No Particular Reference

LeavesofMyself: Hurrah! I have written another chapter... thing. I apologize for it being so short, yet, despite that, I am thrilled with how this turned out. It's a little more in-depth psychologically, meaning you'll probably have to think about it in order to understand it. I tried not to make it overly difficult, however. I'll explain it at the end of the chapter to help you out though. I highly suggest reading my end notes though, as it will give you a great understanding of why the chapter is so vague and analytical.

This is a continuation of "Chapter 1" and "Detached." Please Enjoy!

Chapter Warning(s): Angst, Dark Themes, Mild Gore, and Mild Violence

Chapter Rating: T

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~*~ The person who tries to live alone will not succeed as a human being.

His heart withers if it does not answer another heart.

His mind shrinks away if he hears only the echoes of his own thoughts and finds no other inspiration -Pearl S. Buck ~*~

The room is scarce; an empty chamber for a forgotten memory. The walls encase all that is lonely, silent personas bearing witness to somber lament. Their sheen, glossy, primed finish withers, molding over, scaring as time passes; blotches of chipped luminescent paint and stains of criminal self-loathing decorate the concealing walls. No holograms of memories of discounted, of smiles neglected and reminders of what should have been; wish it could have been… The walls are bear. A prison: self-made, self-induced, all consuming, inescapable prison. His prison, a very lonely one.

The ceiling hangs overhead, a twisted idealistic form of shelter, of a shield to protect him. It can't hold the weight of the failures, of him, so it has begun to sag; belly distended proclaiming it is full. Too full. It should crumble, should have ages ago, but it hasn't. So he waits impatiently for when it does, praying (hopelessly… faithlessly) that it crushes him: shrapnel digging un-forgivingly into his delicate armor, tearing through precious wires and circuits, murdering his being as ever-so-delicate life pours out him, pooling into a puddle of black lies and mistakable failures, mocking his false existence as he baths in it, swims in the ever-lasting promise of nothing while the weight of everything renders him invalid. His weight. Always his weight. The thought is intoxicating.

The floor fares no better. Another lie in his life, another mockery. It dips and raises, testaments to his moods, ever-changing moods, shading when he cannot breathe and blackening when he wishes not to breathe. It provides a ground, a steadiness (however slight it is) in which he desperately craves. Some days, he wants the floor to disintegrate, open up and swallow him whole: plummeting listlessly into the abyss of oblivion; falling way into the sneers and harsh truths of what he is… Worthless, they shall call him (do call him), failure will be named his crime; a deep, prolonged keen of misery will be the song to lull him away, sing to him in a song meant for the wicked, for the lowest of filth. On other days, he wishes for none of this; he wishes for nothing.

There is but a berth, tucked away like a dirty secret in the corner. Such a filthy corner. Yet what good is the berth. It only brings about the unpleasantness of recharge. Memories he wished to forget. Memories he couldn't forget. And the bitter taste of memories he will never have the slightest taste of cherishing. A wicked reminder. He should get rid of it. He doesn't want the reminders. He wants to live in denial… If only for a little while. They dance in his mind though, pretty pictures of morbid delight; rich fulfillment as the sweetness of words dance across his audios, tender moments of unrivaled love, reality bent and morphed, an unconscious effort to better his miserable essence. Then he wakes and his frame wracks heavily with his agony. He is despaired but it is all he is worth. He deserves no better.

The room is scarce. It is his metaphor. The room is empty, will always be empty. He deserves much the same, exists much the same. There is no point in fooling himself. Why play pretend? It hurts less to drown in his truth than to embrace somber lies and watch as everything crumbles.

Lies are forever; Truth is ever-lasting.

In this broken prison, he surrounds himself with the truth, with their voices. They should know. They do know. After all, they remind him every day.

Such a sad thought: Should he cease to exist, who would mourn him? Silly, Starscream… You are not meant to be mourned, only mocked. You hold no place. You are only empty space. Learn this. Live by this rule of decree.

Wither away now. They have grown weary of you. You should not trouble them with your being. It only makes them irritable.

He commits an act of mercy (as he shall trouble them no more). Blackness comes, consumes his vision.

He sees a figure, a mirage Hope towers above him. Optics portray horror and crushing sorrow, pity the ocean they swim in. Ah! trouble yourself not, silly mech: You need not concern yourself with him. Should not. He is nothing, deserves nothing.

You try to stop the flood of pink tides, anchored pristine against broken infection in vain. You speak weak mummers that whisper against his audios. Your voice wavers, shakes with great trepidation.

Blue optics keen in panic as his flaw paints your snowy perfection. He cannot understand, tries but fails to understand: Why bother trying to save the damned? He is not worth your efforts. He is not a fighter. Only a coward. He has failed many times before; he will fail at your request.

A placid smile and the fathom blackness is now reality.

You are nothing but a forgotten memory.

Fade away.

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LeavesofMyself: Alright for those of you who might not have understood this, here's what I had in mind when I wrote the piece:

1) The 'He' being addressed throughout the chapter is in reference to Starscream.

2) It might not have been overbearingly obvious, but Starscream does, in fact, commit the act of suicide. I tried to give hints throughout the chapter: " flood of pink tides" taking reference to spilled Energon.

3) The room description is metaphorically a description of Starscream.

4) The mech who tries to stop said " flood of pink tides" is none other than Skyfire, which might have been hard to pick out as I only gave the smallest, subtle hint as to who it was: "snowy perfection". I didn't want it to be obvious and I clearly left it open to other options. If someone wanted another mech to be the rescuer, then "snowy perfection" could have just meant a 'pure perfection' in which Starcreams "flaw" (Energon) is tainting.

5) This is, perhaps, one of the hardest observations to key-into: The entire chapter, itself, was a foreshadowing of the end. I gave a huge (in my standard, though it's okay to have not picked up on it) foreshadowing in the beginning when describing the walls of Starscream's room: "criminal self-loathing decorate the concealing walls" was meant to be a subtle reference to Starscream committing the act, thusly splattering his Energon on the walls (which were "silent personas bearing witness to somber lament", where "lament" is the portrays the bewitching misery that has plagued Starscream). Also, "murdering his being as ever-so-delicate life pours out him, pooling into a puddle of black lies and mistakable failures, mocking his false existence as he baths in it, swims in the ever-lasting promise of nothing while the weight of everything renders him invalid" is metaphorical as well, as it was described in a whole other situation, however, described the after-math of Starscream's act of suicide.

6) In working with the idea of Starscream ending his own existence, the story is, indeed, told through his POV, though it may not seem like it. The "You" expressed throughout the story is expressing Starscreams own contempt of himself, a degrading act with the intent to mock himself for his final failure: The inability to live. Furthermore, I also intended the "He" to demonstrate that Starscream has come to see himself as insignificant, much as he believes others view him, thusly creating a sort of detachment emotionally. Also, the overall progression through this chapter in written (sort of) in the style known as Stream of Consciousness, which is a style of writting that portrays the human thoughts (I.e. humans, when thinking, tend to jump from thought to thought without a brief, subtle change between the two: for example, a person could be thinking about ice cream and how they always get cold after eating it, then begin to think about winter and snow).

7) Finally, I wrote this chapter so analytically because I wanted to: 1) write something different that required more thought that oblivious facts written in a story, and 2) I wanted to experiment with psychology in the sense of what it could possibly be like to be so alienated and how that might transgress onto one's own thoughts/views of themselves, especially if the person loathes themselves enough to wish to cease to exist.

I hope everyone enjoyed the chapter! Please read and review! I'd love to hear your interpretations of this chapter especially. :)