Mainstream: The House Of Broken Stars - Eternal Slumber
The world woke around me. I slept on.
Daylight filtered in through the wooden slots between the windows. I slept on.
Little brown birds chattered outside the cage I was held prisoner. I slept on.
Nothing ever woke me from eternal slumber.
I turned onto my side, wide awake, and flipped myself off the bed, slipped on my shoes, and strode across the room to the tea table. Steam rose out of the top. It burned. I slept on.
Staring out of the windows, sipping tea, and sleeping were my favorite things to do when I was not washing my hands and face of foul, bloody ink. Yet I knew I would never be able to wash my heart of crimes. That was I knew, and all I could know.
“尘沙，起了。半个时辰后我们在训地见。”
“知道了，大人。”
Everyday, every hour that I woke up, that I was awake, I would hear this cold cold voice whispering beside my ear like a pestering fly. But I thunk him pestering? I dared not. My head should surely fall if I said a word so.
Other than the above, I knew nothing. Nothing of my past, nothing of my future. Nothing that could save my from these magicians. These magicians who played tricks on life and death, who put it as child's play.
The hall was a sky with shattered stars. Slow clouds draped over my head, almost moving, real, but I knew they were painted onto the twinkling background. To me, stars represented dreams and future, they symbolized ones beliefs. 'Tis why I liked to call this hall the Hall Of Broken Stars - why I liked to call this place the House Of Broken Stars. 'Tis why they were magicians who "magicked" away your soul.
I'd too like to say that I remember how and why and where and what, but I don't. I cannot bring back my soul when I have no idea who my soul is, what it looks like, what it wears, how it speaks: I cannot break free of this cage if I do not feel my soul.
Every time I stroll down this - high, tall, broad, powerful - hall, my mind pains and I fight to not collapse then and there. It's like they trapped my soul and cut its wings, clipped its claws. I feel, but I do not. I know. But I don't know where my soul has gone, and what they have robbed of me.
Breakfast was stark. Dry. Flavorless. Like me.
I wrapped my light blue cloak around me. It was cold. Winters here were always colder than usual, because it was cold here no matter what season. And we soon adopted Cold as a part of our family.
Snowflakes drifted to the ground in a wobbling motion, and I crushed them beneath my feet on by accident. Many accidents happen. Cold makes us numb: killing a snowflake is equal to taking the breath out of a living. Cold makes us unfeeling.
And when you are sleeping, Cold can take the life out of you by accident. So when you wake, nothing is left but an cold cold shell.
The field was frozen. I was only Cold. He was even Colder. The frost and shivering grass crunched beneath my soles as I walked out into the open field, icy wind blistering my face. Thank goodness I wore the cloak. By the time I reached him, my light blue cloak was white.
“尘沙。”
“星魂大人。”
“开始吧。”
We greeted each other. That was all exchanged during the two hours. Other than the clashing of swords and the splintering of ice, we remained silent.
I thought I saw foul, bloody ink on the snow, but it was washed away by the blizzard as fast I saw it.
Where he wounded me stung, like a woodpecker pecking a piece of rotten wood. I smeared the medicine clumsily over the scarlet flesh and bandaged it up, letting the scarlet flesh scorch a foul bloody mark onto the white cotton. Then I whacked at my cloak a few times, ridding it of the coat of white; the shards rained down and I draped it over my shoulders again, only this time, the fabric hung stiff and rigid. Cold turns many into wooden puppets.
I tried to mend the tear in my sleeve, but with my numb fingers I could do nothing but watch helplessly as I poked holes into my clothes and fingertips. A foul bloody stain spread across. I slept on.
Not even pain could wake me from this twisted dream in the House Of Broken Stars. In this Cold Cold House Of Broken Stars.
The world woke around me. I slept on.
Daylight filtered in through the wooden slots between the windows. I slept on.
Little brown birds chattered outside the cage I was held prisoner. I slept on.
Nothing ever woke me from eternal slumber.
I turned onto my side, wide awake, and flipped myself off the bed, slipped on my shoes, and strode across the room to the tea table. Steam rose out of the top. It burned. I slept on.
Staring out of the windows, sipping tea, and sleeping were my favorite things to do when I was not washing my hands and face of foul, bloody ink. Yet I knew I would never be able to wash my heart of crimes. That was I knew, and all I could know.
“尘沙，起了。半个时辰后我们在训地见。”
“知道了，大人。”
Everyday, every hour that I woke up, that I was awake, I would hear this cold cold voice whispering beside my ear like a pestering fly. But I thunk him pestering? I dared not. My head should surely fall if I said a word so.
Other than the above, I knew nothing. Nothing of my past, nothing of my future. Nothing that could save my from these magicians. These magicians who played tricks on life and death, who put it as child's play.
The hall was a sky with shattered stars. Slow clouds draped over my head, almost moving, real, but I knew they were painted onto the twinkling background. To me, stars represented dreams and future, they symbolized ones beliefs. 'Tis why I liked to call this hall the Hall Of Broken Stars - why I liked to call this place the House Of Broken Stars. 'Tis why they were magicians who "magicked" away your soul.
I'd too like to say that I remember how and why and where and what, but I don't. I cannot bring back my soul when I have no idea who my soul is, what it looks like, what it wears, how it speaks: I cannot break free of this cage if I do not feel my soul.
Every time I stroll down this - high, tall, broad, powerful - hall, my mind pains and I fight to not collapse then and there. It's like they trapped my soul and cut its wings, clipped its claws. I feel, but I do not. I know. But I don't know where my soul has gone, and what they have robbed of me.
Breakfast was stark. Dry. Flavorless. Like me.
I wrapped my light blue cloak around me. It was cold. Winters here were always colder than usual, because it was cold here no matter what season. And we soon adopted Cold as a part of our family.
Snowflakes drifted to the ground in a wobbling motion, and I crushed them beneath my feet on by accident. Many accidents happen. Cold makes us numb: killing a snowflake is equal to taking the breath out of a living. Cold makes us unfeeling.
And when you are sleeping, Cold can take the life out of you by accident. So when you wake, nothing is left but an cold cold shell.
The field was frozen. I was only Cold. He was even Colder. The frost and shivering grass crunched beneath my soles as I walked out into the open field, icy wind blistering my face. Thank goodness I wore the cloak. By the time I reached him, my light blue cloak was white.
“尘沙。”
“星魂大人。”
“开始吧。”
We greeted each other. That was all exchanged during the two hours. Other than the clashing of swords and the splintering of ice, we remained silent.
I thought I saw foul, bloody ink on the snow, but it was washed away by the blizzard as fast I saw it.
Where he wounded me stung, like a woodpecker pecking a piece of rotten wood. I smeared the medicine clumsily over the scarlet flesh and bandaged it up, letting the scarlet flesh scorch a foul bloody mark onto the white cotton. Then I whacked at my cloak a few times, ridding it of the coat of white; the shards rained down and I draped it over my shoulders again, only this time, the fabric hung stiff and rigid. Cold turns many into wooden puppets.
I tried to mend the tear in my sleeve, but with my numb fingers I could do nothing but watch helplessly as I poked holes into my clothes and fingertips. A foul bloody stain spread across. I slept on.
Not even pain could wake me from this twisted dream in the House Of Broken Stars. In this Cold Cold House Of Broken Stars.
