ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
It was one of those nights, where nothing went as it was supposed to and everything managed to cut him to the quick. Where every passing emotion burned his skin and even the rain sliding down his collar didn’t help take away the sorrow, the pain, the desperation or the heartache. It was one of the rare nights when Joseph Beckerman felt emotions, and he didn’t like it at all.
In the beginning, he had tried to hide. He thought that, if he got away from people and their roiling feelings, he could keep his sanity. He was wrong. Even tucked away in the middle of a Canadian forest, he still felt the intrusive auras invade his body and mind. So he stopped trying to hide and just tried to make it all go away.
Alcohol helped, to some extent. It numbed his mind to the depression and my-God-my-God-why-have-you-abandoned-me thoughts that liked to run marathons around his synapses. The alcohol didn’t help his body though, and for a long time he still felt the tears. He learned that heartache was a very physical pain and that fear did have cold, clammy fingers. He learned that despair could make you sick and that sadness tightened your throat like a hangman’s noose.
And then one night, it rained. And the rain, and the cold, and the wind made his body numb, at least a little. It helped. The longer he stayed in it, the less he felt, and for that, he was thankful. He didn’t want to feel anything. Anything at all.
But then there were nights like tonight, where the alcohol just burned his throat and the rain just made him cold and he wasn’t numb like he wanted to be. These were the nights he felt everything, when he could honestly say to every person passing by, “I feel your pain” because he did. He hated it, and the best part was that none of them knew.
Sure, perhaps they noticed that they felt better around him, or that he tended to lift their spirits without ever saying a word, but they didn’t know that he was absorbing their troubles, taking them away without leaving a trace.
Joseph was an accidental project, an experiment gone wrong. He, the person, was never supposed to have existed. From what he’d heard, he was supposed to have been a drug, an elixir of happiness. As he sat on the bench in the pouring rain, smelling of whiskey but stone-sober, the irony didn’t escape him. What was supposed to have made the entire world care-free had made him the most miserable man to ever walk it.
Somewhere above him, thunder crashed. A jolt of fear that didn’t belong to him coursed through his body, clenching his stomach and curling his fingers into fists.
It was one of those nights, when pain made him its own personal sanctuary. And all he could do was wait for the morning.
In the beginning, he had tried to hide. He thought that, if he got away from people and their roiling feelings, he could keep his sanity. He was wrong. Even tucked away in the middle of a Canadian forest, he still felt the intrusive auras invade his body and mind. So he stopped trying to hide and just tried to make it all go away.
Alcohol helped, to some extent. It numbed his mind to the depression and my-God-my-God-why-have-you-abandoned-me thoughts that liked to run marathons around his synapses. The alcohol didn’t help his body though, and for a long time he still felt the tears. He learned that heartache was a very physical pain and that fear did have cold, clammy fingers. He learned that despair could make you sick and that sadness tightened your throat like a hangman’s noose.
And then one night, it rained. And the rain, and the cold, and the wind made his body numb, at least a little. It helped. The longer he stayed in it, the less he felt, and for that, he was thankful. He didn’t want to feel anything. Anything at all.
But then there were nights like tonight, where the alcohol just burned his throat and the rain just made him cold and he wasn’t numb like he wanted to be. These were the nights he felt everything, when he could honestly say to every person passing by, “I feel your pain” because he did. He hated it, and the best part was that none of them knew.
Sure, perhaps they noticed that they felt better around him, or that he tended to lift their spirits without ever saying a word, but they didn’t know that he was absorbing their troubles, taking them away without leaving a trace.
Joseph was an accidental project, an experiment gone wrong. He, the person, was never supposed to have existed. From what he’d heard, he was supposed to have been a drug, an elixir of happiness. As he sat on the bench in the pouring rain, smelling of whiskey but stone-sober, the irony didn’t escape him. What was supposed to have made the entire world care-free had made him the most miserable man to ever walk it.
Somewhere above him, thunder crashed. A jolt of fear that didn’t belong to him coursed through his body, clenching his stomach and curling his fingers into fists.
It was one of those nights, when pain made him its own personal sanctuary. And all he could do was wait for the morning.
Literature
You belong with me - Chap. 42
SEVENTH YEAR
Going back to Hogwarts had always felt like going back home, but Lily didn't remember to have ever wished to go back as badly as that year. The sound of the trunk's rollers accompanied the one of her anxious steps, which quickly led her across the station despite it was still early. The slight, inexplicable ghost of a smile flickered across her lips, responding to whatever her mind was thinking as she walked through King's Cross. As she approached the platform 9 ¾, her heart beat faster and faster, and even though she pretended she didn't know the reason, deep inside she knew what was that impatient joy all about.
After
Literature
BBC John Watson x Reader - Chapter 28
A crunching sound came from just behind you to the left.
James must have finished chewing off the caramel layer and made it to the sour center of the apple. His second apple, you noted with concealed distaste.
You’d been in here close to an hour, and he was even harder to crack than your first time around—and that encounter had lasted for over a week [[fact-check this]]. Despite your new familiarity around him, he wasn’t budging. His childish exuberance was hanging around much longer than you remembered it from before. You waited for him to stalk out of your line of view to look around the tellers’ desks so that he w
Literature
We never said this would be easy
After a certain point, she stops asking about the scars.
She stops asking about the divots in his shoulders, the white lines peeking through the sunburn he got when they went to the beach last weekend. She stops asking, so he stops having to make up lies or shrugging and saying I was too young, I don’t remember.
Instead, she makes up her own little stories behind each one—the one on the side of his left knee he got from falling off a cherry red bike when he was six rather than having been gouged at by an angry ghoul, the ones in the creases of his elbows come from participating in blood drives in high school rather than the too
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
For the #Live-Love-Write writing prompt
© 2013 - 2024 Ambiguous-Catharsis
Comments21
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Great work, I'm publishing this in today's issue.