Out da ghetto. (IC Journal for Ryder Koslov)

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This topic contains 2 replies, has 2 voices, and was last updated by Profile photo of Ryder tristan trellis 10 months, 3 weeks ago.

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tristan trellis

said

[[OOC NOTE: IGNORE THE LAST TOPIC. The forum hates me and would not do it right. This is a private IC drawing pad that he keeps hidden. This is shared OOC only. There could be chances to steal this in character but what is written on this forum is meant to be oocly shared only! NONE of the drawings linked are mine. I did NOT draw them. Credit goes to the talented people who drew these pictures]]

Ryder flipped back the first page of the brand-new drawing pad. It was fresh and white. He considered buying a notebook with the money on his seventh credit card, but this seemed to make more sense. He stared at the page a long moment and then began to write in sloppy, slanted handwriting. The pen was fine-tipped and black; a contrast to the white, blank background.

11/16/18

It’s been a long ass time since I’ve written in a journal. I aint ever been much of a writer though. I don’t like to deal with my shit. I wanna drink, snort, inject it all away. Ayase says that is bad and I should quit and deal with it head on. I wanna hold on to the drugs a bit longer. Heroin has got her grip on me again and I wanna ride out the good until it goes bad again.

I’m eighteen now and living on my own. I live in a trailer next to a house that Pain bought. I can’t commit to living in the ground. I have to be ready to keep moving cuz everything seems to come to an end. I can’t commit to living still now. I gotta keep moving until I’m through. I’m a bit drunk and a little high. Peni taught me that I can inject heroin in my thigh.

I work for FDH and I’m at CU. College is kind of a joke. If I get good grades I can transfer to a college in New Orleans. I wouldn’t commute I’d do it online. I don’t know what I wanna do. I thought I wanted to be a doctor like when I was a kid but I don’t anymore. Nothing makes sense no more and I am a liar. I lie about drugs, my feelings, my life. I’m not who people think I am. I’m not sure I’m real sometimes. What is real? Drugs and the high. I need to reach reach reach to the sky.

I’m not much of a writer but I like to draw. It’s what I turned to when I stopped talking after my dad nearly died. He was pierced with bullets. There was so much blood; it was all red. I had brief moments where I thought I was someone else. Trauma. It was all the trauma, the doctors said.

I got a girlfriend named Star. At least I think we’re still together. We have these periods where we barely talk after a huge fight. We had one last weekend. I’m not sure how I feel anymore. I don’t know if I can write that in words. I’m not a writer. I’m not. I’m too drunk and high. I wanna fly fly fly.

I got feelings for a guy named Ayase. He dresses like a girl but I don’t care. He is beautiful though he aint like it when I say that. We dated briefly but I ran far away. I shouldn’t feel like this but I do. I don’t know where to put this or how to move forward. I can’t breathe sometimes when I’m around him. I thought I was only supposed to feel this way around Star.

But ever since we were both kidnapped things with Star and I haven’t been the same. Does the spark always dwindle so fast? Why aint my heart able to choose one and that’s it? I got better things to write about. But the things that matter are the words I aint able to put down on paper. I can’t write about Mela or the kidnapping or the souls I’ve stolen. I can’t write about having pieces of me plucked away like feathers that leave holes. I can’t think about it or the brainwashing will take over. I can’t write or I will fall. I’m about to prepare a needle in my thigh. I miss the needle in my arm. But track marks are too noticeable, and I don’t want anyone to know. I’m a user a drug abuser. I love drug snorting and the alcohol bottle. I’m a little bit drunk and not high enough. Are you listening? It’s never enough.

I’m not supposed to be around Peni or Kiyou but I’m drawn to their web of chaos. I want somewhere to belong. What Peni did to Lily still haunts my dreams. I can’t write about it. It’s all a trigger. This was a mistake.

I helped but didn’t participate.
I helped but didn’t participate.
I helped but didn’t participate.

MEAT
MEAT
MEAT
MEAT

Blood on my thigh as I slice into my skin to make it fade away again.
No more writing. I am gluing some of my drawings to the page.

On the back of the previous page is a drawing ripped out of another drawing pad and taped sloppily onto it.

The faces on all of the trees and the boy being attacked all resembled Ryder. The faces with wings all resembled Mela.

On the next page there is another drawing taped carelessly to the page.

A third picture is on the next page.

On this page there is a drawing of a woman in her early twenties lying on a very bloody tarp in cream colored room. She had dark brown hair and a slender build. There were jail bars in the background, depicting that she was locked in. The woman’s middle was cut open deep like she was mid-autopsy. Despite the scene, her jeans and heels remained untouched. The shirt was indistinguishable other than the fact that it was short-sleeved. Her chestnut colored-eyes were wide in an empty, lifeless way. On the right side of her there was a woman with no face other than piranha sharp teeth. She was taking a bite out of the blood dripping heart. On the left side there was a man hovering over the scene. Although it was clearly the outline of a man; he was featureless. On the ground was a naked man, facing the woman. He sat with his knees drawn to his chest, as his body hunched over as though he could not fully sit on his ass. There were clear whipping marks all down his back. The husky frame and hair style made it clear that it was Ryder but the only definitive, seen feature on his face was his jaw that was slagging open in shock. Everything else was a shadow. His head was turned toward the woman, watching her with his hands curled in tight fists. Organs and a bloody, gut covered knife was in a pile next to the woman with the heart.

The back of the page is filled with the same chestnut eyes of the girl on the bloody tarp. On the bottom of the page more messy words are scrawled out.

I plan to write again. But I would rather write Haikus and post drawings. Ayase says that I can paint my words with pictures and that sounds real good to me.

Behind blue-green eyes
My mind is wielding white out
To wipe the slate clean

November 16, 2018 at 4:35 pm
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tristan trellis

said

Sign in at the very top to read this reply. ツ

November 26, 2018 at 1:19 pm
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