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When A Swan Drowns [BEN Drowned Fanfic/ Romance]

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When A Swan Drowns

[BEN Drowned Fanfic/ Romance]

Chapter 2: Start Game

Time posted: June 11, 20XX -- 8:30 pm

I'm starting to have weird dreams. But I guess all my dreams are weird, so there's nothing new.

Perhaps the unnatural fear for the unknown was doing something about this, injecting vivid and painful feels in my subconscious to appear in my sleeping thoughts.

The drowning guy in my dreams seemed lifelike. And I can almost feel him--no--I can feel what he was feeling...the misery...the desire to be freed...and the accompanying hopelessness. And how the water entered those poor lungs of his, while desperately trying to scream for help. A call that nobody ever heard...a call that nobody responded to at his last despondent moments.

Man, the mere thought is depressing, and imagining it lately even sent my eyes flooding with tears. Paul said it's just some random emotional trauma resurfacing (he even showed me a few of his psychology books that he bought when he was writing his own psychological novel) in a form of a dream...but it's too eerie. 

I can remember how I woke up gasping, and it took me a long time to stop myself from shaking. 

But on an optimistic side, it just inspired me a bit for the poem that I was making (a former ballerina writing a crappy poem? lol). And Paul gave me  a pair of cartridges: Majora's Mask and Ocarina of Time.

I started playing the first one this afternoon, and for an old-looking cartridge, it ran smoothly. There are just a few glitches here and there, but nothing too major to be disturbing. Perhaps buying second-hand games don't seem that bad. There, I also learned that there's a former kid who owned this game, for he had a saved file entitled BEN. I guess the guy really indulged himself in the game--he's nearly finished with scores in flying colors, and it made me wonder how this cartridge ended up in sale if he was pretty attatched to it. Maybe he got tired, perhaps?

I can only gape in admiration as I took a peek on his items. And I was almost tempted to continue his game. But since I was seeking the thrill of starting it over again, I pressed new game, and Named my file VIC out of usual habits. 

--end post--

------*-------

'The last of the night had calmly passed,

And the lake was barely seen

On the sorrows and struggles in the past,

how oblivious the place had been~!

 

No more to nasty prankster tricks

and friends, or video games,

His death was merely a fleeting act,

Without a tombstone to mark his name.'

 

The typing words being emitted by the laptop's keys came into a halt, and the girl who was attending to it beamed in satisfaction. Two stanzas instead of one. The strain in her eyes throbbed even more, worsening the arriving headache, but the achievement lightened the female's spirits. Slowly, she clicked the save button, automatically rewriting the file in DROWNED.txt--after all, it was the essence of the poem. Casually, she settled the laptop on hibernate mode, and pushed it aside. 

After peering around to see if anybody in her family will visit her at the time of the night, she slowly lifted the covers. Her white night gown extended into lengths, stopping in an array of frills on her ankles--her pale ankles that were now hidden on her familiar-looking red ballet shoes. Smiling at the thought of hiding it underneath her bed all along, she reached down and secured the ribbons on her legs, before gluing her gaze on the carpeted floor of her spacious room.

Gradually, she slid her feet off the mattress and sat upright. Victoria felt an off, tingling sensation on her back, accompanied with the slight dizziness of lying down for long. Agonizingly slowly, she heaved herself up erect. The satin lining of her shoes that were brushing on the soles of her feet felt nostalgic.

Standing up was one of the actions that Victoria haven't done in a long time, especially without leaning heavily on the crutches. Imagining herself in her night gown and her beloved shoes felt finer than anything. Like a fragile powder-glazed figurine, she remained standing straight, still confused if she should take a step or not. 

A part of her was reliving the memory of the dimly decorated theater, and she wondered what could have happened if she didn't miss that pirouette execution. If only she paid attention, and didn't twist her ankle, perhaps her last show could have ended up beautifully.

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