Katie Taylor

1st block

2/11/07

Of Fragments and Chaos

Fragments.

That's all that was left—fragments. Fragments and mental fabrication—vivid illusions of reality. Or was it illusions of unreality? Was it all just envisaged for some kind of escape or self-preservation? A deception to fool herself into believing all was right and she wasn't tainted? No, though--she knew the answer already. Knew it wasn't for her own benefit that she found herself alone in some desolate, grey wasteland, ravished and dead of life—frozen and deathly still for an eternity. No, the answer to her wintry hell was right before her.

Punishment.

Damnation.

Penance.

Guilty by pleasure.

Stirred by sin.

Ruled by vindictiveness, spite.

Broken by love, passion.

Conquered by retribution.

Composed by fragments.

She breathed in, the frigid air burning her esophagus. Memories came, albeit unwanted, swift and powerful—suffocating and haunting. Memories of a past not so long ago; memories that sucked her in, eddying her around through years long past—so many memories she wished to rid herself of, but hold tightly onto at the same time. Contradictions and oxymoron's—she knew them all too well; they made up her life… though life now was little more than nothing. An exasperated sigh escaped her, a puff of white emanating from her mouth. So many memories, fragmented and broken, but overpowering—anger, happiness, sinful pleasures that should have never been allowed, love, abandonment, hatred, spite, chaos…

So much chaos--formidable, dominating, destructive…it had rampaged everywhere, destroyed everything in its wake. She remembered…remembered so vividly the events that had transpired. It was like a distant dream, but still so extremely vivid, so…so… She wasn't entirely sure and she didn't fancy caring. Caring wasn't for people like her, not after… A chill would have run through her then, but she was already numb and cold to almost all feeling. Had been since that day… Oh, she remembered it so and hated it so fervently. A swelling anger, the only real feeling, emotion, she possessed—a blazing inferno; it never did anything to thaw the coldness stretching its entity throughout her person. So unlike how she used to be—a dreamer, always fantasying and believing in Fairytales and Faeries and the like, impulsive and subjugated by whims, full of emotion and life, restrained, though, by the people around her…

"Whimsical—it's what you are."

She remembered the day he told her that. The very same day hell reigned and a dark bitterness, a treacherous hate and anger manifested into something… something wild and unstoppable, rampant. She had been waiting for him at Luna's Café, a serene little place overlooking the city; they were to have lunch. She had been waiting, staring off at the people surrounding her, chin resting in her small hand, her mind elsewhere. Off in her world of Faeries, Elves, Gorgons, Gryphons, Werewolves, and other fabulous and horrifying creatures when he had come up to her, surprising her with his words. When she had asked what he meant he had merely looked at her with enigmatic green eyes before asking for the menu, ordering a coffee cappuccino. A soft breeze, carrying flower buds from the nearby trees and sweet fragrances, had been present that day, ruffling her auburn tresses--she barely remembered what a breeze felt like anymore, it was always so still, so cold, where she was prisoner.

The day had appeared perfect. Why she hadn't recognized his off behavior she didn't know. Maybe it was ignorance that had hid what was right there in front of her, naiveté. Should have recognized the signs, known something was off when he gently brushed a stray curl from her face, ran his thumb over her pale lips, caressed her check softly—a fleeting touch lasting only a second. Should have questioned him farther after he gently kissed the side of her mouth, the usual gusto gone, and lingered for a second, nuzzled the side of her face, breathed in her soft, sweet scent before pulling away, an odd look in his eyes. Almost sad, but determined. Shouldn't have let it go so easy, should have pressed when he whispered in his beautiful dialect, his accent causing her stomach to flutter.

"It's nothing, minha jóia. Justamente idéias de coisas que não pode ser alterado."

However, she hadn't. She had smiled, quipped something quirky, and turned to call for the waitress. There had still been time to go to the park, rest beneath the large weeping willow by the pond; the grass would have been cool and soft that time of the year. When she had turned back to him, however, her brow had knitted and panic had seized her heart. His seat had been empty, the edge of the crisp napkin his empty glass was sitting on flickered up from the wind every now and then. By it a loose napkin had been caught and carried with the wind, landing on her hand. She had only stared at it, her heart stopping, her world crumbling.

Fairytales aren't real. The time's come to stop pretending, had been scrawled across it in neat, dainty cursive. It hadn't been signed, but she knew. Everything had been in perfect clarity at that moment. She had let the napkin escape her and drift away, being carried down to the large and magnificent city below. Her eyes had followed, staring blankly at the metropolis, numb to all things around her…only anger…

"Hell hath no fury…" she had whispered, letting her anger grow and swell—quickly and passionately, wild and uncontrollable. The wind had picked up and the sky had grown dark. And that was when chaos started.

Watching and listening, her fury had rained the city and its occupants with hell. She had watched and listened as the city burnt and crumbled, mayhem spread, buildings collapsed, fire consumed, and screams filled the darkened day. Watched the trams, long vehicles dotted with lights shining through the windows, fall from the rails, gravity pulling the large machines to crash into the city below. The streets were painted crimson and catastrophe wrecked the city, shaking its foundation. Horror had filled the screams and shrills, and still she didn't stop. She had wanted them to hurt, wanted them to hurt like she hurt—wanted him to hurt. And somewhere, out there in all the madness and bedlam, she knew he was there. Dead or alive? She didn't know, far too enraged to care.

The wind had violently whipped at her form, her hair becoming tangled as it grew darker—

She breathed in sharply through her nose, recoiling from the memory. Her dainty hands balled into fists, nails digging into her flesh and cutting it. None of that mattered anymore. No, none of it. That was long past and she wasn't the same person. She wasn't the sweet and whimsical girl that dreamed of Fairyland anymore where the Elves and Faeries and the Gryphons lived… no, she lived there now, damned to the wintry Wastelands with frozen grounds and dead trees and horrid monsters. The hollow shell of the girl, her mind and thoughts were broken—fragmented. Still though, her hatred was there; she continued to dig her fingernails into her skin, blood dripping and staining the grey-white ground.

A breeze blew her blackened locks, her brow slowly furrowed; her anger was still present. The bleak grey sky slowly turned dark. She raised her head, eyes closed. The wind howled, and she knew. She opened her eyes, once blue but now swirling pools of black, and slowly turned her head to look behind her. The dark was gathering. Chaos was here.


A/N- This was before I edited it to try and decrease the word count to be a 1000 or less for The Young Writers.