anything but ordinary.

Last Login:
October 17th, 2019

Gender: Male

Age: 30
Country: United Kingdom

Signup Date:
July 02, 2019



09/16/2019 05:27 PM 

two minds, one man.

He poured me a cup of tea, and I could feel the steam warming my face when set below me. I could feel my pores drowning, immediately sweating, but I hold my posture while I ready my beverage. Two sugars and milk, that’s what we both preferred ironically. I heard him cackle while he looks towards me, witnessing the similarities in the ingredients. “We’re more alike than just our tea, you and I,” he said dropping his spoon next to his cup, and taking a small sip. “It’s just something you’re not ready to admit yet,” he added before taking another.

“I’m nothing like you,” I replied, still stirring my tea to prove a point, that this was no reflection; I am my own man, and he is not my shadow. “I know of virtue, of good, unfortunately that isn’t something you can relate to,” I tried to reason with evil, to make him see straight in his own twisted and nefarious head.

“On the contrary,” he said, setting his cup back down, and pushing it off to the side. “I know of good. I know of the good that can awaken London, the good that can bring the people back from their knees, and stop praying that one day a new day will be a different day,” he sat back, tracing the outline of his cup with one finger, confident that his train of thought was the only one.

“I beg to differ,” I interrupted, finally taking a sip of my tea. “The people aren’t praying for a new day, they are praying for a new era. Someone who can restore hope and peace, not promote death and destruction in their wake,” I bridge my lunge with a cause.

“Hope and peace?” He shrugged me off, and laughs while doing so. “There is hope for a better life to those who deserve it. There is hope that one day, we, the superior will be at the top of the food chain; and not met in the middle with the less fortunate,” I heard the hostility, anger, and delusions that were also fed to every other whom loyal to the Regime. 

“You’re wrong,” I disagree, and I proudly wear it on my sleeves. We are all cut from the same cloth, we bleed when we are wounded, we cry when we grieve, and dream what we desire. We aren’t all so different after all. “It’s a mindset like yours that drive us into darker times, that descends us into the madness we have now—”

“You know NOTHING of madness!” He slammed his fists on the table, jerking the china around from the foreign force. “You know nothing of hope and peace, you know nothing of madness and grief. You exist because I allow it, and you speak because I will it.” His voice was hoarse, a growl bellows from within, and his anger enslaved him to his ill mind. I share pity with him, because he is lost, but doesn’t want to be found. It’s then I remember, that he is me. 

I took another sip of my tea before setting it down, scooting my chair out, and walking away from an empty table. He was the warden, and I the prisoner, but I held the key to my freedom the whole time. Once sat two men, but really only sat one.

07/10/2019 04:16 PM 


drabble directory

the bellow of a man. \\ emotional muse, conflicted beliefs, and grieving truths.

two minds, one man. \\ struggle for control, prisoner of the mind, good vs evil.

07/10/2019 04:15 PM 

the bellow of a man.

My nerves are agitated, and I can feel my heart beat twice faster than I could keep up with. My breath, I couldn’t catch it. I count backwards. Ten, nine, eight...f***. It’s no use, I am pushed past that point of no return. That point I desperately try to stray from, but I always find my way back home to it; don’t I? Pacing around this room, a dim light storage cubicle used for hauled cargo underground right below the metro. The one place I feel safe, secure, but alone. My throat feels pinched, like an allergic reaction to the truth, and I finally begin to pant as if I forgot how to breathe. I slap my head a few times with the palm of my hand, “f***, f***, sh*t,” I repeat trying to make sense of it all, but it wasn’t so easy to swallow. 

I point my wand at a few glass bottles, my hand unsteady but my eyes held determination, to prove to at least myself I was something special. “Come on!”  my voice adhered the distress, and it only escalated when I continued to thwart myself. “Come on!” I yell louder under the roar of railway cars that moved above me in a series together. It drowns out my despondency, but I am used to be unheard. My face becomes saturated with frustration, I arrest my breath, and concentrate despite the conclusion being unambiguous; trying to make something transpire, anything at this point. Make me believe, correct that faith in myself I had before Hogwarts, before the derisive harassing, before the undeniable truth. I’m not one to give up on myself so easily, but this was different. I didn’t relinquish who I was, I gave up on the misrepresentation of a distorted boy.

Subsequently, I throw my wand at the bottles, knocking them over and I am left demoralized. I hold a hand over my nose, catching itinerant tears that whisk across my cheek. The emotion brims, sending me sinking down on my arse, wailing into my hand; muffling my whines and bellows the best I could. Everything was a lie, all of it. Something my parents had kept from me for years, just to uphold their own selfish intentions and masking it with innocence. I was a disappointment, something they couldn’t accept, couldn’t admit; so they created a son that they wanted. A son who was not me. I wasn’t a wizard, I was a mistake.

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