Silent Film

Chapter Two: Spare Time.

Warnings AU, adult themes, yaoi.

Thank you my reviewers! I really appreciate the feedback.

m3tfr34k-thank you i shall to update soon.

Gravy Baby-thank you! I recently read Faulkner's As I Lay Dying and I loved his repetition of words to express character. I shall update very soon.

This chapter questions self existence.

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Ichigo.

Ichigo. Kurosaki Ichigo. I-chi-go! His name was Ichigo. That was clear, it was shimmering, shinning in his head. His name was Ichigo.

At least he knew that. At least, at least he understood that. It was his achievement, his grand advancement into life and the surrounding world. It was his crowning accomplishment in a time where knowledge of one's self was a doormat to the path of idiocracy. He knew his name, knew its meaning, Its very definition. He was Ichigo, he was Kurosaki, he was "is". For he couldn't be anything else, not it, or then or them. He was Ichigo, I-chi-go.

Quite a feat really. Considering that most people stumbled around, hardly knowing themselves. He could see them struggling with their own names, no comprehension of themselves.They were hollow empty shells. Their souls corrosive, struggling to stay a float in a mass of knowing hate. They hated themselves and others, unable to make changes, set to the mindset of their ignorance. They were disgusting, repulsive shuttering black moths. Blind, covered in grizzly bristles and gargantuan eyes. They were revolting, causing his skin to shiver and his words to stutter.

They were "them" they were not "is". They were was.

He was "is". He had to be, otherwise what was he? He had no other definition, no other ability that to possess the knowledge that he was is. He had no skill, no worthy attribute.

Yes he knew his name was Ichigo. Ichigo. Ichigo Ku-ro-sa-ki!

His mother was not Ichigo, not Kurosaki, not "is". She was "was". She had been every since that day when she left him. She had been "is" but...that titled drifted away when she left him outside the theater. The Oasis, such a funny name. Such a strange, funny place. The Oasis was a mix, stuck between is and was. The Oasis, his Oasis. His mother had thrown him away. Left him standing outside the theater as she turned her head, her hair shining in the sun. It was always shining, it blond color radiating. Once he thought her hair was the sun and tried to catch. That was so long ago. She had left him, pressed her cold lips upon his brow, her facial muscles working into a grimace as something wet slipped past his cheeks. Had he been crying? Was it her that was quivering with tears? Or was the sun weeping?

Jackal, Jackal was strange too. Renji was then. However, Jackal was now. Jackal was his dream, his Oasis. He was not one of the blind moths. Not the weeping sun or the clicking of high heels as they walked away from him. Jackal was the seducing comfort. That creator of ephemeral calmness that is experienced only in the realm between reality and slumber. He would lie in that realm, half in half out, and find his comfort in the gray. He would become filled the gray and empty himself. He would become clean, cuddled in the arms of the mixing colors. There would be no light, no darkness, only that irremediable gleam of the gray. There would be no shallow cries that seemed to be coming from his lips. Had they been, or had those grievances come from something alien and other than his own throat? Jackal was alway there, his Oasis.

He would see the man today. He would watch him frozen upon that screen, lost in the void of thens, is, and was. Jackal would embrace her, thow her upon the bed, and merge with Dawn. Dawn, a fickle young female that had the world on her finger and Jackal sucking at her heart. His mother was once like Dawn, her skin so pale, her eyes so fiery.

He would love to trade places with Dawn, to become "then". He wanted to, to merge with the flow of gray. He couldn't though, he was is and Jackal was just a character. He could never be then. Neither of them would every be then. All he could do is lay in that false slumber and cast away all until he was emptied. Cast away those sounds, those wet patches, and the images of his hands grasping at the disappearing comfort of his mother.

That was what he thought anyway. His name was Ichigo. Ichigo kurosaki.

He was a funny thing, such a strange, funny creature. They all shouted it. Kids at his high school were absurd, crazy in their titles of him. He was not strange, freakish, or daffy. He was Ichigo. How could he be anything else? Still, they shouted it with vigor and laughing faces. They all stared at him as he would stare back. Them glazing outwards and he glazed inwards. They were blind, horrible bugs that scuttled around. How he wanted to slap at them.

They could never glaze inwards. Not like he could. Only he could.

That was what he thought about, every day, all day. It was his routine.

He scrubbed his eyes with his hand, wiping away the weariness. It would not be good to show such things. He stared hazily back at his desk, creating drawings in the fake wood. It was particle board, a false interpretation of the real thing. He stared at the brown fakeness until the drawings went out of his eyes and his mind switched back on. Resting in front of him was his homework. It needed tending, it needed weeding, and pruning. He would have to fix it.

Chapter 3 English:In a well organized easy explain Homer's use of rhetorical devices in the Odessy.

Homer created sin, the sirens transforming flesh. Homer transformed men into beasts and beasts into immoral men.

His homework was taxing. The questions beyond his scope. He would stare at the question and wonder, wonder, and wonder. Homer was a sinner. He wanted to write that upon the page but he didn't. Instead he allowed the white of his paper to remain unsoiled. There was no reason to write.

Jackal was a sinner. The movie validating this assertion by the tears of the weeping Dawn. Had his mother weeped like Dawn? Possibly, it was a compatible assertion. They were both the same woman really, Dawn and mother. The titles interchangeable.

He would visit him again today, see to the questions burning inside his chest. He would have to finish his homework though. Complete the work and finish the things that needed doing. After he would stare at the white paper, he would fix dinner. His father was a doctor and sinner at the trade. He had told the man that, stared him down as he ate the food Ichigo prepared for him each day. He had told him that, his father, starring at him like a moth. His father was a moth, grasping at the lives of the injured. He would heal them, or leave them to die. His wings, glittering in inky drops of dew were brushing the wings of other moths, creating sin. Creating a great stirring of grotesque horror.

He had told the older Kurosaki that and his father reacted as the same. For he told him the same thing everyday. "You are a sinner father, you are mediator of death. You are a black moth."

"How do these dreams make you feel son?" The moth's eyes stared down at him. The white room was menacing, imprisoning. He tied down right? Wasn't there restraints on his hands?

"You are a sinner, father. You are a black moth."

"Why do you think that? Is that what your dreams say to you?" Those eyes were so black, so oily they were devouring him, slowly eating his insides. It hurt, his hands were bruising. Hi mind, oh his mind was so trembling.

"You are a sinner father, you are sinner."

"What do they tell you Ichigo?" Why ask such things of him? He was in the white room, the room that was always white.

"They scream the nasty words in my ears, prickling me with their flapping wings."

"Why do they do that?" Because you tell them to, the orderlies, you tell them to do such things. The moths, they swarm around your command, you throne a mountain of sin .

"Because they won't leave me alone."

"Why?" Because you ask of it, you and the white room, and the drippng of the Iv that is so like the clicking of her shoes.

Because, they just won't. "

"Why?" Just because.

"Because you allow it."

"Does that scare you, do you feel like you have lost control." I am.

"Yes, always, everyday."

"Good." I am always.

His father would trick him. His father would force the words from his throat. He had meant to lessen his father, to drive the wedge deeper, but instead it twisted. His father would win, his father would twist him. His father was a siren. He was a siren and Ichigo was the tumbling sea that rocked the boat ad sent it crashing into the rocks. He was the twisting water that offered only the identity of drowning. Ichigo was a victim and a murderer in one.

The alarming paleness of his paper frightened him. He needed to finish his homework. He brought the tip of his pencil to the surface and his answer. Minutes ticked by and his paper was filled. He grabbed his homework, the paleness swallowed up in the lines and shoved it deep inside his backpack. It was new, a messenger bag from Karakura's Ginza District. His father purchased the accessory for him recently. It was shiny, real leather, and inscribed with his name. His old one, the one he had hidden in the back of his closet was only four months old. It still smelled of fresh leather and its refulgence haunted him as he slept. His father was always replacing his thing when the slightest weathering presented itself. Still the smell lingers and the daunting squeaks of his buried things cause him to wake in the night. When he is frightened by the discarded, he will crack the closet open and allow them to breathe.

"Old is the appearance of irrational and degrading inferiority. Its better to throw away things before they start to turn."

"Is that what happened to mother? Did you cast her away."

"Your mother was tarnishing. A new model was needed."

It was a psychological development that needed tweaking, his father told him. It was justified, throwing away the old brought forth the desire for the new. Without such actions there would be no need for further advancement into the world. Without the desire to fix the tarnishing, the world would decay and crumble. Furthermore it was natural to want to prolong the aging progress by destroying the old.

To him, to Ichigo, the old meant the clicking.

Could you throw it away? Could you cast it down the stairs and hope it breaks its neck so you can bury it in the garden? Or would it find its place in your closet, squeaking like your back pack, and causing you to stare at the door for hours until the droning voice faltered off.

If he knew that, then his paper wouldn't be so white.

He would leave soon, forget his homework, the supper already fixed, the chime of six o'clock prompting him to make haste. He would leave the apartment, his new bag thrown over his shoulder, as his feet would find the ground and send him spiraling forward. He would then walk, sliding through the extravagance that surrounded his building, the gilded gold carpets, the brass furnishings, the sparkling, tier chandelier, the door hop that would tip his hat, and snarl inside his hating, moth body at the job he was confined to work. He would walk past the shops, past the foreign cars and banks, past the hotels, and the caged life until he left it all behind, and then he would walk, far, heavy, further, and further. He walk further, farther, more taxing until the bell from the grand clock struck six thirty and he would walk faster. His feet would be stomping, cracking the cement in false force and the earth would tremble, tremble so softly until his hands began to twitch. Small, tightly, jerking movements that would grow into spasms and then he would walk, he would walk, he would walk. He would walk until he would sink, his feet thumping to the surging pulse of the traffic. Then he would walk, walk fast past the skyscrapers until the new eclipsed, and the past came forth from the shadows to play. The buildings would fade into store facades of worn. Trash thrown about, the hum of the sirens blaring into his ears. It would build up, and then it would scream. The old, the dilapidated, the forgotten would scream until he was running. Running from the screams, the pavement forcing his feet to stutter over its buckled surface. Then he would scream loud, silently, internally until the madness of his running, of his screaming, of his terror until it would break. It would all break and crack, crumbling into a mess of shards and screaming. HE would gasp, his voice mouthing the non existent screams and he would fall.Then he would stop, his mouth dry, his eyes burning, and his mind clean.

He was empty, cleaned from the pains of everyday. So then he would stop, stop like he was doing now, his heaving quieting. He removed his hands from their spot on his quivering thighs and looked up. His eyes collided with the Oasis and the sandle hat was staring at him. The old man's eyes were burning with the hard, heated glaze of seeing, seeing him screaming. The eyes were burning through his and his stomach was clenching as the doors opened and the eyes, those hard, burning eyes were beseeching him. They were snaring him and he was pinned! Pinned to the riddled concrete, pinned to the scenery that sprung up around him. He was forced, his mind blank, his breath calm, to enter and he was doing so with the eyes of that hard glaze starring at him, setting him on fire. The clock was striking, the tull resonating through his organs. He was shaking, the sound rattling through his bones and shaking his organs. His heart was thumping to the beat, his lungs spasming to the beat, his brain twitching to beat of the tull. It was seven o'clock and the doors were open just for him. An invitation to the show, greeted and offered to his jerking hand by the eyes of the devil. The sandle hat's eyes visible only through the glass of the doors, but burning with desire of wanting him to enter.

So he would enter and his heart would stop for that one second as he passed over the threshold into the Oasis. He approached the old man, the eyes now simmering, the hard glare melting into the facade of the elderly. But still they were constantly looking out across the street and as he forced his mouth to open and expel," one for Black Lace on Blue Dawn."

"The bell is catching you close to night, the last tull is sounded."

"I know."

" There's plenty of room inside, the best seat in the house just for you." Would be the reply and his hands would never grasp onto that ticket for there was none. No ticket or receipt, just the opening to the viewing room and the thunderous roar of the opening credits. He would walk with no money in his pockets, no ticket in his hands, and with no voice as the eyes followed his descent into the heart of the theater. He would remain there until the movie passed and the tull sounded nine o'clock. For there was no ticket, no reason to receive one, no reminder that he was there.

If he was not there by the dull tull of seven the door would not open. The movie would play with him locked outside, the doors never opening for him to enter. He would be pinned, stoned to a silent ridiculous death by those eyes until the screaming returned and he would run away screaming into the night. The feeling of all that he expelled soaking back into his skin, until somehow he would run, and run, and run back into the confines of apartment. He would be locked inside the doors of his house, the screaming pounding on the doors to let it in and devour him. The moths fluttering around his windows, their oily eyes absorbing him. He would scream, and scream, and scream until he would become lost, lost to the whiteness of his homework and the single line that he had written.

Homer was a "was".