for what its worth [reserved]

[lyric]

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[bg=000000] The past was meant to stay dead. However, this was rarely the case. Rather, it had a tendency of haunting people. Memories surfaced when they were least welcomed—while embracing an old friend, while intimately kissing one’s lover, in the middle of a fight. They attacked when a man was at his weakest, or when he was at his strongest, with little regard for what else was happening. Lyric had spent such a long time burying it, hiding it, shoving it into the deepest recesses of his mind, that now he discovered that details were missing, in the middle of a night. Just awoken from a restless sleep, he rubbed at his eyes and sat up. For God’s sake, he couldn’t remember. He shouldn’t have been bothered by it. But he found himself unable to remember the color of his father’s eyes. But, again, memory was a cruel thing. He could recall every detail of his mother’s. He could remember how they were honey-gold, but they rarely seemed warm; rather they were crystalline and disdainful. “What’s wrong with you! You’re as useless as your father! … Oh, don’t you want to be just like him! Coming home all bloodied up from your latest street-fight, with a half empty bottle of vodka in your hand! Give that to me; give it to me right now, Lyric Shikov!” Lyric ruefully handed her the bottle. They had more in the house, anyways. He didn’t want to fight, or at least, he didn’t want to remember fighting when he woke up in the morning. She hit him hard across the face. She wore a ring, and it made his dry lips crack and bleed. It hurt. And he took a tentative step back. He suddenly felt drained, and very meek. He looked at his feet. “W-where’s dad, mom?” Lyric couldn’t keep the tremble out of his voice. She hit him again, and then held him by his wrist, pulling him close. She was a good half a head shorter than him, but he felt small even then. Her breath smelled like alcohol. “Where do you think he is, Lyric?” Her voice was so sharp, it hurt more then when she’d hit him. Her nails were digging into the skin of his wrist, breaking the skin. “… work.” It was a lie, of course, and they both knew it. Lizzlie sighed heavily, and shoved her son roughly away from her. The implications were clear. He retraced his steps out the door, and stood on the doorstep. It was cold; wintertime, with snow blowing on the wind. All the aristocratic houses, which filled their neighborhood, were lined with Christmas lights. Even their own was decorated in such a way; but it felt, surely, like a lie. All of the houses seemed empty. Just like his house. Just like him. Lyric took off running down the street. When he woke up, he was in a ditch, bleeding from a deep gash across his chest. All of his money was gone, and he couldn’t recall what happened. He didn’t even remember the fight. He didn’t even remember the venomous look in his mother’s eyes when she hit him. At least, not until he got home, and saw her collapsed in an armchair crying. But she was already too broken to be comforted; he went to his room and fell asleep. He pretended like nothing had ever happened. Just like every night. He remembered. He remembered it all with startling clarity; he’d pushed it down, suppressed it, for so long. He had forgotten. He had forgotten what it was like to feel; the disdain he had felt towards his mother, and the terrible need of her love, of her approval. And the resentment for his father and all the man’s mistresses. He had forgotten what it was like to be so very alone. And he had forgotten the bitter taste of betrayal, when he had finally discovered that his brother was not what he had ever thought he was. Lyric had, up until the Menagerie, believed his brother to be close to him. A friend. And it was all a lie! All of it was a damn, filthy lie! Just like all the pretty people in the world, all those aristocrats his parents knew who would dress up and pretend they were happy. But all of them were empty and hollow. Just like me, he thought with humorless amusement. Lyric ran a hand through his hair. His back was pressed against the dark, dark wall of the sewer. He sat on his mattress, remembering, always remembering. He remembered when he was young, so much younger, and when he’d been full of fire. “Why do you hate me! What did I do to make you hate me!” So young. Lyric stifled a sob as he stared at his father, but the man didn’t even turn to look at him. Such was the importance of his son. “I don’t hate you.” Another lie. Another empty comfort. Lyric turned his back on his father, but he had nowhere to run. Always back to the same empty house, to the same empty people. He couldn’t take it; no, this would certainly drive him mad. Lyric pulled at the hair along his temples. He resisted the urge to scream, for all that that was worth. He wanted to. He wanted to. But he could not. Eventually he stood on shaking legs, and he ran. Always running away, always going somewhere and ending back where I started, he thought desperately. But not this time. Not this time. He knew where he was going. Through a network of tunnels and walls and dead-ends, running into Carna after Carna, but not finding the one he was looking for. Until finally, he, panting, came around a corner. It was too dark. It was too late; the middle of the night. But none of that mattered, just then, not when this terrible, desperate emotion was filling him, telling Lyric to run. Or to fight? It didn’t matter which. "Dmitri! Get your ass up! I need to talk to you." Lyric’s voice was a growl, a snarl. "I need to ask you something." It doesn’t matter, he thought to himself, trying to calm down. But it was impossible. Lyric had not felt in so long; he hadn’t felt anything but numbed rage, numbed depression. But now he was feeling something else, something that was going to overtake him. Sadness. ooc;; … LY BROKE /shot/

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