Raw [open | Med/Adv]

[Malik Al-Sayf]

I'MFEELINGROUGH

[/size][/font]

FORGET ABOUT OUR MOTHERS AND OUR FRIENDS

[/size][/font][/color]

WE'REFATEDTOPRETEND

[/size][/font]

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

[/size]

Although religion had always fascinated him, Malik was not a religious man. There was no deity he called his own; not practices of faith to guide his judgment and give him solace in the darkest hours. Belief--a gift and a curse to those who wielded it, Malik often wished he could possesses it. So much sorrow...so many bitter resentments could be changed if only he could grasp. If only he could take a holding in faith, could see beyond reality and into an infinite--if only he could reach out and feel the warm hand of hope make light of his heavied heart.

Like holding the fine grains of sand that spanned infinitely towards the sunset in Israel, such was impossible for him. The more he wanted it, the more power he tried to grasp it with, the quicker it slipped between the cracks of his fingers. No...belief was not something capable of forceful instillation. He could not bring himself to put faith in a God--any God--that turned their back on so many. Hope, faith, the afterlife; the more he thought over it, the farther it seemed from him. Questions answered by more questions, rhymes layered on top of fallacies.

He could stare at the ornate stained glass, the altars with their detailed candles, and the patiently carved statues all he wanted; their presence sparked no feeling within him. He willed himself to feel--tried to convince himself that these were holy artifacts. That, even without the presence of an omnipotent God and disciples, the sheer amount of reverence and respect that others showed to these being must mean something. Feeling, it seemed, eluded him as well; the feelings he was looking for, at least.

“How long have I wandered?” His mind seemed to be in pieces--the man who prided himself on being stern, pragmatic, and in-control had abandoned all of these traits, replaced by a somber indifference. Appearances mattered for naught here. And he, his own harshest critic, had usurped his own expectations for himself. For only one night, one important, landmarked day, transcending the moral obligations of duty and servility were more important than the menial follies of representational appearances.

Not, of course, that Malik was expecting to be found by anyone noteworthy in the highest tower at the peak of midnight. A cleric, perhaps--another wayward soul, even. Unwelcome company they would be, but unimportant nonetheless.

His hand rested against stone balcony encircling the tower. He had watched as it extended into the moonlight, escaping the shadows cast by the ceiling overhead. Pale, silvery light dancing across his hands. Tired and cracked, the worn digits curled against the cold stone surface. There was no comfort to be found here besides that of silence and isolation. His eyes stared, dulled and emotionless out at the Spanish city that spanned beneath him.

Nothing. Perhaps that was all he deserved, after all of this time.

“Allah…God, whatever deity it is that turns their ear to listen.” He spoke, his words soft but firm—barely above a whisper. Directed toward the sky above, his eyes narrowed as he turned towards the cloudy skies. Heaven. Was that what it was? Did the man he address waft so far from the Earth? He on his throne, always looking down on his men, subjecting them to his whims and fancies—was this the man to whom he addressed? Was this the man to whom so many sought guidance? “I am played a fool to even address you.” Thick with his accent, even alone his anger resonated within the words. He talked to a man he felt to not exist, yet spoke as though the man listened intently to his every word. He addressed a man who, if he existed, patronized him—one who snickered at the words of men spoken through sobs, who struck down children and rewarded the malicious, who

“What are you then, Oh mighty one?.” He barked at the sky above, hand clutching the railing with a grip so tight, his knuckled turned stark-white. “You are supposed to be all-powerful, infinitely wonderful. This is what they preach of you in all religions I’ve seen. Then where does evil come from? Is it that you are able to prevent it, but not willing? No, they would say, because then you would be evil yourself. Then are you willing to prevent evil, but unable? No, that can’t be either, can it? Then you would not be all powerful. ” Composed, calm Malik was no more than a thought—the man who thought over his actions and knew himself well had hidden. Here, he exposed his anger, gave free reign to the raw, unsorted emotions that he tried to forget. Loss, regret, betrayal—the side of him that demanded answers. The side that grew weary of simply saying that everything would work out…that there was nothing he could do. The child within, who wanted to believe that his anger meant something—that he could vent it out and allow someone else to take the blame.

If only he could believe—if only he could convince himself that his words had fallen on sympathetic ears. Yet that part in him would quickly subside. Those raw emotions locked away again with care, placed behind his rational self. He had dealt with his past—come to terms with it long ago.

“You do not care. You do not exist...Either way, you do not matter to me. ”

He knew he was stronger than this; more level-headed and logical. It was a rare occurrence that could lead Malik to lose his temper and shout like a mad-man. Yet loss was a feeling that never went away; a memory forever engraved in one’s mind. Yearning, sorrow…muted through the years by time, had a habit of springing back to mind and dampening the spirit. And where did one go to seek affirmation, when there was none to be had? No heaven to believe in to accept the dead, no person to share memories with—he was utterly alone. Even the God who so many saw as ever-present stood not beside him.

He found comfort only in his failure to deceive himself.

I'MFEELINGRAW

[/size][/font]

YOU MAN THE ISLAND, COCAINE, AND THE ELEGANT CARS

[/size][/font][/color]

WE'REFATEDTOPRETEND

[/size][/font]

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

[/size]

»words« 1404 !?
»comments« Cocaine is one hell of a drug. All sarcasm aside, yes, I realize this is fairly controversial. This is, by no means, my own views. But, canon-wise, Malik was described as being interested in religion, but having no formal religion himself. Or maybe this is just me excusing myself for making this quite OOC. Let's just say today happens to be a horrible day for Malik. Why? It's a secret. !?
»tags« YOU'RE IT!?
»status« Finished!?
»lyrics« MGMT - Time to Pretend !?
»muse« eScala--Palladio !?
»outfit« Here !?
»credits« (c) to rayma of CAUTION 2.0!!?

[/size][/center]

[Max]

He didn’t know why he had come here. In this city, in this beautifully historic metropolis that offered so many places to think, places that didn’t hold the same air of judgment as the church, it was this ancient building that Max found himself visiting. He had no answer, if asked, as to what brought him here of all places. A man with sins like his had no right to enter such so-called holy ground.

Maybe it was desperation that brought him here; one last effort to grab at anything to hold onto before he lost it once and for all. His nightmares had been getting all the worse. Every night brought along the same battle between choosing sleeplessness or bittersweet relief in the form of alcohol. The prescribed drugs he had tried only served to trap him in sleep while horrors wheeled around in his skull. No matter what he did, his nights left him exhausted and terrified, forever lurching awake with bile in his throat and that same cold knot of fear in his stomach. The dreams of Ben and monsters wound together with the bastardized versions of the things that he’d done. His crimes. His victims. His friends. His lover. He could find no relief from the pressing grief and guilt, despite every attempt he made.

In this last-ditch effort to find some respite, Max found himself trekking around the city well past nightfall. Despite the early classes he was teaching tomorrow, the idea of trying to sleep left him feeling sick. He wandered along, block after block, passing through parks and courtyards. The man was a hollow ghost that drifted along, stopping for nothing but on a walk to nowhere in particular.
The cathedral sat up ahead, darkened and strangely foreboding in the darkness that was punctuated by only a few streetlights. Max did not think as he turned and made his way to the front doors, acting purely on an unconscious level. The thoughts didn’t start up until his calloused hands were gripping the heavy old door.

With shaky steps, Max let himself into the building and numbly made his way to the sanctuary. Precious windows made of stained glass glittered darkly in the unlit room, the pews and nooks that held statues of the saints wallowed in deep shadows. The artistic value of the place would have normally been what would catch Max’s attention, but not tonight. He sank into one of the back rows of the empty seats, staring into empty space rather than the large crucifix or the pulpit ahead of him. The dread that he’d been feeling for so long now sat on his shoulders and pulled his chest tight. He couldn’t feel any presence here that was comforting. He was alone still, fighting for his sanity and silently begging for any kind of deliverance.

“God….Christ…. Mary… Anybody…. Please.” His words fell on silent stone walls, but now that he had opened his mouth, the words spilled out in a shaky, broken jumble. “Whoever you are, I beg you… Show me that he’s alright… Show me anything, anything to tell me that these dreams are lies… Show me that he’s not suffering… That I didn’t damn him… Please. Please, whatever god you are, if you’re there… Please, all I want to know is if he’s alright…. I don’t care if you damn me; if these monsters in my head take me….Just so long as he’s not in pain anymore...” He looked up at the hanging crucifix, searching the painted face for any sign whatsoever. He had heard of paintings crying human tears and of statues bleeding, but no such thing was given to him. Shadows turned the supposedly kind eyes of the figure into hollow sockets. Nothing was there for Max. No god. No whispers of comfort, no warmth. Not even a familiar scent or breeze of wind to tell him that anyone heard. Ben was not here, either.

Perhaps there had never been anything there in the first place. He, Max, could very well be more insane than he had thought. The demons that he wanted to believe that could be fought off with bright enough lights might very well be sickness rooted in his psyche. Perhaps his illness would be more apparent to others…. If they only knew what all he’d done. Ben was dead and there was no way for Max to find the answers he so desperately needed, aside from returning to that town and seeing what he found there. But he doubted that he would like what he found there, if he found anything at all. If there was more blood on his hands than he already knew about, what would he do? What if the freshest blood belonged to the man he had loved the most, what then? Would he kill himself if that was the case? It was said that there were things worse than death, but at this point, he was beginning to believe that he was living that saying out.

In the cold silence of the sanctuary, Max lowered his head and held it between his hands. The weight was still there and his back still hurt. His whole body cried from the lack of sleep, but there was no relief to be found here. Instead, the statues looked on at him judgmentally as the heroic Christ fixture stared down with contempt.

God was not here. There was nothing in this beautiful room except for shadows and creeping horror. There was no solace, just a room full of dead wood and stone and one sick, broken little murderer. With no one to hear him, Max groaned aloud, shoulders quaking. “Why? Why am I sick? Why aren’t you real? Why……? All…I want are answer. Simple words… Anything.” He took a ragged breath and shook his head. “But I’m speaking to the dirt.”

....................

Music: "Room of Angel", "You're Not Here", "Witchcraft" by Akira Yamaoka/ Silent Hill music
"Blue", "Weak and Powerless", "The Noose" by A Perfect Circle

Word Count: 979

Clothes: Large gray dress shirt, dark wash blue jeans and brown work boots.

[Malik Al-Sayf]

I'MFEELINGROUGH

[/size][/font]

FORGET ABOUT OUR MOTHERS AND OUR FRIENDS

[/size][/font][/color]

WE'REFATEDTOPRETEND

[/size][/font]

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

[/size]

Where he had sought answers, there was nothing. A dead God, a cold one's stares--nothing to comfort him. Nothing to relieve him of the weight on his chest, nothing to reassure him. Holy by name, stone by truth. He stood atop an ancient piece of architexture; no more, no less.

Silently, Malik turned from his place atop the tower, turning from the ripping winds and inky sky. His pace was slow and dejected as he descended the stairs, blanking his mind as he passed the walls. His hand reached out, towards the wall, allowing his fingers to slide against the jagged rock wall as he moved. Cold and hard--reminiscent of his own truth. He walked in near silence, the only sounds coming from his gentle footfalls and, were one to listen close enough, the steady outakes of air he released.

When he opened the door to enter back into the main area of the church, he had expected it to be the way he had left it mere moments before. Largely it was--in fact, when he first pushed the large oaken door open and stared into the vast expanse, he initially noticed nothing off. It was only a voice that alerted him to the presence of another being. Though inwardly startled, he had no physical reaction; no flinching of limb nor change in expression. Training paid off on occasion--not alerting a stranger to his own presence being one of those occasions.

His eyes locked on to the man, squinting to get a better look at the man on the other side of the room. He stopped briefly to listen, though it was hardly necessary to know why the man was there. A ragged looking person hoveling in one of the back aisles in a church, quite prayers slipping from his lips--another desperate for solace. It almost gave Malik a vicarious sense of solace. If someone else could find solace here, perhaps it was not such a waste...

The man spoke again, and the thought was dashed. Another pragmatist. Another person too steeped in reality to lay faith on a false God; another desperate for answers, where none could be found.

Malik did not know what guided his legs--it was certainly no conscious effort that had him slowly approaching the man in the pew. An unsocial creature by nature, Malik generally assumed that most people were thicker than a cement wall--only paying heed to those who he had business with, or those who peaked his interest. Perhaps it was the latter reason that forced Malik's approach. Perhaps it was neither, and only a slip of his armor that gave him a want to speak to a complete stranger--a want he hadn't had in years. More likely, perhaps it was only the desire to forget his troubles by steeping himself in the troubles of another.

Though, as he came closer, he realized that this man was not a stranger. Not completely, at least. A man he knew nothing about, but a man he had once met nonetheless. Max was his name--a teacher of the arts at one of the school's in his district. This fact nearly caused him to halt and change his mind. A random stranger was one thing...but a colleague was another. He had had no plans of opening himself up. like a christmas hen to the "stranger", but he perhaps would'nt have minded sharing a piece of his story, if not to get it off of his chest. To a stranger, perhaps. A man he would never see again, never affiliate with again. A symbiotic relationship of mutual use--such couldn't be had with someone he was bound to see again.

Still, he reflected, he was too close now to simply turn away. Had he not already been noticed, his receeding footsteps almost certainly would've alerted the other.

A simple friendly gesture, then. He could merely offer a word of kindness to the man and be off. He had no qualms against him anyways--from their scarce moments of conversation, he had proved himself a logical man. Certainly there would be no harm in sharing a few words. As long as the other didn't grow curious as to his reasons for residing within the church so late at night, at least.

Leaving a fair amount of space between them, Malik took a seat on the pew near him. He made no eye-contact, instead looking up at the stained glass windows. "It is hard to believe that so many would follow a God who brings more suffering than he does peace." He finally spoke, his thick accent pooling into the words. He spoke quietly--bout wary of his echo in such a large place, and as to not frighten the man beside him. Spanish culture was different than his own though, he noted. Here, he had seen that it was perfectly acceptable for a stranger to comfort another. Where he was from...well, compassion was a rare comodity. He briefly wondered where the man was from (presumably England or the United States, were his name anything to go by), and whether Malik's approach would seem a shock to him. Either way, he spoke again. Whether the man took insult or not was of little consequence to him. He had no plans of befriending him anyways. "Still...I am jealous. What must it be like, I wonder...to beleive in an explanation." He fell silent, chin resting in the palm of his hand as he continued to look around the room. He offered the man no compassion. No pat on the shoulder, no cooing words. He was not a mother come to coddle a child; No, he offered only companionship... brief as he expected it would be. A simple presence within the cold confines of the church wall. One part kindness, and equal part self-fulfilling need, Malik lingered on the bench.

If there was one good thing to be said of churhces, it was of their beautiful art.

I'MFEELINGRAW

[/size][/font]

YOU MAN THE ISLAND, COCAINE, AND THE ELEGANT CARS

[/size][/font][/color]

WE'REFATEDTOPRETEND

[/size][/font]

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

[/size]

»words« 1328!?
»comments« Wow...so, I honestly didn't see that I had a response to this until I decided to come onto the board to see what I had written. I'm sorry! Doubley so, considering this was such a quickly whipped up, crap-load of fail. !?
»tags« YOU'RE IT!?
»status« Finished!?
»lyrics« MGMT - Time to Pretend !?
»muse« Jesper Kyd -- Ezio's Family !?
»outfit« Same s before !?
»credits« (c) to rayma of CAUTION 2.0!!?

[/size][/center]