Alarm Clock, Chapter One

Alarm Clock, chapter one

Perfection meets Perfectionist #3 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: well, well, well. isn't it the purpose of this whole account. This is the beginning plot of the story in mind. Very dramatic. Little storyline events. Enjoy!

Chapter One

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The alarm clock tuned in for another long, painful try of annoyance. The dead weight hidden under the blanket and crinkled sheets groaned, hanging onto the dream they had as long as possible. It seemed that the alarm clock huffed a little at the sorry state of the bed. The bed, single sized, laid someone who should be getting up right about now. They have been late once already, which is something out of the ordinary for their auto-pilot life. And here they were, blocking out their alarm clock in a fetal position. Cradling their arms around their chest, protective walls bracing for impact of the cruel world. If the alarm clock had a mind of its own, it would be disappointed; but since it doesn't, their last attempt of waking the sleeping mess was changing the radio channel. There wasn't any particular reason why Etta liked the radio channel that the alarm clock was set in, 'it is better than having the chance of catching that one song playing'. Hallow and empty emotions echoed at the back of their mind, it was distant. Good. But obviously, they have forgotten that they have programmed the alarm clock into flipping through radio channels to annoy Etta into getting up.

Their song played.

"The way you text I rather dig my grave…" Etta, white as a ghost, sat upright in protest of their throbbing head. "..Because I never knew what was so cliche…" The sorrowful tune mockingly danced around their head as Etta tried to picture out their surroundings. "..About you blaming me for all the things I've done…" Eyes drawn immediately to the sudden bright light-- their phone went off the third time. 'It's probably February.' Etta groaned once more at the thought of going to work. "..Baby can't you see you're the reason why I can't breathe…" They knew they were late, and they knew that February wouldn't be pleased, either. But there is only so much you can worry about when your head is being split in two. "I love you! I love you!" Etta couldn't take anymore of that song.

Reaching out to their nightstand, they slammed their clenched fist hard on top of the pitiful alarm clock. As if the alarm clock knew it had the upper hand, it was stubborn and didn't break from the sheer force of its owner. "And my best friends are gonna cry, they don't understand what it's like…"

Etta swore slightly under their breath, half tempted in throwing the alarm clock out the window. 'Dropping from the window's height, the alarm clock could probably kill someone.' Etta rolled their eyes in the thought of getting done by using their alarm clock as a murdering weapon. "..To love someone so cold…" Etta dived down, "I think someone is caging me up again…" elbows rubbing hard onto the grey carpet, "..I wonder what phrase will trigger it…" their body positioned ready to do butterfly strokes.

"..Girl I'm sorry but I've got to go…" Desperate. Thirsty for water after days of neglect. Reaching out to the power plug like Etta's carpet was quick sand. As if the sunshine seeping through the curtains was a blazing fireball; threatening to burn them alive. "..This time I'll leave you without no note-" The alarm clock never saw it coming, how can a body of sadness move so swiftly?

'I win.'

Etta raised the power plug into the air, triumphed by their success. Warm and calming silence hugged Etta's ears, making Etta sigh out in relief and pure joy for a moment. It felt like freedom, for a long standing second.

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To be continued...

Let's

Archive #18 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: hey, didn't I tell you to let go? (enjoyy)

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Let's

Paint me, Like I have never seen art before. If I didn't know what beauty was, How would you describe it to me? I don't know what love is, The affection is confusing. Language is spoken through the absorption of emotion. If it sinks into my skin, Would I make you uncomfortable? If it was lingering in the air, Would you hold your breath?

Thousands of thoughts and not one original, To my sane and reflection. Does our heart sync when I crush My feelings into crested moons? Is love pain? What is pain? Would you show me if I had asked for it? If hoarding became my plate, Would you still feed me?

Let me, Let me go, Let me love, Let me suffer, Let me love, Let me go, Let me.

Sweet nothings is my addiction, Would you whisper into my deaf ear? Sing me good night when I cry. "Just because" Do I crave you or the imagination Giving me what I want through magic and wishes. I want you to read my mind, Living in there gets tiring. I wish you knew what I want, Is it hard to want more than just the bare? Minimum? What is the bare minimum? Magic is not real and so is my perception. Language is my addiction. Would you let me love?

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"👏just 👏because 👏you're 👏traumatised 👏doesn't 👏mean 👏you 👏can 👏go 👏around 👏and 👏traumatise 👏 others 👏" - saturnfairycat

Dead muse

Archive #28 | copyright to saturnsfairycat

Author's note: this one literally just came to me while I was in the middle of a conversation with @raccoonboy321 on instagram lmao what - anyway enjoy!

Dead Muse

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I wrote so much about you, my poetry on the walls, and scattered across my room.

I know so much about you, words can only be used as personifications because simplicity is absentminded in your presence.

I read into it too deep, I forget to drop the pen sometimes and my hand cramps up in the same position for the longest of times.

Too sore to stretch out my worn fingers, too hesitant to stop.

What if I forget you? How else am I supposed to remember you?

The feeling of pain is exhilarating as I scratch bloody ink onto paper, dizzy from all the emotions, it spills out in splotches instead of brainstorms.

I get overwhelmed by all the ways to describe you, my imagination runs wild at the thought of moments we can share together.

Can? Or did?

Wait,

Did that even happen?

I forcefully pause as I stare at my writing,

They are just words, nothing more.

I glance down at my bloody fingers in confusion,

What were you like? I don't remember.

But I wrote it down—

Fuck,

I don't remember if that was how you are as a person, or if that's how I wanted you to be.

I thought I knew you, but we barely even held eye contact long enough for you to see my inky tears.

I thought I wrote a lot about you, but all these words— these words are merely personifications of how absentminded you are.

The emotions are so strong, because the blood that draws from where my pen scratches into my own skin are the words.

I don't even remember the last time you smiled at me.

"He smiles at me every time he sees me."

I don't even remember the last time I saw him.

Words, on my pieces of paper.

Useless.

And still on my walls,

And scattered across my floors;

Haunting my simplicity

As my hand stays in the same position,

Throughout this whole time.

Being Vegan

Archive #23 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's note: yep... this one is definitely more intense than the rest. So it definitely deserves a debrief. Debrief: NSFW !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (I don't wanna be cancelled thank u). Warnings: gore, mentions of cannibalism, torture, strong imaginary. Probably 16+ MINIMUM. Anyway happy meal lmao

Being Vegan

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I'm thirsty,

drowning in the sea of blood.

None of that quenches me, none of it satisfies me.

Fuck,

I'm so thirsty.

I need a beating heart,

a live one.

I'm hungry,

A pile of organs at my disposal, cursing me with famine.

Your heart on my platter,

I devour it whole like a cowardly beast whose starved beyond saving.

Starved?

I'm so starved.

Hold me,

for all the love in the world, hold me.

You are my last meal on death row, my last moments in heaven.

My bones ache at the emptiness I feel,

My marrow sucked dry from the greedy.

I wear your bite marks in my flesh like a jewel, a crown to behold.

The hunger never subsides, your skin never healed.

If I bore my eyes out for you,

Would you see your starved reflection as you stare?

Forget all olives that reside in your gardens,

Use them,

My eyeballs,

Pickled for your drinks.

I do not wish to waste,

For I will grow sick if I consume rotten meat.

But it is hard not to admire such beauty that your anatomy frames.

And I cannot refrigerate you, it will ruin the taste.

…

…

…

Am I going crazy?

This is beyond lust, beyond hunger.

For I cannot see a world without your eyes sewn shut.

Is this lifetime not for me?

I do not wish to be another guinea-pig, a test subject for-

A play,

An orchestra,

A script,

A role.

You are my crime, my will to live.

My bones ache because my sensitive teeth make me wince,

Sinking into your flesh,

Chipping my canines from biting into your hip bone.

I want to saw my skull in half,

Detach half of my brain,

and place one of your halves to fill the void.

I want to clench a fistful of your hair,

staring into your hollow eye sockets.

Does bruised skin taste different from fair skin?

I'm finished, I cannot move on.

Your nails dig into my intestines, twisting them to make me gag.

For gods sake, stop tormenting me.

I would devour you in a heartbeat,

But you would rather savour me;

My rotting flesh,

Cursing your tongue.

Are you not afraid of hunger, you starved animal?

Bite me, rip me, end me.

For I will love you, a thousand times over,

If it means I will have the last bite.

Pinewood

Archive #22 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's note: short one this one, but hope you enjoy!

Pinewood

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We are nothing at all.

...

...

But,

I would still answer your call, Even if it was in the middle of the night, 10 past five in the morning, And you're in trouble.

I would drop the world that I cup in my hands to save you from the dark. But when I'm alone and it gets cold, And I asked you for matches, You don't even lend me one.

You say that my cheeks are red so I must be warm, But I'm sick of bleeding to stain their appearance.

If I was the last tree standing in a snowy embrace of forever winter, Would you still chop me down even if I provided you with shelter?

You're cold, you complain; I'm tired, I don't say.

Even as a strong tree, I will never get to see the day where my leaves welt, and my trunk's spirals are too many to count. For my roots will stay clinging to the soil,

While my branches' ashes are coughed out

From your lungs into the cold,

Still air.