#gripping the edge of my SEAT. i wil be patient

[radioroxx]

UTY ARTBOOK UTY ARTBOOK UTY ARTBOOK AHHHHHHH

[raenday]

Spotlight part 2

Part 1

Lets just get right into it! 

“Not bad, I mean not as great as me, but not far off,” Wilford said with a huge teethy grin.

Wil wrapped his arm around Bim’s shoulder. “ I gotta say I thought you’d never come around, but I guess you just needed a little push, pun not intended,” Bim stopped and looked at the other ego.

“Wait, you’re not angry at me?” Bim looked at him with a questionable expression. Wilford seemed almost shocked by his question.

“Of course not,” He exclaimed with a wiggle of his mustache. “I’ve been waiting for you to use your powers since I took you under my wing. You have quite the potential, but you just need to learn to use it,”

Bim stepped away from Wil’s grip and just stared at him. “You wanted this to happen?” Wilford just nodded. “And you’re not angry at me?” Will shook his head no. “Huh, well I have been practicing a bit,”

“It shows. Now,” Wilford took Bim’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go get yourself some breakfast or something. I can fix up that wall and replace the lights. You made quite the impression on the studio. We’ll talk some more later. Sound good?”

Bim nodded and left the studio, leaving Wilford alone. As soon as the door closed, Wil’s smile disappeared. He glanced over at the set and waved his hand, causing the lights and bullet hole to be fixed instantly. He turned on his heels and walked quickly to the elevator, rubbing in chin as he did. The studio was in the first basement, best for hiding the sound of gunshots. He stared at the door of the elevator, thinking. An idea popped in his head and he pressed the second button.

...

“From what you’ve said,” The ego said leaning back in his seat. “It sounds as if the young Bim is finally discovering his own abilities as an ego,” He finished, muttering a few more narrations after. Wilford sighed and rested his elbow on the arm of his seat. His leg bounced with anticipation. The other ego stood up, cane in his hand and walked around the desk. “But perhaps there is something that Wilford is not telling the Host,” He narrated, sensing Wil’s hesitation.

“You didn’t see it Host,” He muttered. “The look in his eyes. I’ve never seen him like this before. It was bone chilling,” That was all Wil could think of. Bim was usually so energetic and bubbly, that was why he wanted to take him in. He knew how he was when he had a stage of his own. The way he acted then, it wasn’t nearly as terrifying as that look that burned into the twisted ego’s mind.

The Host’s fingers tapped the end on his cane. “Coming from you, that quite concerning. For the Host at least,” Wilford looked up at the Host, an eyebrow raised. Host noticed this and shrugged. “Wilford Warfstache is well known for his willingness to pull the trigger. And now another ego comes in and shows his own willingness. The Host can’t help but wonder if Wilford is not concerned about Bim, but himself instead,” He explained.

Wilford scoffed. “You think I’m jealous?” He questioned. The Host just shrugged. “Listen Hosty, Wilford Warfstache don’t take shit from nobody. Especially not little Bimmy here,” Wilford paused, suddenly becoming much more serious now. “Dark and I are the strongest egos and we’ve got the most experience. That little edgelord doesn’t leave his room unless he need something so I’m supposed to look after you kids. And if someone starts acting off, it’s concerning to me,” He explained.

The Host looked his way, raising an eyebrow. He shook his head and sighed out. “You clearly haven’t noticed enough if he’s become this powerful,” The Host was holding back his anger. He remembered the first time he met the pink ego. Back when he was the Author. He turned his head, tugging at the edge of his bandages, wondering. Where was he when the Host need him? He let out a heavy sigh again, lowering his hand. “Well the Host suggests that you don’t try and stop him, or tell him not to use his powers. We do not know the extent of his powers just yet,” The Host suggested.

Wilford rubbed the back of his neck. Should he do that? Should he just let Bim get stronger? The look he had, that blood thirsty desire that Wil was much too familiar with. He didn’t want Bim to be like that. He wanted Bim to be better than him. This darker side wasn’t fitting for Bim, but was it too late to save him? Wil stood up and patted the Host on the shoulder. The Host flinched away. “We’ll see. Thank for the advice though Hosty,” The Host nodded, gesturing to the door, not saying a word as he left to meet Bim.

...

Bim walked with his hands stuffed in his pockets, he could hardly contain his joy. The giddy ego tried to hid his grin, but it kept creeping up on him again. He turned the corner, passing a few meeting rooms as he made his way to the kitchen. Ever since Markiplier TV, the egos made this place their home-base. He didn’t know how it worked with rent or electricity, especially since the Googles are constantly upgrading, but he figured it was best to leave that to the others.

As he was walking, noticed one of the office's’ door was opened. Bim peaked in and tried flicking the light on, but it didn’t seem to work. He stuck his head in more and saw a figure standing were the door was blocking his initial view. Bim tensed up a bit. The figure was standing confidently with his arms crossed. “Well, are you going to come in Bim?”

Bim looked around a bit then stepped in completely, leaving the door open so some light could fill the room. The figure stretched his hand out and the door began to close on it’s own. The room was now pitch black. Bim placed his hands on the surface of the desk to keep himself steady. He could hear the other begin to maneuver around the table and chair with ease, which made sense for him. Bim took in a deep breath and made a fist with one hand. He opened it slowly revealing a small ball of light. He looked around and jumped back. The other was standing right in front of him with a smug look on his face.

Bim caught his breath again and looked at the other ego. “Dark, what are you,”

“I’ve been watching you Bim,” Dark interrupted. “Ever since your little chat with Google. I was wondering how you would develop, and let me say that I was not expecting such impressive abilities. It’s a shame about Wil thought,” He muttered the last part.

Bim looked at him confused. “Wait what about Wil?” He wondered. Wil seemed rather excited that he finally discovered his power.

Dark seemed to hesitate, but he continued anyways. “Well, I don’t want you to be angry at Wil, but when we all came together, I begged Wil to teach you how to control your powers but he wouldn’t. He said you weren’t ready for it. I told him you had such great potential but I suppose he didn’t see what I saw,” Bim looked away, shocked at what he was hearing. “Don’t be angry at Wilford though, you know how dense he can be sometimes,” Bim jumped slightly when Dark rested his hand on his shoulder. “But just know that I always saw your true potential,” With that, he was gone and the lights turned back on, making Bim wince at the sudden brightness.

He turned and sat against the edge of the table thinking. Wilford never did say he would teach me. Why had he told me to leave in the first place? Was he just putting this off? It was then he realized that Wil never said anything about getting his show back. That was all he really wanted. A chance to be back in front of the camera, where he should be. Back to his center spotlight, that was where he belonged.

Bim grew angrier with each new thought that popped into his head. He clenched his fists and began making his way to his dressing room. He took deep breaths, trying not to blow up on Wil as soon as he saw him. He at least wanted to see what the pink ego was planning. But even while he did that, he couldn’t sense the small, dark thoughts lingering around in his mind. Slowly growing bigger and bigger, waiting patiently for the right time to completely consume his thoughts.

[zeldareville]

Rococo

I can see the threads of you resting their dismembered polymers on the raintrees outside this room; the remaining fibers being spun into these fairy lights that haven’t been lit up for Christmas yet. I came round last Friday and the week before, but you’re always absent.  Well, I can’t be wrong, can I? The schedule on the door states that your piano lessons are always marked Fridays, 4 to 5 pm for the intermediates. It’s more like your presence in my life has been defined much more suitably by your constant absence.

The sunsets are so pretty when the sunshine comes in. Do you see how the sunlight bends its lithe body and presses its fingers - curious little fingers they are - into the black, glossy surface, outlining that hard edge of gold? Don’t they look like a toddler’s snub fingers? I know decadent verses like this draw the most derisive snorts from you. But please allow me the indulgence today, for it recalls a memory, at once familiar and soothing.

I remember how the remaining unharvested strawberries used to rot in the golden fields outside your house and how your mum would swear at you for forgetting this simple task. She would stand on the porch, shaking her fist, her plump face flushed  in the sweltering heat. But  your face would split into this odd grin that reminded me of the consequences of the Cheshire cat put on a liquid diet. And I would have cycled by your house on one of these seemingly normal days, my hair doing a Superman in the breeze, hands gripped tightly round the rusty handlebars that left their auburn ashes on my palms. When I cycle past your house now, I keep checking my hands for gritty rust. It’s an awful habit of mine. But I always forget that I’ve been riding on the new Aleoca bike that replaced that old BMX you gave me for Christmas all these years ago. Paolo gave it to me. Do you know who Paolo is? They look the same and carry out the same function, but when I hop over the seat and clench my legs around the frame - now that’s where they’re different.

The solitary spotted dove sings its docile conclusion to the sunset before the soft patter of its feathers - first a silken rustle, then an incognizant echo - alerts me to its quiet exit. Yes. That was what you did. I unwrap my scarf and retie it, making sure not to snag the frail fabric. There’s a large gaping hole where it got caught on the bramble when you left that day. I was singing in the backyard with the strawberries. I don’t know if you remember giving me this scarf. I hope you do. Do you still remember your promise? Do you still remember me, clinging on to this worthless scarf that I should have thrown away, but somehow still find myself being unable to do so?

There’s hardly an inch of snow, but I see the trees waving their surrender to the winter’s night. My hand reaches forward to grab a branch that hovers within my reach, but it clenches at nothing but the inky sky. I can grasp at the ether, but I can’t hold it in my hands. All this air around me, enveloping me in its simultaneous embrace of intimacy and detachment. Why can’t I hold it, if I can grab it?  My breath makes its sprightly escape from between my lips, the condensation forced out like the steam absconding with its hard-won freedom from the spout of a boiling kettle. I inhale and exhale forcefully and my right hand tries to catch the gleeful escapee, but once again I clutch at nothing. My twin stares at me from beyond the fingerprint-smeared glass, unable to do anything, a pearl of a tear rolling down her cheek. That is all you’re allowed. The flow staunches itself. I walk over to the piano. That’s what I’m good at.

Then my scarf slips slightly, uncoiling itself, tired of holding on to a similarly wrinkled neck. The wreath of pungent burgundy starts to recall its age in a dip and the whoosh of old cloth - coffee stains five summers ago, a snag in the fabric during the peak hour rush. Its unraveling edges trail across the worn ivory. Stroked by pianists past their golden prime,  clumsily scratched by the fingernails of beginners yet to begin theirs.  A dirty shellac rag falls onto the floor, its graceful defeat by gravity a cruel confirmation of its lowly status. I can no longer go at it alone, anymore. I sink into the piano seat and close my eyes. The scent of strawberry shortcakes waft up from the bakery below.

I hear the door open, its sustained tone carefully shredding the tranquility into two, letting in a mere crack of light. The light slowly pools at my feet, man-made incandescence casting its spotlight as the door opens another crack.

Click. Thump. Click, thump, click, thump.

That’s it. That’s you.

I remember the footsteps of people very well. Here’s my dream catologue. Mum’s footsteps: the absent-minded scuffle of a patient housewife. Dad’s foosteps: slow, lumbering giant in Timberland boots. And you. Leather-suited heel down, first. That’s where the click comes from. Then the muffled thump as your shuffled step resonates. My eyelids flutter against their own will, battling 10 years of despair and hope. No, don’t open them - it’s not him! Yes! You’d recognize those footsteps anywhere!

I allow myself a little slit of thinly-lit vision. Mmmm. The vivid tones brim at the edges, quickly separating into dots of black, orange, white - all accomplished by the quiver of muscles that stitch such gratuitous immediacy to the seductive power of wilful ignorance. The sharp intake of my own breath that follows is a betrayal to the accumulated bile that has simmered underneath.

Your soft footsteps start coagulating into a reality that starts building its own momentum, rolling down a valley - right smack into  a torrent of unpleasant memories and the terror of the present solidifying with each step that tears itself away from the shadows.  The scream of tyres. Burning rubber. Upturned car. An  explosion. The raven that grasps my shoulders with its griffin’s claws melts away with your impending arrival. Why are you still here, right before me? The draughts blow in, and I shiver, but the goosebumps don’t come. He’s still alive.

The footsteps stop.

Oh my god.

It’s him. It’s really him.

Where have you been all these years?!

Then the seat beneath me inflates and deflates just as quickly. He has seated himself on the same chair that I’m on, occupying the empty space beside me. Filling it in with pitch-black gooey Plaster-Of-Paris - the words come quickly, in a torrent, reading from a hastily scrawled note - the form of a  5’ 10" human shaped figure of 36 years, who liked beat-up cars and penny books -

Something brushes against my bare skin, the faintest of impressions. The small piano seat is too small for two. His elbow nudges my arm. The expeditious invasion is now complete. My shaky breathing starts to quicken, collecting any breathable scrap of him into my lungs. Hungry for more, binging on the present. Strawberry. Cologne. The one that I gave him for his birthday! My heartbeat jars. More, more, more -

I wait for him to speak, to break these foreboding fences down. Anything to convince me that we could start afresh; to put away these 10 long years into a crate, nail it shut, shove it into a drawer and carry on as if nothing ever happened. As if that never happened.

He clears his throat. I bite my lips. Then silence perforates the barriers.

Unable to contain myself anymore, my eyes burst open and the room swims before them, orange, black and green dots morphing into the bitter mixture of dismay and anger obscuring my vision, burning my throat. I stand up, all ready to shout obscenities at him, to rail against him for our baby girl now clasped in eternal slumber underneath an inconsequential tablet. Then I take in his whole bulk, and gasp as my eyes flicker upon his face. The scarf now unwinds itself, fluttering to the floor, its invoking ability now powerless against the crushing truth that stands before me.  A hand flies to cover my own mouth in defense against my shock; to stop myself from screaming, but the sobs come hard and fast, venomous in their strength. My legs finally crumple underneath me, all sense of ostentatious fortitude gone.

He turns his milky white eyes onto me, and pauses, before saying the exact phrase I don’t want to hear.

“I’m sorry.”