ZARA H
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Broken Mind
🕑 Added 2021-09-06 17:38:55 +0000 UTCA little scene of the night my VTM Malkavian René met his sire (cw suicidal thoughts)
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Surrealist poetry is a string of thoughts woven in a trance and written without correction, without planning, and certainly without rewrites. However, tonight he cheated. He wrote this poem four times and read through it ten times before he even came to the club ready to recite. “Cremate me. Loathing.” Those were the last words of what would be his last poem. Tonight it didn’t matter if no one believed his delusions, tonight his father’s disappointment and hatred would be a distant memory, tonight he wasn’t the reason his mother left, tonight it didn’t matter that he can’t seem to write anymore, nor did it matter that he just wanted the days and nights to end… because on this cold winter night it will end.
He was going next, paper in his hand as if he hadn’t already memorized these words till they were imprinted on his mind, flashing against the darkness every time he closed his eyes.
That is until he walked in, his strange appearance catching the eye of the small crowd, though none like René’s. Something about this malnourished looking, pale young man sent a shiver down his spine. The first spark of intrigue in a long span of mind numbing, recycled months.
The glance would have been fleeting had the young man not decided to steal René’s slot with little regard for who was going next. René stood up, but not in protest. He drew closer, listened intently. The other’s poem felt like it was plucked right out of René’s very madness. Haunting, beautiful, echoes of his fears. The image in the mirror, the face that’s his face but not his face staring back at him from his reflection; how did this young man know?
He claps as the poem comes to a close, his adoration for the words unmistakable. The silver tongued stranger thanks René and asks him if he has a poem to read.
“I’ve already read,” he lies. Choosing to follow the young stranger outside as they walked together, the paper in René’s hand would fall, the poem abandoned and forgotten.
Perhaps tonight wasn’t the night after all…
