be granted the permission of testing the waters without drowning
But I am entrapped by my own conscious which is something many lack
Yet I fear they might be judge on the same measure as you, which is why it might feel pointless
To try and always do the good thing even if life is not a dream the things I would give to walk through each moment as if weightless, to wear my choices like loose garments, to cast them off at will
Yet I am shackled by awareness, a gift and a curse alike, to measure my worth by deeds in a world that might never weigh them, I wonder does it matter, to pour oneself into goodness, when even the purest of acts can be swallowed by the void?
Yet something stirs, a quiet voice that holds me to its light, whispering that, dream or no, each kindness builds a world unseen
So I go on, with open eyes, feeling the heavy pull of choice, choosing to be bound, to carry the weight of every act, not for the judgment of others, nor the promise of reward, But for the subtle freedom found in knowing who I am.
To bleed is to be kissed by you
The sweat runs provocatively slowly down his forehead, tracing a path all the way down Francis’s cheek. Despite the heat, he refuses to stand in the shade while he waits by the bike shed for Killian. It’s as though he likes the pain, as if it makes him feel something important, making him somehow grander, more full of life. The swelling in his chest makes it harder to breathe, but in that way, he has to grasp harder for life which quickens his heartbeat in more ways than one.
He draws a pattern in the gravel using his foot, while his heart keeps throbbing His mind races as he closes his eyes, hoping he can force his heart to calm down and force his brain to settle on a single final thought. Finally, Killian appears wearing blue swimming trunks and a white long-sleeved shirt – a shirt that he knows very well, though he chooses not to say anything. After all he himself is wearing a blue shirt that isn’t his.
“Are you ready?” Killian squints into the sun, causing the scar on his cheekbone to scrunch up in a way that makes Francis want to run his finger over it. Fighting the urge to smoothen it over, he instead nods and gives a small, rather unconvincing smile.
They each hop on a bike and set off. With the wind in the hair, Francis feels the sweat drying, settling roughly against his skin Killian is already speeding up, looking back at Francis with his beaming smile He wishes he wouldn’t hate it so much – the growing need in his chest He wishes he could just be normal about it, allow it to settle and accept it for what it is But Francis has never been this way, he has never been normal about anything in his life, ever
It’s as if he was born with his raw pulsating heart on the outside of his body So, every time someone would bump into him, he would feel it as if his whole body were going to shut down. As if a light touch of an elbow to his side would cause his body to stop functioning. He knew in his brain that’s not how it worked, but he cannot, for the life of him make it clear to the rest of his nervous system that wasn’t the case.
It did get better with age – until he met Killian. Technically, he’s known Killian all his life, but it’s always been from a distance. Francis remembers going into town and occasionally catching glimpses of the boy with golden curls living down the small road in a big mansion. Francis’ family always rented the house a few houses away, up on a hill. Sometimes he would see Killian tanning by the pool, playing football on the grass, or reading by the big manchineel tree. He would always hold his breath for some reason. I guess the
swelling in his chest had already begun then and he would try to rid himself of it the way one would with hiccups.
But Killian is worse than just hiccups, the day they actually spoke for the first time, felt like a car crashing into Francis’s stomach It took him an embarrassing amount of time to form an introduction He was by the newspaper stand in the town square Killian had been leaning on his bike with his shirt unbuttoned and had asked Francis if he would go inside and buy cigarettes for him so the owner wouldn’t find out he smoked and tell his parents That was the first time Killian had smiled at Francis – and the first time Francis would’ve done anything to see it again
Lost in his train of thoughts, Francis skids the bike and falls down on the sea of gravel. His knee is torn up but it’s nothing compared to the aching in his chest It only takes a few seconds before Killian is on his knees in front of him, pulling out a band-aid like he’s some sort of fucking apothecary It’s bleeding quite a lot, and he follows the path of blood running down his leg, with his gaze It’s incredible how much blood the body has to gush out once it opens up
Killian’s fingers tremble as they slowly place the bandages over the wound just above the kneecap. Francis looks away in case it makes the situation less fraught with all the emotions fusing in the air. Killian takes the sleeve of his shirt and attempts to wipe the blood off Francis’ leg. It doesn’t really matter if Killian ruins his shirt as long as the one he’s wearing is spotless.
Killian offers his hand helping Francis off the ground. Getting on the bike, Francis looks down on the smeared blood on his leg before he scrunches them close and momentarily loses his balance. Continuing down the road, the sweat quickly returns and now runs down his back. Francis just hopes there isn’t a large wet spot on the back of the shirt that Killian can see when he steps off later.
After a few meters he feels his shirt sticking and bites his tongue in irritation. At this point all he can hope is that it won’t grow so large that it can be visible, but he doubts that The sun is burning his face as they drive past the big lake and he contemplates how many new freckles he will have the next day. When he was born, there were only a few sets of them. He was able to keep count of them up until the age of eight. That’s when he spent his first full summer in the sun.
Staring into the burning bowl of fire, he momentarily loses balance again But once he recovers his balance, he takes the opportunity to not only catch up to Killian, but pass by him
completely. Just in the moment his legs yell at him to stop pushing, he finally manages to fly past him with speed.
Tears are running down his cheeks because the wind is slapping his face so hard. It only takes a few heartbeats before Killian rides past him so fast that Francis flinches in surprise A smile breaks out on his lips and a hysterical laugh falls from his mouth It echoes in between the trees Looking down on his legs, he can see the bleeding has almost managed to seep through the band-aid but he pays no attention to it
Instead his gaze travels to the back of Killian, watching his shirt play with the wind. He doesn’t get very far in his yearning for the way Killian’s skin must feel against the fabric, before Killain signals that they’re here He pushes on the break with his foot and less smoothly than he would’ve wished for himself, gets off the bike
In silence, they walk up the rest of the small road, flanked by tall trees that sway gently in the breeze The sunlight filters through the branches, casting dappled patterns on the ground Francis vows with every step to try and remain the same when he comes back but they haven’t even crossed any lines yet and he already feels as if he is removed from his own body. Killian’s footsteps are light, almost reverent, as if he’s stepping into a sacred space. The only thing sacred Killian should pay attention to, lies inside Francis’ chest, but he’s never shown any interest for that so what does he really know about anything real?
Arriving at a tree Killian takes a piece of red fabric out from his leather bag, its vibrant hue contrasting sharply with the muted greens and browns of the forest With careful movements, he ties it to a sturdy branch, securing it like a flag of intent Killian steps back to admire his work, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. Another grasp of envy appears in his chest, God how he wishes he was as collected as Killian always appears to be. There are so many things he would exchange in order to just remotely resemble Killain.
Which doesn’t make any sense because he also hates everything about him The way he doesn’t cry during movies, how he never seems to find any connection to any of the characters he reads about, despite having read an entire library. Francis especially hates how he never seems to ask any question that can’t circle back to himself. Disguising interest for others as reasons to talk about yourself is something he’s a professional at. Killian is able to bend and twist every sentence coming out of his mouth to make it sound like everything is a good idea. Make everything about himself sound appealing
The thing he hates the most is that Francis himself is a slave to it It’s embarrassing to admit how short an amount of time Killian had to pull at his springs before he danced to his melody He walked right into his webs with wide open eyes All smiles, at the naive age of
sixteen. With a chain wrapped around his throat, connecting to his wrist, he hears his own laugh, mocking him as the chains cling together. All this misery inside, translates to love and admiration. No feeling less real than the other.
After ensuring the fabric is firmly in place, Killian turns to Francis, who watches him with a mix of admiration and nerves. There’s a moment of shared understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the boundaries they are about to cross. They lock their bikes to the tree, air thickening with anticipation as they continue walking. The trees seem to close in around them, creating a sense of intimacy, as if nature itself is welcoming them into its embrace.
“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?” Killian finally breaks the silence, his voice low but laced with eagerness.
Francis answers by taking an extra step, standing face to face with Killain who has turned. Their bodies are nowhere near touching yet Killian quickly retreats.
“I would do anything for you, you know that ” Francis whispers into the air He uses himself as a punching bag inside his head, not stopping until his face is beaten with blood
Blood Blood Blood There’s quite a lot of blood Francis is struggling to breathe as he is looking down at his trembling hands covered in it. There is so much blood that he can’t even see his skin color, under the screaming red color dripping onto the moss. How can there be so much blood?
He knows he should be checking for signs of life but instead he stands there watching the blood continue to flow between his fingers. He feels a lump in his throat, soon it travels down to his stomach until it becomes so heavy that it feels like it’s pulling him down all the way to the last floor of hell
He has read Dante’s Inferno, but he can’t recall which level corresponds to the sin he has committed The first time he read it he was way too young, intrigued by all the ways you can betray yourself It’s likely buried deep, somewhere close to the core where the man himself sits
He can’t help but imagine his lanky body amongst those fiery circles. Flames playing with his dark curls. He thinks of the gluttonous, forever trapped in their insatiable desires, much like himself. Somewhere in that abyss, he senses his own sin lurking, like a shadow waiting to be acknowledged. Where should I go? Where do I belong?
With a deep sigh that doesn’t really make it through, he can already feel the weight of his unresolved guilt pressing down on him. The giant stone he has to uplift for the rest of his life, held upright in terror of ever reaching the moment he can’t hold it up anymore and
finally crush him. He wonders what it would feel like to face the judgment of those who dwell in that landscape of hell. Would he find understanding, or would they cast him aside, just as he has to cast aside his own remorse?
Each day, he will be reminded of the choices that led him here, trapped in a limbo of his own making, longing for redemption yet fearful of what it might demand of him.
Him Him Him He reminds himself, he has to find Killian Stepping over the body, he trips over one of the arms and freezes again. He tells himself he needs to focus on a specific spot, finally landing on what he thinks is the shadowed outlines of a tree. It takes everything he has not to spill his guts.
Finally he starts to move forward, he knows he needs to keep walking but just a few steps later his eyes lock on his hands again The lump has now moved down to his stomach The thoughts are crawling on the walls of his brain Feeling their nails scratching, tearing up the very last of his sanity, tears are brought to his eyes
He has missed people before, he knows what that yearning feels like. However, nothing could have prepared him for the longing of his older self, just a few hours ago. The envy he feels for the version of him just before this. He will never find his way back to him.
But he will be able to find Killian. With a shredded mind, he takes another step. With more willpower than he would have ever expected from himself, he makes it to the outskirts of the forest and eventually sees the lake again
Standing on the edge, he tries not to focus on the reflection of his face There is no need to see in order for him to know roughly how much blood is splattered across his freckled skin. The blood has probably stained them, in the wrong light it might not even be possible to see the difference Counting blood drops falling down to the ground, he misses the days he would count his freckles
The lump is back in his throat and the tears start to run down his cheeks but quickly dry up because of the extreme heat in the air. He is crying mostly over the stain on his shirt, it must be that. Yeah. No it’s definitely that. In the middle of his chest, it’s screaming at him, in the darkest shade of red. At first he had hoped it wouldn’t have grown so big that you’d notice it, he’d even hoped it could have been washed away. But now he sees in the dark reflection in the water that it’s done.
Branches break behind his back, he flinches as the sound throws him out of his trance. Turning around he sees Killian, his hair disheveled It’s impossible to make out where the blood begins and ends, mixed with all the dirt and soil Scanning him for any wounds, he
gulps when he realizes there aren’t any. His white teeth glow in the dark as he gives Francis a beaming smile. It doesn’t do as much for Francis as he had hoped.
The fluttering in his chest isn’t there anymore. The voices in his head start screeching. WHY ISN’T IT THERE ANYMORE? Holding a hand against his chest, he must look pathetic, looking for his own heartbeat He needs to sit down, he thinks Legs shaking, hands joining them, he needs to rest somewhere Killian, sensing his distress, quickly moves over to his side
“Are you hurt?” His voice has never sounded so perfectly even yet filled with concern. But Francis is so sick of concern, so sick of waiting for the concern to one day, maybe contain a tad of yearning For the scrunched up eyebrows to be in agony, not in pity But there was no such thing as that, buried in the shell of what is Killian Mercer
Instead, Francis can only detect worry, careful distance always separating them. Repeatedly mocking him for not being enough He wants to scream, to shake Killian and demand that he feel something more – something raw and unfiltered If he had to go and make Francis feel this way, how dare he not join him?
Francis shifts, the weight of Killian’s gaze heavy on him, and it makes him feel more invisible than seen. He wishes for the kind of recklessness that would allow him to step into the light, to reveal the depth of his feelings, but fear keeps him rooted in place. How could he betray himself like this but still remain terrified of the truth deeply rooted inside his very core?
“I’m fine,” he finally manages to say, his voice a mere whisper, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue. It’s the same response he always gives, yet each time it feels like it tears a little more at the fragile fabric of their connection. He knows that Killian sees through the façade, and that only intensifies the shame that clings to him.
“Are you sure?” Killian presses, a frown creasing his brow deeper, and for a fleeting moment, Francis wonders if there’s a flicker of something else in those eyes – something that speaks of a desire he has longed for. Except he doesn’t find that feeling anymore, it makes him sick to think that after this, after this fucked up thing, it decides to fleet away. Freeing him, only to imprison him in something worse.
As Killian reaches out, his fingers brushing against Francis’s arm, it’s both comforting and tormenting. The warmth radiating from his touch sends shivers through Francis, but not for the same reason he used to long for.
It would have been impossible for Francis to have predicted the way Killian’s breath suddenly sneaks up on his cheek. He can’t wrap his head around, can’t possibly understand
why there is a firm grip on his waist and a shaken look painted amongst the blood on Killian’s face. Why would he possibly lean in? Slowly grasping harder into the flesh of Francis’ waist?
There was no way for Francis to answer with any logic when he found Killian’s lips upon his own. When he felt the warm brush of a tongue in his mouth, there was nothing left inside Francis. Absolutely nothing for him to grasp onto, as a low moan ripped from Killian’s throat. The mixed taste of blood made him nauseous and to not directly throw up in Killian’s welcoming mouth, he had no choice but to step back.
Before he could stop it, his legs started to run They wouldn’t stop, not even at the sound of Killian screaming behind him. His leg muscles feel as if they are on fire and his lungs are soon enough bursting into flames. Just before he thinks he’s going to lose his breath completely, he manages to let out a hysterical laugh that echoes through the trees and bounces back into his ears as he continues deeper into the forest.
Stopping, leaning with his hands on his knees for support, it doesn’t take him long to realize his labored breaths are not from the running alone. Coughing lightly, he brings his hand to his mouth. There are hands in his throat dragging themselves up to his mouth, tingling his lips.
As the coughing grows more aggressive he removes his hands, quietly breathing “Manchineel leaves.”