Chapter Text
Among Those Left: The Rutted part 1
The crunching of bone and the ringing of metal being slammed into flesh is deafening. Blood has long since flowed out of Mirrabelle’s ears, out of his nose, and soon to be his eyes. The sounds are like static, as he crushes these strange “ordeals”, turning them into nothing but a mess on the floor. The ringing, however, is even louder in Mirrabelle’s head. The crunching and the ringing continue, day after day, in the back of their mind. Even as they work on these symbolistic things once human, their mind is always filled with a ringing.
A ringing of regret. But they have no time for such ringing. They are sent yet again amongst loud sirens and blaring red lights to crush yet another thing under this metal weapon. They swing it with painful speed, a weapon which most can only slowly slam into things. Yet the crunching and the ringing is quick and in pattern, constantly forced to crush another beneath it. Yet despite that, the ringing is present, overpowering all other sounds.
Mirrabelle slumps down the wall, to the ground of this ever-beautiful hallway. The walls are covered in tapestry and posh decor, with a light tune of ball music, calm and soothing to most, and a great deal of bustling from the employees around him. Yet despite that, the ringing still remains, heard at the same volume no matter what is done, no matter what can be heard, what should be heard. And with ringing, the awakening inside darkness, with the smell of salt and sweat, is what usually follows. But, he does not wake up. He remains as one of those left, those alive which are left permanently rutted by such a fate. He buries his head in his knees, holding the massive hammer like weapon with a head of pure metal in one hand, resting it on the ground. Flashes of memories, the usual symptoms, constantly coming back to haunt him.
The memories of his life are evertaunting, those in which he once cursed, yet now longs to return to before. The face of her, smiling true, and radiant as one of one, alone in her beauty. And the smiles of a sod well tricked, sucked and leached of all but the bottle, sent off to drift in the sea. Only in these moments does the ringing subside.
The creaking of wood, as always, accompanies the wake’, the sound waves inescapable as it sways beneath. Mirrabelle slogs himself out of the hard wooden box covered with a thin fabric which he calls a bed. He groggily, stumbled over to the coat rack near his door donning his bandana and work uniform, well his only clothes, stumbling back over to his bed and fumbling for the mermaid perfume which is the only way people can smell non-toxic on this artificial island. He spurts on a bit around himself, and sets it carefully back down He grabs a hunk of bread and stuffs it into his mouth, heading out the door, bracing.
The brightness of this port has long since blinded him every time he steps out, and of course it does it once more today. He covers his eyes and hurries down the railing towards the stairs, and as he nears the stairs, a seagull swoops in and nearly hits him, making Mirrable stumble forward, his head slamming into the stairs, follower by his elbow, and his knee, oh and here comes the second flights, and his stomach, his forehead, his legs, and his hands and toes, finishing with the wooden ground so kindly giving him 3 splinters directly into his right cheek. How thoughtful.
As Mirrabelle turns onto his back, he sees we a pair of deep, blue eyes staring back at him. Eyes filled with a worry, yet also a carefreeness, which sunk deep into Mirrabelle’s memory forever.
And as he crushes a spider-like thing with a gaping maw full of sharp teeth, Mirrabelle’s eyes are closed tight in bliss as he remembers earlier days, where he had naught any worries save for rent and getting to work on time. The gooey remnants of the spider coat his over-sized hammer, as he swings at the much-too unnaturally smiling employee dragging along an unconscious agent in a sack. All thats left is pink paste, crimson liquid, and white-bones on the ground. He smacks the previously sacked agent awake and carries on.
Oh how he remembers her face on that day so perfectly. No sweat dripped down her brow despite the sun shining harshly, her lips pursed in a gentle yet powerful smile. The look was nought one but of mild questioning, yet it had smiten him at first sight. He jumped up, tugging the splinters out and stared deeply into her eyes. She had a moment of recognition, smiling before her voice, potent, yet gentle, and sweeter than anything in the whole world. She reeled him in like a fish on a hook, but just like a real fisherman, there was nothing but torment awaiting him. The day which he woke to the crackle of thunder and rumbling bottles, cast into the Great Lake after she pilfered everything, drugged him, stuffed him into a booze crate, and shoved him off into the water. The last words he had said, as he heard her throw him off,
“I realized that, really, I like guys a lot more, Mirrabelle. Too bad you weren’t.”
He will never forget how that wretched woman had done such to him. Labeled him a woman after he had given her his heart all because of appearance? He could not help that his frame was forced small, that he could gain no mass. Although his muscles were undeveloped, she had not seen through such the surface, he was all but a fool for her to swindle, a heart to break for the sake of her gain.
For days, he drifted. With no hope nor reason to live, he had nothing but booze to sooth his woes. The sun dried his skin and the booze left his legs whetted. The miasma of the lake obscured his view, as he drifted in horrible hopelessness.
Mirrabelle sends the scarecrow into the wall, splintering it into a mess of hay and cloth. The bowtie floats down onto its burst open head, as Mirrabelle’s eyes are twisted in hopelessness. His mouth obscured with the straps of regret.
Mirrabelle was woken one day in the box, the day where he swore he would cast himself overboard and sink into the perilous depths. Out of the fog of this miasmatic lake, the vicious tugs of ropes and a shanty of revenge and abandonment, as well as the relentless rising of his box which his worries were housed. At last, he was dumped from the crate onto a salty deck, some booze falling out and shattering with him. This day was the true start of his life. When the befogged way ahead was made pellucid and sure. Of the shanty he heard that day, he can recall all but only one verse.
“May the sky and land turn to swallow you hole,
The ringing returns, scattering his thoughts. He curses,
“Damn tinnitus.”
He whispers to himself with his light and velvety voice, described by that woman as “Rich like dark chocolate”, as he gets an order to deal with yet another solo-suppression. This time, it’s that winged serpent. He sprints off to keep up with the work he's been given, his wavy green ponytail flowing behind him like mist.
End of Among Those Left part 1
