psy·chol·o·gy
/sīˈkäləjē/
noun
the scientific study of the human mind and its functions, especially those affecting behavior in a given context.
"Psychology is learning about how humans were born with the longing for connection"- unknown.
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"All of your imaginations
Are now running down your face
Oh, you are looking good
Bareback in disgrace
And you are doing fine worshiping your lord
Standing in his grace"
-Deus in Absentia: Ghost.
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Authors note: Mentions of Religious guilt(on you, the readers end), mentions of selfloathing..yummy. And a cliff hanger. :)
I also apologize for the small break- school started. It's been..a very busy month! I apologize for the absence! The chapters for this and the other fic are set to resume their bi-weekly updates again. :)
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Feeble rays of light filter in through the weathered windows, their reach slowly ending as day surrenders to the wakings of dusk. Variegated motes bob lazily, suspended upon the streams of sun, quivering back and forth between a range of countless colours. Paralysed and splayed atop the frigid, hard ground of the empty window sill, you try counting them all for lack of anything else to do. Pink, green, orange, gold. You wonder what force chooses the order, whether it’s sequenced to fit some plan of high design.
You digress and hold back a scoff at such a petulant and childish thing: But, it knaws at the back of your brain as you swallowed thickly: the same knawing in the pits of your hollowed gut that felt like someone had dropped ice cold water down your throat and slashed your stomach open to watch it spill out of my stomachs lining like a water fountain just for the hell of it.
The aspect of a higher being had your hands twitching at your sides as you tore yourself from your window in the small little space you ..used..to have privacy in.
Partially due to a the absence of a door due to a certain Austrian brute breaking it down in the night when you had a night terrorized episode.
Those weren't the one you where scared of: that's not what went thump in the night for you.
The sickening sense of dread creeping up on you from behind had you no longer as hungry as you where for chow time.
You weren't that hungry anyways.
While you’ve never been renowned for making the most accurate of assumptions, there are certain patterns you’ve come to expect in order to have survived this long. To never have a glass of orange juice after brushing your teeth, or maintain eye contact while being threatened. That a bullet can hurt you just as badly as parents can if it's bad enough.
The untouched aspect of a catapulted feeling in your stomach arises when you head out of the open way of your qaurters- like stepping through an godsend arched doorway that spoke more so to a life of blood and gun bullets- pungent enough of blood spilled in a short but growing military sentence to grow thicker than milk and honey and psyco-pomped into more than rain or a winery dribbled acid taste of holy water against your tongue- or skin; can clean.
Your hand grazes the damned rosary tucked in your pocket- dark almost brownish oak beads and dribbled hefty weight of it as your search for the familiar aspect of smokes you walked down the hall- preoperative of a bitter memory of home:
Wyoming was a ghost town. Or – town isn’t exactly the proper verbiage, not when it comes to describing the hollowed locale of what your can manage to blaze through as your boots flicked off the ground... It’d been flushed of all its previous pomp of memories now that you look back at your life growing up there; skeletal buildings with their windows blown to bits of ghosts rapping at windows in the night as perfect families slept.
Supporting.
Not obesity fattened with gods ever wavering and cruel hand, light posts bent at the root of weight that sent heavy in your lungs, central park a glorified bonfire pit for mountain flames-hell.
In truth, when you'd awaken in that good night where your meant to be; damned to hell.
Like your mother said as she saw your newly cut short and botchy hair with blotchy eyes as your cried begging for a retribution of life in any sense from her.
Prayed even-
You took it- well.
That's what you told yourself as you ignored the urge to smoke- and focused on the manner of sickened dwelling statically ring in the heart of your brains frontal lobes gummy lining as you pushed through a door- the shower rooms.
Empty.
(In hindsight, it was denial more than anything.)
Yet time progressed on a tortoise’s shell, marching with all the leisure of reality. It didn’t jump like it would’ve had your consciousness been in charge..
You bit back a grimace and appreciated the small moment of relief as the chalky and tiled walls of the locker area of the room welcomed you with a silence that made your ribs bleed through every breath as you walked to your locker.
You pysche; with its aversion to the mundane and grotesque. No; you’d started to see the faults in your logic when the memories of your youth wound so tight around your brain it sheltered like a webbing of your own cacoon of acceptance and Winding paths and webs of intricate arts- a chapel even fit for you to beg for forgiveness and burn in- so tight it seemed to strangle you as you took your boots off and opened your locker.
Or- when – the further down you travelled in your brain – maturating flesh increasingly marked your path of being flinched and goose fleshed with bruising; You’ve never known your mind to be so cruel..
But you've long come to the firm term of it being truth as you twinged a small thought back to your last mission; how successful it had been.
So, dead.
That's what you and 141 left- grotesque manners of a Renaissance something only Aries of war would be proud of. Even Satan recoiled his tongue from the ashy taste of blood and cigarette rot in your lungs tar coated pungent patchouli reeped ribs and throat.
Prayers; a bitter tangible on your tongue etching for relief.
How Ghost had helped your wipe blood off your face; always- father and son.
Deep down you both where mommas boys.
But had to settle for the Ghosts of the past to bond in absence of what you both ever truly had.
Prayers.
What the men you killed mutter before you killed them- feeble and sacred words you've come to memorize so well, how sputted it felt- to hold that heightened grasp of God's work- rotten and carnal work- in your hands so tenderly-
'As Thou dost forgive us our trespasses, so may we forgive others who trespass against u-'
Bang.
You grimaced and shucked your boots off and left them neat in your locker as you acquired your clothes and stepped into a multitude of a manner one would call cracking through a shell; hands gambling a small game as you left your clean clothes ontop of your dirty ones and left a towel tied around your waist as you inched towards a shower cubby and began to silently turn the faucet on- and basked on the steady warmth it provided as you left the dry towel to hand on a hangar near you to grab easily in case something happened.
Keeping yourself pressed close to the wall with your eyes open as you clean and scrubbed skin- forsaken against the itch at the baked branding at the back of your brain as you tried to get the feeling off your body- your sin craving a crawl up your spine and carving your mind into God's hands.
Putty.
Damned.
If so, then you’d settled on purgatory. A state where souls atone for their unforgiven sins and are purified. It was an interim solution; you couldn'tsay you weren'tthe religious type. You where by a habit so slammed into you- it had you reeling like a concussion thatd never go away... But maybe that'd been it. Maybe you’d been given a last hope at redemption, thrust in a distinctive nightmare to comprehend how much worse hell could be. At least you lacked pain, at least you were- You remembered the night skies now..cloudy and you couldn’t see the stars at night.
It was a sign; you’d failed at reaching them.
You’d heeded no patterns; some days, you were completely nonphysical. Or, parts of you remained that way, while others shifted back to palpability. It’d been a tug of war, dependent entirely on your mood and a greater scheme you had no part of. With your limited comprehension, it’d only guaranteed the purgatory hypothesis. Not mortal, nor spirit. Stuck in a great between.
(What heaven was worth this? Who deemed it so?)
You deemed it luring-sirens call as you finished cleaning after what seemed like eternity of blazing through a loose screwed configuration of a confidence as your dried off- dressed- done away with dirty clothes- and went on your way.
You found yourself in your room, more so, blindly reaching a small feeble grasp onto something to keep your brain from back tracking to the feeling of Königs lips against your skin or the urge to smoke.
More so than the two was the taunting wieght of the rosary in your clean sweats pocket as you sat on your cot.
You turned to the cosmos then, impartial as ever, despite their discernible absence. They were still there, you knew. Just beyond the firestorms, the sun burnt bright enough to penetrate smog. Its hazy glow provided an alternate reminder of something for you to still pursue – wherever it was, wherever you were. You couldn’t be sure that an afterlife meant nirvana or elysian fields, yet fulfilment looked to be the common denominator. An underscore.
The guessing game got old and rotted to nothing more than a wilt you braced yourself upon as you felt yourself beginning to edge into a creeped spiral of thoughts.
The threads started to converge in an instant of poetic cognizance. The Phoenicians had done it, and so too had ancient sailors. Stars for navigation, for reasoning. Of course. All that entailed for you was to certify you were worth it.
You reasonable enough; surely had a chance of redemption perhaps? Purged into your own head..
God..
You needed to get the fuck out of your head-
A locomotive knock sounded on the door as your head snapped up like a birds- Sparrow.
But the look in your eyes hid a rot of razored teeth fit for a bitter return of salvation to be torn right put of your gums.
You calm yourself as you eye the man in front of you- ah...
Horangi.
Königs right hand man- your mourning of a relationship of God and the cosmos that has consumed your nature given free time of an after noon due to Ghost having to attend something with Price- the promise of another mission soon from laswell hopefully. You where going stir crazy- had been cut short by the prescence of the Korean man.
"Horangi," short. Blunt. And leveled assisted in a small amount of complex composure as you eyed him..
Sizing him up even.
"Sparrow."
Your eyes narrow at how easily his voice rolled your name off his tongue.
A precise manner of unease.
You know better and remained guarded.
But before you can speak he continues-
"The Colonel wishes to speak to you."
Your stomach dropped- KorTacs very 'little' star of the show- König. You felt a sick sense of butterflys in your heart causing you to sit just a tad bit taller- he noticed and gave you a small tilt of his head as you spoke.
"Where? And when."
"His room. Now."
Perhaps retribution of a God would come sooner than expected in a portion laced manner of rumbling Austrian accent and chapped lips and an arched nose of German and Austria lineage- emerald eyes piercing enough to make you feel jelly or clay- not a Vixen.
A bird.
A Sparrow.
Just for him perhaps.
God..
And yet: you shotgunned him last night.
And ran like a scared pup.
Now you'd have to face the music and lay in the hell-fire brimstone bed you made for yourself to go and face him.
The cosmos won't save you tonight-
You still itched for that cigarette.