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Snippet #1838430

located in New York, a part of Love Hurts, one of the many universes on RPG.

New York

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"Torture provokes to divorce sanity...horror, mummifies victims who plead..."

A single figure stood leaning against the granite wall of the old abandoned gym located some distance from the main areas of the school; the cigarette held loosely between her dry, chapped lips bobbed up and down slightly as she murmured along the lyrics of Suffocation's Bind Torture Kill. The old gymnasium wing was no longer in use, after a new one had been built far closer to the campus hub--most likely because of all the students who were late due to classes on account of having to walk the distance every day--but for whatever reason, maybe because of money, they'd never gotten around to actually tearing down the old building. And so it now stood, like the proud, aloof ruins of an ancient civilisation, slowly rotting and decaying.

"You judge my world, your views have been mistaken...the sickness stems, deeper than it seems..."

And on any given day during the first break and the lunch break, sometimes even before and after school, one could find Isabella Moraes Vieira prowling around the yellowing concrete structure, like a phantom haunting its old place of residence, scaring off those who would disturb its resting place. The fact that few people came around here was rather congruent with the desires of the girl who refused to be known by any name but Izzie to be left utterly alone by everyone and everything, so she could come here, smoke, listen to music, drink, do whatever the hell she wanted, really, without being bothered. Not that most people really saw fit to bother her anyway. Didn't seem there was much desire amongst the student body to approach (and then subsequently by soundly rebuffed by) a hostile, bitter former runaway. Izzie figured that was for the better. Both for herself and for everyone else. The only person who really came around here was Iris, and that was only because Iris was the only friend Izzie had in this entire goddamn hellhole. Only friend she needed. And even then it was all Izzie could do to keep from constantly worrying about losing Iris as well....all she could do to restrain herself from dwelling on the possibility that this friendship was only going to end up like every other one...

"Lunacy dictates my being, enslaved until my demise surrenders me...until then I must feed the demons--fuel my rage, and commence to haunting you..."

Izzie felt the array of spikes that lined the back of her leather jacket, squared around the beloved Ace of Spades patch that sat squarely in the middle, against the wall of the gym; the sharply pointed metal sank into the small, loose crevices collected in the granite surface, fitting in like a jigsaw puzzle...or a more appropriate analogy that she had not the patience and will to think up right now. A gentle breeze rolled through the school fields and up into the abandoned gym wing, causing the loose clumps of hair drifting at the sides of her head to sway lightly; the rest of it hung down to the centre of her back in a shabbily-tied ponytail. Wonder if it'll rain soon, she pondered as she watched clouds gather overhead in the cold morning sky. Hopefully it would. Rain--it brought about with it a moment of clarity, a moment of peace in the sound of the water tapping against the leather and the feeling of the rain drenching her hair. She hated how downright clichΓ© it sounded to say that she 'liked' rain, but that was the way it was.

"I'm damned to be disposed in perpetual fire--dismantled youth, forced and shaped my being..."

Her backpack was laid out besides her on the ground; on top of it, a notebook, opened to a sheet of paper upon which one could find writing--her writing. Lyrics, to be exact--well, she preferred to think of them as lyrics. Poetry just sounded so...so weak. So effeminate. So delicate. But until they were put to an actual song (and that'd be the fuckin' day)...they kinda were poetry, much as she hated the word. The seventeen year old delinquent swept down to retrieve the notebook, deciding to read over her 'poem' once more, see if she could finally figure what it was about it that kept nagging at her.

Your heartless empathy just doesn't stop
You've lost it all but there's always more to give
I'm bursting at the seams, but for you
I'm always there to force more out of myself
To accept whatever you'll give when find your way back again

It made you bleed and open your eyes
And I didn't know until my hands were dyed crimson
It made you realise your own self-destruction
And I didn't know it was reality that made you blind

Our worlds just aren't compatible, but you won't see
You're an empty vessel but there's always more to lose
There are still things I'll never understand, but for you
I'm always there to pretend I know what it means
To have your heart suffocated by the world

It made you dizzy with pain when the sun came out
And I didn't know until you fell into my arms
It made you realise this place wasn't made for you
And I didn't know it was reality that killed your soul

It made you cling to me tighter than death
And even then that wasn't enough
And I never realised I'd never seen your eyes
'til they were staring lifelessly up to the stars.


Izzie's brow furrowed, and her nose seemed to scrunch up slightly in distaste. There was still just...something about it. She couldn't pinpoint it, but every time she read over it...it brought to mind things she never realised she'd been thinking of when she'd written it. Well, maybe that's the whole point of poetry, she thought sardonically, tacking on a posh, professor-ly little accent as she mused to herself. To 'bring out the writer's inner feelings and address that which they never realised was in their soul'...what a joke. She tossed the notebook down; it fell back upon her backpack with a small slapping noise, and Izzie reached up to retrieve the cigarette from her mouth, blowing out a steady stream of pale, thin smoke through her lips.

And she stood there, waiting, deciding there was little she had to do if and until Iris arrived. It was seven thirty, half an hour to the beginning of school (at least, if Izzie felt compelled to go to class), and the Brazilian teenager had been here for nearly an hour. Yes, since six-thirty--while the other kids were safe in their beds sleeping tight. Izzie had gotten no sleep last night: she rarely did. And at some point, in the early hours of the morning, having spent the night lying there listening to music, she decided--to hell with it. She'd gotten out of bed, gotten dressed with all the usual metal paraphernalia--bullet belt, chains, spikes, the whole menagerie--grabbed her music player, her backpack, her notebook, and headed for school. Wasn't much for her to do in the lonely, dingy little apartment that she alone called home, especially not in the morning, so she merely came here and waited out the early hours of the morning in the cool, cloudy weather of the mornings. She loved it--the slight dampness of the air and of the grass in the fields stretching out before her, the cool air against the rough, dark skin of her face, the slight breeze rolling into the fields, and nobody she hated (read: nearly everyone) to ruin it.

Now it was just a matter of waiting for Iris to arrive. And hopefully she would, soon...Izzie found herself desiring the company of the one person she cherished and enjoyed, but having never had a mind for anniversaries and their significance, it never occurred to her what this day was, and what it meant to her sole friend.