A Lost Chance

" Eyes
Through day and nights.
I see your eyes
Sparkle, glinting, dead.
But I still love you.

Lips
From sun to rain
they were chapped, moist and salty.
The beaches, the winds
Could not keep them away.
Not from me

Were we meant to be?

Smile
Bright but confused.
Its always reliable
Keep me safe, warm and yours
That smile is all I need.

Hands
Soft never calloused,
Didn't the guitar hurt?
Warm in mine
All through the winter night

Companionship
You were there.
Chicken soup and all.
Blankets up to my neck
You didn't hear my thank you.

Friendship
Did it matter anymore?
Did I cross the line?
Love me, you did not
Hate me, you should have.

You
Do you even know who you are?
My prince charming from afar
Don't save me, I love to fall
Just stand next to me
I want to hold you, because I love you. "

"Ryan... that was. Enlightening. Thank you for that. Anyone else?"

He sat back down ears and face burning up. He didn't bother turning behind. He could already see him. Staring agape, in surprise, maybe even horror and disgust. It was all too much and too good. Why him? Why me? Why goddamnit why? Feeling a lump forming in his throat, e quickly coughed before slapping his palms on the table. Mrs Parrish gave him a disapproving glance. But it was mild mixed with the pity he saw that softened her eyes.

A girl, Chelsea, was up next. Her poem was about true love ands boundaries and slitting the wrist. He didn't even bother to listen. It was a big scrawl of crap yet for some reason, at the end, everyone cheered. Nobody cheered for him. Compare him to her, she might be winning the presidentail elections. He cringed slightly, but she saw it. She threw him a dirty look walking back to her seat. Sebaldt, Tenehaur, Urie.

Three more until him. Until Urie. Could I call in sick? That's stupid. He may not even know. Or maybe he did. Maybe he wouldn't come tomorrow. That would be a good thing.

It was. One week, two absentees, a substitute teacher and many slamming against lockers, attempted rape and reciting of lines from his poem later, it was finally the day. He thought his world has ended. Or coming very close to it anyway.

"Brendon. Finally. You're up then. Blow us all away."

The walk he took in the purple hoodie with no script, seemed to be Ryan's longest wait. With every footstep, Ryan became that much closer to a cardiac arrest. Or he might just vomit. Finally, from the corner of his eye, he saw the red Vans coming into view. Hours later, Brendon Urie reached the front of class. In front of him. Looking straight at him. Shit.

"Mrs. Parrish, I don't have a poem ready."

"Urie this assignment was given weeks ago. How can you not have a poem ready?"

"I already have one. But it doesn't match up with what I really wanna say." A calculating look. What is he about? The whole class went into a hushed conference. Ryan just stared. Mrs Parrish contemplated.

Silence. Deja vu isn't it?

"Well say it." Shocks from the class. And from Brendon. But with a gulp, he started.

" You still remember? Our first day? Flying books and curse words. But you looked at me. I remembered. Right into my eyes. We didn't say a word. How could I not realise you exist?"

"Another fag poem."

"Shut up Chelsea." Even Ryan was surprise at his quick snap.

"You did the same for me. I had the sniffles didn't I? You gave me skittles. You knew it didn't help. You wanted me to be happy. You just wanted me to be happy. I to you too. But not like this. Never like this." Ryan stared into the hazel eyes, imploring. Each breath He held was a breath Brendon let out. Each word Brendon spoke was like thunder. Loud and echoing in his mind. Brendon looked at him. There was only them two. Everybody must have noticed but nobody said a word. Not even Chelsea.

"I can't make sense. We are more than that. But you're asking for too much. I like the winter day. The indoor camping, the summer camps and the soft fireplace. But I can't give you all of that. Not now not ever. We still share memories but I can't help you imagine new ones."

A gasp. Stupid girl at the back. Ryan just stared. His eyes must be red now but he kept silent, waiting. Even Mrs Parrish was looking solemn.

"I can't love you. But hating you would be the last thing on my mind. Further than last. It didn't even cross it. Thank you"

He took tentative steps back to his seat. Ryan didn't turn. He didn't want the class to see his teary eyes. Mrs Parrish pretended to not see them too.

"So Urie, done. Ah five more before the end of presentation. Antonio Valence, you're up."

The past was then drowned out by the accented pronunciation but it remained clear in Ryan's mine. It was crystal in Brendon's too. But neither boy said a word. Until graduation. Whereas, a hug was not even present. For all the said to each other, face to face on the last day they could be together, the last day they could salvage whatever they had, they only could say a single sentence.

"Good luck."
" You too."

In the end, there was no fairytale. There was no Prince Charming, no more skittles and no more love. But that doesn't mean Ryan ever stopped. Not until one day when Spencer, his chubby five year old asked him "Daddy, I think I don't like Jon anymore. He didn't share his Lego with me. He's not my best friend. I wanna tell him tomorrow. I can right?"

"Son let me tell you about a girl and her prince charming..."

The Essence Of Love. Or at least the hope of it.

I can't believe you told me.
I rather you didn't.
You knew I didn't want to know
Your vices and unforeseen secrets.

You can't pretend it's gonna be okay
Your vulnerability and my insane possesion
Its not a good combination
We cause pain and sorrow to us

Only Us.

Naturally competitive, I hate myself
You don't.
Damnit you should
I hate you because of that.

You can't have us both.
Choose one.
I rather her than me.
Life is worth nothing.
Not now

---

You
Yes?
There's nothing
I can't understand
You're not making any sense.
Yet...

Its magic
Shut up
C'mon
Nothing. What is this?
What were you saying?
Nothing.
Then why...?
Just because.
I don't get you.
I know

I still...
Yeah
Oh?
I know.Me too.

-LOVE.
When its louder than words,
Stronger than fights,
And safer than tears.

Broken. A Harry Potter AU standalone.

A shard of broken glass. Like a shard of broken glass. Delicate, painful, and so sharp. That he was. Sharp. Angular. Yet so very curved and smooth. Beautiful. Like tainted glass.

Taller than average with skin smooth and taken care of. Skinny but deliciously so. Lanky but it was the wrong word. Curvaceous would be too feminine but that was what he was. Feminine. Spectacularly woman. A lady’s hips. Small waist but he covers it up pretty well. With slightly overlarge uniforms that’s fitting at the sleeves and leggings. His body, so sweet and girly like his face.

High cheekbones. Angular but very delicate. Just like everything about him. Nose, small and turned up slightly but beautifully. Eyes prominent on his face. Grey, almost an icy blue people would say. Just like the seasons. But only winter. And he would have somewhat thin lips that would look ugly on anyone else but him. Not extremely thin per se, the top lip somewhat thinner than the plump bottom lip. His hair would be fine and longish. But not so. A boy's regular, flopping over his forehead randomly but still kept in check.

Pretty. Spunky. Cowardly. He was everything. He was nothing. Draco Malfoy the androgynous. Draco Malfoy, the Queen of all Kings. No one could have guessed. No one would even realise. No one but himself. And father and mother but they still would love him. Can he love himself? Can he love his woman body? Can he accept the fact that he’s a man who had woman features? He’s the boy that looked like a girl.

He can’t. He hates himself. Constantly. He covers it up protectively. What would people say? What would people think? They would stare and gossip. They would taunt with the smirk that was his. They would kid with his smugness. And then what would he have? What would belong to him? Not his lips, not his legs, not his body. He hated himself. He hated his curves, his blue-grey eyes with so much emotion. His smooth skin stretched along model cheekbones. He hated everything. He wished he were Goyle. Maybe even Hannah Abbot. Plain old Hannah. Nobody notices her. Pity. But heaven sent. He would love to be her for one day. No one to impress, no one to hide from. But he’s Draco Malfoy, the boy-girl so shut up.

Walk around school, dread spooking him at every turn and corner. Behind every door, he opens with anticipation. Half expecting a loud bang and a large sign saying “WE KNOW YOU PONCE!” and the school population laughing at him with wonky hats and even wonkier make up. It sounds unrealistic, illogical but it’s his irrational fear and no one can tell him other wise because he’s too consumed. Too overwhelmed. Too damn afraid.

It’s not funny, he thinks as he feels this urge to laugh at the image of Dumbledore in blue makeup. Its god awful scary. But he still giggles anyway. Giggles not chuckles because he’s a girl, he remembers. Suddenly, his face became stone. How quick. Scary. He pressed his eyes shut. I am not a girl. Keep telling yourself that darling. I am not a girl. You are a true blue woman Malfoy.

“SHUT UP!” He’s slumped on the bathroom floor now. Naked. He hated himself. He hated his body. The hot jet of water showers him. He doesn’t dare get up. Tears mingled with the rivulets down his cheek from his almost white, wet hair. I hate you. You hate yourself. Knees pulled up, he leans his head against them. Seated there for hours maybe, he cried and hated himself even more.

Can he hate himself less for feeling dirty even after two hours in the shower? Not happening. He crawls into the bed, underneath his green satin duvet, cheeks red. Eyes bloodshot. The blanket is up to his neck. He’s dressed in full body pyjamas with only his neck and face to be seen. And maybe his feet but even he thinks that’s too much skin. The rest of his mates walk in, talking loudly. They pretend to not see him. They knew. But they said nothing. For him, they agreed. He watches as Blaise strips to his boxers. Taut muscles pulling and relaxing. Tears prickled in the corner of his eyes. Damn it. Turning to his side, he falls asleep. But fitfully, because boys like him can never sleep in peace. Not when he learned hatred so harsh at such young age.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all of its characters do not belong to me. They are property of Joanne Kathleen Rowling, Scholastic Books and Warner Bros. No copyright infringement is intended and this will not be mass produced.

Clad In Black [1/1]

Do you get dreams?

I do. I get nightmares. Its horrifying to think that a grown man; a genius; a child prodigy can get nightmares. I am the only twelve year old who graduated from high school. The only kid there with an IQ of 187. I am the kid who could read 20, 000 words per minute. The kid who, at the age of twenty-four, already works for the FBI.

I suppose that makes sense doesn’t it? The FBI. Who won’t get nightmares? Morgan did. I’m sure I heard JJ tell Garcia. The other day Hotch was advising Elle on vanquishing your inner demons. I’m convinced that, although Gideon doesn’t show it, he gets nightmares too. Yet, even so, I don’t feel good. These dreams. These sick, twisted dreams aren’t… they aren’t normal.

Now for me to be telling you this, its a breach of national security. Scoffing are you? It’s the truth, it is. I’m revealing my weakness, my one flaw and if you decide to exploit it, the B.A.U won’t have a Spencer Reid on its team any more. Won’t have another member that can realize that the profiles were all wrong. That it was a severe case of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder instead of the work of a serial arsonist. No one to save you from being shot in the head by a delusional psychopath using a magic trick. Scared already? Then my warning shall suffice.

These dreams of mine. They start from nowhere. One moment I could be dreaming of flowers and singing birds or magical creature with fluffy skin galloping around in circles; Watching a Broadway Musical, Jessica Alba… well you get the picture. Anyway, suddenly I will be transported to a dark abyss. Maybe it’s a cave.

There, a big circle is drawn; its edge at the tip of my bare feet. Its blood red and hurts to touch. I tried a million times. At first, all I did was stand there thinking but a while later, I heard the sounds of a crying baby. I try to run into the ring but it just seem to move further away. Illogical isn’t it? But it did happen. In my dream.

It seems like hours. I keep running, trying to save the baby . Its cries get louder but the volume suddenly lowers. That’s when I reach it. The loop. It didn’t burn me. I cross it safely and was able to pick up the baby. This was when my nightmare truly began.

As I cradle it in my arms, I spot a hooded figure in front of me. Outside the ring of blood. Draped in a black cloak, I could only smell his rotting scent. Slowly, he waves a decomposed hand in my direction and the baby disappeared. It wasn’t a baby anymore. It was just a bloody mess of organs. Ever felt a heart still beating in the palm of your hand? The slimy feel of intestines sliding through your fingers. You wouldn’t want to; trust me.

Before I even had time to react, I felt a searing pain on my lower back. I immediately dropped the organs, which swiftly turned back into a baby. In the back of my mind, I felt overwhelming guilt. I murdered an innocent life. A baby. It had a life ahead of it but I killed it.

With my remaining strength, I turn, determined to see who shot me. There, I saw all those I had help put a stop to. The Tommy Killer. Maggie, Lila’s stalker, Clara Hayes, and all the rest. They stood, staring at me, malicious grins adorning their faces. I fell to the floor.

I wasn’t dead. Oh, how I wish I was. The pain seeped through every nerve cell. The pain was beyond description. Somehow the fire erupted from the ring. I was literally burning. Laughter floated all around me. They taunted. Tortured. Why oh why couldn’t I die?

I try to plead. I beg. I cry. I writhed on the cold cave floor. I screamed and shout till I went hoarse. But they just laughed. Just laughed. The cloaked man had the worst laugh. It was high-pitch. It was a cackle. Like the one in a boiling or highly explosive cauldron. All through my begging he laughed. Je ne soigne pas de votre douleur. I care not of your pain.

Such cruelty. He says that three times. Bastard. The rest all laugh harder. The baby stares at me through glazed eyes. It was accusing. Bleeding from the head, trickles went into its eyes. Oh God. I can’t look. From somewhere far away, I hear its wailing. Kill me please.

I try to move. I slowly drag myself towards the edge. It took hours. Every breath I took sent a sharp stab to my spine. I could hardly feel my legs. I was dead weight. The fires lick my hands. I see my flesh burn., I see it cook, how much this hurts. I roll into it, the flames welcoming me with open arms.

It was an eternity before it all mercifully ended. And that only happens because I woke up. In a pool if sweat and breathing hard. Even when awake, I can still see their faces, feel the blood, hear the laughter.

Tell me, do you have dreams?

Stitched Backpack.

He stumbled with his heart safety-pinned

His sleeves ragged and bloodied.

There’s no tunnel, no light

There’s the demons that hunt him in the night

He wanted a fix, wanted not needed

Maybe he needed but who gives a care?

The alley lined with scum

He looked like he might be slumming

Wrapped in a small cloth smaller than a blanket

He shivered and cried to the territorial fights.

Stench surrounding the oil galleon

The shrimps rubbed and slinked,

Not looking at the other

Hooded faces, hooded eyes, lowered voices

Shame disguised.

Wrenched from fitful dreams

Menacing bodies held him close

They screamed and grunted

He pleaded and pleaded

Who would listen?

Everyone else, all the scum and homeless,

Laid their heads to bed.

Woke up, blood more than ever

They avoided his accusations

His screams for righteousness ignored

Why not? They were not served, justice was taking a nap.

Packed up his one blanket-but-not-really,

Needed some money, needed a snack.

Needed more than wanted.

Begged on the streets, doe eyes and quivering lips.

Couldn’t stand, couldn’t sit; just braced for pain.

Needed to be tested, needed a heck more than wanted

But really, who gives a care?

Not that business suit, not that power dress, those flirty shoes?

Not a chance

Breakfast didn’t come, lunch was all but none

Dinner, don’t even ask.

Starving, lost and hurt, he lurched to a different spot.

Far away, far cooler, far more silent.

Sunken eyes could shed no more tears.

Pallid skin sickly, a map of veins.

The flavour of crystal meth lingered.

Cocaine was a heaven sent.

Tongue peeking out, tasting the air like it was the drugs itself.

Trampled on, squeezed against.

Life was tough baby, it still is.

Crawl back to me, torn and battered.

My doormat from green to red.

You push on me, of course I’ll take you back.

You’re my brother with the safety-pinned heart.

You’re my brother who’s addicted to drugs.

I’ll take you back, I’ll scrub you good.

One week maybe two, you’re out the door.

I just have to wait for a week more,

Before you come, leaning against my door.