The Beginning of a World without End
Oct. 22nd, 2006 07:13 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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zekkass!
Fandom: Whose Line is it Anyway?
Characters: Greg Proops/Ryan Stiles, Wayne Brady
Title: The Beginning of a World without End (27)
Rating: R
Word Count: 512
Summary: Tale as old as time.
Prompt: 091. Birthday
Author’s Notes: Set some time during Whose Line? UK. WARNING CHARACTER ABUSE.
A standard, wooden table lies on its side in the small kitchen of a flat deep in a foggy, English town. Three candles, two blue and one yellow, defy gravity by sticking to the inverted surface in their cocoons of dried wax. They were birthday candles, but now they’re just another reminder. The peeling linoleum floor is covered by a city of shattered plates, broken glass, and spilt milk.
The cabinets are smeared with frosting; frosting and blood. The dirty white refrigerator door stands open and its light, the only one in this dark box of unfulfilled dreams, falls across the shallow breathing body of Greg Proops, tangled in the ruins of a broken kitchen chair. His ribs ache with each breath and he can feel every inch of him tingle with pain. The view through his broken glasses show crimson stains on his pale skin, skin that feels unnatural, like silk just before it rots.
When he had left home to run to California at eighteen he thought he was done with this way of life, and he thought the same when they shoveled six feet of dirt onto his father’s coffin, but here he was again, the taste of blood on his tongue and suicidal self loathing on his mind. It seemed that all the psych classes were right. The desperate feeling of wanting to escape was back and all because he couldn’t help giving his love to the wrong people.
Footsteps fall in the distance. Greg holds his breath despite the screaming protest of his body. The footsteps get close quickly, long legs that eat up the small apartment in no time flat: bedroom, living room, and now the doorway that Greg’s back is facing. Ryan’s shadow looms over him in sickening symbolism. He’s tempted to look back at the cause of his pain, he wants to ask why in a whimper and tell him in no with a sharp tongue all at the same time, but a broken spirit, and fear of broken bones, keep him silent.
The feet move, luckily away from the kitchen. The front door opens and closes. For a moment Greg thinks of escape, but he doesn’t dwell on it. He knows relying on ideas like that is like believing in Santa Claus: a fake hope. As if to punctuate the sad fact, the lock clicks into place. Ryan’s gone without a goodbye, like so many others. The only difference is he’ll be back: both a curse and a blessing. He’s alone.
Silent, anguished tears slip down the once proud man’s face. He closes his eyes. Wayne, concerned about bruises on his face. Ryan, home early. Fake smiles. Door closes. Smiles gone. A growled warning. An unfortunate comment overheard. And then black. Not even sleep can give him solitude.
The only hope that he can hold onto is that Wayne, the only one who remembered his birthday, didn’t hear anything strange after Ryan rushed him from their home...house, with fake and hurried excuses that have become a staple in his un-lived life.
~End~
*The title is a lyric from the Elton John song Pain
zekkass!Fandom: Whose Line is it Anyway?
Characters: Greg Proops/Ryan Stiles, Wayne Brady
Title: The Beginning of a World without End (27)
Rating: R
Word Count: 512
Summary: Tale as old as time.
Prompt: 091. Birthday
Author’s Notes: Set some time during Whose Line? UK. WARNING CHARACTER ABUSE.
A standard, wooden table lies on its side in the small kitchen of a flat deep in a foggy, English town. Three candles, two blue and one yellow, defy gravity by sticking to the inverted surface in their cocoons of dried wax. They were birthday candles, but now they’re just another reminder. The peeling linoleum floor is covered by a city of shattered plates, broken glass, and spilt milk.
The cabinets are smeared with frosting; frosting and blood. The dirty white refrigerator door stands open and its light, the only one in this dark box of unfulfilled dreams, falls across the shallow breathing body of Greg Proops, tangled in the ruins of a broken kitchen chair. His ribs ache with each breath and he can feel every inch of him tingle with pain. The view through his broken glasses show crimson stains on his pale skin, skin that feels unnatural, like silk just before it rots.
When he had left home to run to California at eighteen he thought he was done with this way of life, and he thought the same when they shoveled six feet of dirt onto his father’s coffin, but here he was again, the taste of blood on his tongue and suicidal self loathing on his mind. It seemed that all the psych classes were right. The desperate feeling of wanting to escape was back and all because he couldn’t help giving his love to the wrong people.
Footsteps fall in the distance. Greg holds his breath despite the screaming protest of his body. The footsteps get close quickly, long legs that eat up the small apartment in no time flat: bedroom, living room, and now the doorway that Greg’s back is facing. Ryan’s shadow looms over him in sickening symbolism. He’s tempted to look back at the cause of his pain, he wants to ask why in a whimper and tell him in no with a sharp tongue all at the same time, but a broken spirit, and fear of broken bones, keep him silent.
The feet move, luckily away from the kitchen. The front door opens and closes. For a moment Greg thinks of escape, but he doesn’t dwell on it. He knows relying on ideas like that is like believing in Santa Claus: a fake hope. As if to punctuate the sad fact, the lock clicks into place. Ryan’s gone without a goodbye, like so many others. The only difference is he’ll be back: both a curse and a blessing. He’s alone.
Silent, anguished tears slip down the once proud man’s face. He closes his eyes. Wayne, concerned about bruises on his face. Ryan, home early. Fake smiles. Door closes. Smiles gone. A growled warning. An unfortunate comment overheard. And then black. Not even sleep can give him solitude.
The only hope that he can hold onto is that Wayne, the only one who remembered his birthday, didn’t hear anything strange after Ryan rushed him from their home...house, with fake and hurried excuses that have become a staple in his un-lived life.
~End~
*The title is a lyric from the Elton John song Pain
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Date: 2006-10-22 11:35 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2006-10-23 11:26 pm (UTC)Ryan's not a bad guy
Date: 2006-10-24 06:20 pm (UTC)Re: Ryan's not a bad guy
Date: 2006-10-25 12:52 am (UTC)Re: Ryan's not a bad guy
Date: 2006-10-26 07:23 pm (UTC)Re: Ryan's not a bad guy
Date: 2006-10-26 09:49 pm (UTC)Re: Ryan's not a bad guy
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Date: 2006-10-26 08:00 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2006-10-26 09:52 pm (UTC)http://www.oldielyrics.com/lyrics/elton_john/pain.html
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Date: 2006-10-30 09:04 pm (UTC)