jamie
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Roboto+Condensed|Mr+Dafoe' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .jamie_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background: #9ca09d; width: 600px; padding: 0 0 0 0; border: solid 1px #000; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .jamie_container p { margin: 0; } .jamie_image { position: relative; z-index: 4; width: 600px; } .jamie_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 560px; margin-top: 20px; margin-bottom: -75px; background: #b0afaf; background: url('https://i.postimg.cc/NFPjm88h/bg.png'); box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #343735; } .jamie_quote { font: 11px 'Roboto Condensed', sans-serif; text-align: left; text-transform: uppercase; color: #343735; padding: 20px; letter-spacing: 2px; border: solid 1px #343735; border-bottom: none; } .jamie_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #211d1b; padding: 20px; background: #adb1af; border: solid 1px #343735; } .jamie_quotetwo { font: 11px 'Roboto Condensed', sans-serif; text-align: right; text-transform: uppercase; color: #343735; padding: 20px; letter-spacing: 2px; border: solid 1px #343735; border-top: none; } .jamie_name { position: absolute; z-index: 10; font: 70px 'Mr Dafoe', cursive; color: #343735; bottom: 570px; left: 20px; } </style> <center> <div class="jamie_container"> <div class="jamie_text"> <p class="jamie_quote">from the destruction, out of the flame</p> <p class="jamie_message">
How strange it is that he can still feel himself inching toward madness.
He can still feel the agony in his bones, in the fiber of his muscles, in the brittle lining of his lungs.
And the god awful buzzing.
It chatters his teeth and makes his jaw ache.
It feels like some small miracle that he can even hear himself think, though the thoughts are not his. He creeps slow to the edge, to peer over the cliff’s lip into the darkness below. But he sees it, just as the rest of them do, the ripple of something. A glimmer of fantastical, alien light.
The shadow thing knows fear better than his counterpart, the sun stood beside him. She feels none of it while it compounds in the pit of his gut. He has been plagued by fear his whole life, hasn’t he? And hasn’t it always been a bone-deep fear of the unknown? Hadn’t he told her that what he feared most was what he might be capable of? He had never tested his own boundaries and he feels no overwhelming urge to test these boundaries either.
But she looks to him and says, ‘together?’ and he nods numbly. Because the buzzing is unbearable and there is some sharp spike of paranoia lodged in his chest, gets him thinking that the fog is going to creep up on them, douse them in all that pain again.
Together, they edge a little closer to the precipice. And he stares out into the flat expanse of darkness, up and over the pulsing tear in the fabric. There is only a fraction of a second that separates them -- a beat of hesitation after she jumps before he jumps, too.
He feels weightless. Adrift. He does not plunge as the rest of them plunge, he merely drifts. A feather in the wind. There is hardly anything to him, the shadow thing. He is only an idea, a wonder, a dream even. And he falls so long that he begins to wonder if he’s even died at all or if he has simply been transported from one world to another. Not even death is enough to convince him that he’d ever been truly alive.
He feels something else, too. Something like a thousand teeth raking hungry against his sides. Licking greedy down the length of his throat. They feel ravenous. He feels ravaged.
And when his feet touch solid ground again, he comes to rest so gingerly that he begins to wonder if he’d really been falling at all. Or if he had simply blinked and there he was.
He turns in a slow circle but does not see Beyza. He is alone here.
And it is quiet. But he can feel the buzzing like it’s trapped in his chest. Like it has replaced his heartbeat.
Still, he calls out. “<b>Beyza?</b>”
And the atmosphere here shimmers with the sound of his voice.
He can see it ripple outward from his mouth. It stirs the strange leaves on the strange trees. It expands forever outward.
Everything here slouches toward the horizon. Somehow technicolor and monochrome all at once. He blinks those freakish eyes but doing so does not pull anything into sharper focus.
There, in the distance, something else stirs. It draws his attention way from the trees with their question mark spines and the ground, which seems alive, and the ever-expanding ripple of his voice.
And he does not hesitate before he begins to move toward it. He remembers how Beyza had looked to him on the ledge and said, ‘together?’ and he had arrived here alone. There is some cavernous void where his hesitation should be. He feels nothing, not even a flicker of guilt, when he moves on without her. The thing had taken his conscience.
</p> <p class="jamie_quotetwo">you need a villain, give me a name</p> </div> <div class="jamie_name">Jamie</div> <img class="jamie_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/qqzM21cj/jamie1.png"> </div> </center>
ooc: just to reiterate, the door took his conscience!
How strange it is that he can still feel himself inching toward madness.
He can still feel the agony in his bones, in the fiber of his muscles, in the brittle lining of his lungs.
And the god awful buzzing.
It chatters his teeth and makes his jaw ache.
It feels like some small miracle that he can even hear himself think, though the thoughts are not his. He creeps slow to the edge, to peer over the cliff’s lip into the darkness below. But he sees it, just as the rest of them do, the ripple of something. A glimmer of fantastical, alien light.
The shadow thing knows fear better than his counterpart, the sun stood beside him. She feels none of it while it compounds in the pit of his gut. He has been plagued by fear his whole life, hasn’t he? And hasn’t it always been a bone-deep fear of the unknown? Hadn’t he told her that what he feared most was what he might be capable of? He had never tested his own boundaries and he feels no overwhelming urge to test these boundaries either.
But she looks to him and says, ‘together?’ and he nods numbly. Because the buzzing is unbearable and there is some sharp spike of paranoia lodged in his chest, gets him thinking that the fog is going to creep up on them, douse them in all that pain again.
Together, they edge a little closer to the precipice. And he stares out into the flat expanse of darkness, up and over the pulsing tear in the fabric. There is only a fraction of a second that separates them -- a beat of hesitation after she jumps before he jumps, too.
He feels weightless. Adrift. He does not plunge as the rest of them plunge, he merely drifts. A feather in the wind. There is hardly anything to him, the shadow thing. He is only an idea, a wonder, a dream even. And he falls so long that he begins to wonder if he’s even died at all or if he has simply been transported from one world to another. Not even death is enough to convince him that he’d ever been truly alive.
He feels something else, too. Something like a thousand teeth raking hungry against his sides. Licking greedy down the length of his throat. They feel ravenous. He feels ravaged.
And when his feet touch solid ground again, he comes to rest so gingerly that he begins to wonder if he’d really been falling at all. Or if he had simply blinked and there he was.
He turns in a slow circle but does not see Beyza. He is alone here.
And it is quiet. But he can feel the buzzing like it’s trapped in his chest. Like it has replaced his heartbeat.
Still, he calls out. “<b>Beyza?</b>”
And the atmosphere here shimmers with the sound of his voice.
He can see it ripple outward from his mouth. It stirs the strange leaves on the strange trees. It expands forever outward.
Everything here slouches toward the horizon. Somehow technicolor and monochrome all at once. He blinks those freakish eyes but doing so does not pull anything into sharper focus.
There, in the distance, something else stirs. It draws his attention way from the trees with their question mark spines and the ground, which seems alive, and the ever-expanding ripple of his voice.
And he does not hesitate before he begins to move toward it. He remembers how Beyza had looked to him on the ledge and said, ‘together?’ and he had arrived here alone. There is some cavernous void where his hesitation should be. He feels nothing, not even a flicker of guilt, when he moves on without her. The thing had taken his conscience.
</p> <p class="jamie_quotetwo">you need a villain, give me a name</p> </div> <div class="jamie_name">Jamie</div> <img class="jamie_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/qqzM21cj/jamie1.png"> </div> </center>
ooc: just to reiterate, the door took his conscience!