Ocean Storm

I stopped, turned around and looked him in the eyes. They reminded me of an ocean storm, exactly the dangerous gray colour of the low hung clouds. I could almost hear the waves crashing, thunder booming above and cracks of lightning. As dull the colour gray goes, his eyes were striking, and they held my gaze in the sea full of people.

His long, thin lips quirked up at the corners as he moistened them slightly. He blinked once more and then turned to walk away.  Before I could follow him, he was already lost in the crowd.

That was the first encounter I had with the epitome of "tall, dark and handsome". He hadn't given me a clue to what he wanted when he tapped lightly on my shoulder that day. None of him looked familiar. I would have remembered his chiseled face anywhere. The only thing that kept me tugging at my memories were his eyes. I know I have not seen them before, but the image that I kept was incorporeal, as though I had seen them in a dream. 

The second time was during my parent's anniversary dinner. I had dressed up for the occasion, entering the embellished restaurant and taking a seat in front of my sister. We were right in the middle of the story of how our parents met, which we had already heard dozens of times- when I saw him again. He was in a dark gray suit that matched his eyes, complete with an orange silk tie. He was exiting the restaurant when our eyes locked. He smiled nonchalantly at me and then left, leaving me staring after the still swinging glass door.

The third time, though. The third time answered all of my questions.

After carrying out my quotidian rituals, it was almost midnight when I was walking back to my apartment. My pace was fast, I didn't want to risk spending more time in the late hour of an empty street. But as the saying goes, douchebags will be douchebags and no matter how you dress, rape is inevitable. At least, there should be one. 

I was cornered by three men, pepper spray already knocked out of my hand. My bag was dropped, and my shirt was torn. They took me then and there, on the cold, disgusting alley floor. They laughed at my begs and whimpers, and slapped me at my cries. After awhile, I didn't feel anything. All was numb.

And then all was pain. In my ribs, my arms, my legs, my face. They kept at it for awhile, until I felt a cold piercing in my chest. Warmth trickled and spread across my body. And they left me there. To bleed to death, trying to breathe with punctured lungs, gaping like fish out of water. 

At first, all I could see was the dark sky above, no such twinkle of stars, not even the faint glow of the Moon was present. Then I saw his eyes, and they didn't remind me of a storm anymore, but a calm ocean at dawn.

"Hey there, Clara," he whispered softly in a modulated voice, like an angel. "My name is Raziel, the Angel of Death." So he was an angel. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yes," I whispered back, letting my eyes close. The last thing I felt was his warm lips on mine, ready to carry me to the afterlife.  

Prompt #1

Write a short scene in which one character reduces another to uncontrollable sobs without touching him or speaking.

People had always called me weird when I was a child. They kept giving me sidewards glances whispering to each other 'Look, there's that kid who tried skinning Mrs. Jankis' cat.' Do you know how frustrating it was, to hear that all at the age of 6? Just got into kindergarten, just stopped sucking my thumb a week before? To hear such inaccurate stories? People need to learn the facts before spreading rumours. I totally skinned that cat. Alive, too. Gosh.

Then at 12 I realised that no, hurting animals just won't do it. Even the sound of their whimpers, seemingly begging for me to stop, looking at me with puppy dog eyes, -in which case, at most times where actual puppy eyes- won't bring me the sadistic pleasure I seek. I discovered my fetish when I pushed this little girl in pink off the swing. She scraped her knees and then cried like I just stomped on  her face. I wanted too, in fact. But then I saw her tears, falling down her reddened cheeks, the sound of her uncontrollable sobs, her wailing, the snot dripping down from her cute button nose. I loved that. The fact that I scarred her not physically, but emotionally. You can plaster a band-aid on a cut, but wounds that travels directly to a person's soul is much harder to heal. Trauma by torture? Nah, too much effort. 

So there we were, 20 years later. She sat there strapped on the chair, eyes big and glistening with the fearful tears, terrified of what would happen next. I whispered to her 'Shhh, it'll all be over soon. I just want to see you break down and cry like your mother just died.' 

And then I put on Grave of the Fireflies. 

A poem by me.

I am feeling down and angry and disappointed and stressed and sad and so I wrote this poem to describe how I feel 

Hajahqoshwiqhhsbbyqigsoa,

Jahahwiqhushqkdywgbaojsgwy aishqi,

Hahahqhshautwusvsyqhs,

Tqietqondbaiqo,

Pawywywisbaowgwisgaheuwy,

Iahwifakshjqsia,

Iauwuahhatqidgajgquwgajsiqhsoacis,

Jahshhsihqheyahqiywu. 

Hahutwisusjwhidt, 

Jahtqyywiahaogeiateiagiagsiqhaivquwou,

Jaywiqgsiwystqjsiqhsistwi,

Iwuifnkfiwkhtfjfhehqhfjab,

Jiwjsuwh, 

Kajayhahhahwuroshd,

Uwurignvockxjjwi. 

Uwhehwuqiehfjfjfiwuqoekshw, 

Heiieieowifiisjdjeh Irish kfiuaije,

my thumbs now slamming on the glass of my touch screen phone sounds like a machine gun and so in my head I am shooting someone 

Najshahqhyeowododjqi, iweushwk

Jurysugwuahqidhhw, 

Jwhshehehyeuroeiroquffhe, 

Haheywueieirritnciw

Jarieowifkdiejdi

Jwiruwofueihfuqii