Flying Pigs, Oh My!

Now, don't expect too much amazing storytellin' in this chapter, it's mainly here for those like three people who will actually want to know how chapter two is tied in to my little spaz story. Violence here, broken pigs, and some lovely imagery on future chapters can be expected. Basically, this is Bleach with better storytelling that Tite gives. Bon appetit, bon voyage, bon -aparte



In a house, no…a mansion, on a grassy hill, there are two people shouting at each other. One is standing at a doorway, backed up against a stained glass door. The other is advancing quickly, his face hidden in long black hair that has become knotted and tangled from hours of stress.

The frightened one cringes as he sees the other, his former friend, approaching. He sees anger in the face of his friend, well the face he could see. Eyes red from crying, and a throat still marred by a previous attempt at release from life. He tried to keep some form of composure, keeping himself from crying. He hid his eyes in medium length brownish-blonde hair, avoiding eye contact after he was frightened by the little he saw.

But it did not have its intended effect, for upon sight of this, the aggressor became even angrier, his hands clenching and unclenching rapidly. He was already a very frightening figure, without even trying. He typically wore dark clothing, and had a very bittersweet outlook on life. In his eyes, he was going to die sooner or later, so he might as well make an impact. This time, the impact would be made upon his former friend, the kid named Nicholas, or Nick as his real friends tended to call him.

Nick had no clue what he had done to anger his old buddy, John; all he knew was that he was scared. John was gentle most of the time, but something had changed about ten minutes ago when Nick had answered a seemingly simple question. All John had asked was whether or not Nick disliked him as a friend.

“Damn it, why’d I have to go and say that?” Nick asked himself, still on the verge of tears. He had answered truthfully, only saying that there were some moments where he wasn’t quite sure what to think any more.

John had taken this as Nick saying that he was a bad friend, or something to that extent. For whatever reason, the thought of this made John crash, hard. He had started crying, and nothing Nick could do would stop it. John was devastated at this news, he was angry and scared at the same time. With his limited understanding of his own feelings, he had picked the more noticeable one, anger. With this new, strong emotion, John proceeded to break whatever came into his contact.

Broken glasses and broken picture frames lay around the pale green room, making the darker carpet hazardous to most people. Around the various desks were statues of pigs, which once had crystalline wings. But in his anger, John had snapped off every single pair of wings on those pigs, throwing them at the retreating figure of Nick. They embedded themselves into walls and other such objects, giving the appearance of a warzone.

A warzone about to come to a bloody conclusion, to be precise. Where there weren’t pieces of pigs, there was blood. Apparently, somebody had walked through the glass and had sliced open his or her foot on the remnants. Blood smeared itself into the carpet, adding to an overall haunted look. It dripped in a pretty normal fashion, leading to the person with the injury.

This person just happened to be John, the sight of his blood causing him to go beyond what anger could normally do to him. He’d normally have broken down into sobbing by now, but the whole experience kept him going.

The whole thing just creeped Nick out, feeling suddenly like an actor in some sort of horror movie he had no script for. The blood, the broken glass, everything; It all just scared him so very badly that he was trembling. He hadn’t meant to cause such an outburst; he really just wanted to be honest. And now, to see John in such a craze, he felt saddened, and very frightened.

His clothes were tattered; John had tried to rip them off to stop him. His long black sweatshirt was ripped in so many ways; he could make bandages out of it. The only part left untouched was the part at the back, where the hood was folded up. ‘Well,’ Nick thought, ‘at least I’ll be able to hide in my hood, maybe wake up from this horrible nightmare and find myself safe again.’

Sadly, that was not to be. As he was thinking this, John was walking closer and closer, staining the forest green carpet a more sinister color, a sickly brown. Once it had saturated the carpeting, the footsteps changed. Instead of a loud thud, they turned into squishing noises, not very frightening under normal conditions.

Under normal conditions, this would have ended a while ago, too. Oh, how lovely it would have been for that to have happened, if it had ended with Nick comforting John on the floor, watching the floor get damp with tears. Instead of tears, he got blood, not a very nice exchange. One was certainly a lot scarier than the other, and a lot harder to get out of carpeting.

That odd thought brought a slight smile to Nick’s face, getting him out of this position for a moment or two. But it was over as soon as it began, and a look of terror snapped back down into place, erasing any traces of the smirk.

The blood overflowed now, soaking the once-dry socks Nick had on, turning them a shade of pink most normally associated with cotton candy. The dye-job wasn’t all bad, though. Nick had been complaining about not having anything to match his bright pink slacks, earlier. The pants matched the socks perfectly, now if only this procedure could be sold worldwide. Oh, wait, it already was. It was called murder.

Damn, another perfectly good plan foiled by society! This just was not Nick’s day, it seemed. First, he pissed off his friend, and then he had to go and think of something that was already trademarked. Maybe he shouldn’t have even crawled out of bed this morning.

Nick was certain now, he should have just slept in and ignored John when he had asked if Nick wanted to visit. Maybe if he had said no, things would have turned out differently. “Oh well, might as well make the best of it…” He said, preparing to bolt. Would John try to stop him, or would he escape unharmed, he wondered.

Nick steeled up his courage, and he ran. He managed to avoid slipping on the carpet, a good start. He ran as fast as he could, ignoring John. He sprinted for the back door, hoping John had forgotten to apply the locks again, like he usually did.

To Nick’s relief, the polished ivory door opened with little to no resistance, leaving John panting, the redness in his face fading, leaving him pale as a ghost, once more. Lonely as one too, Nick would guess, for he was running down the steep hill as fast as his long legs would take him. He leapt from one area to the next, not once looking back, never caring what he was risking.

There was only one person who could help him now: Vincent.

I really liked the surreal comments Nick starts making as John is approaching him. About how murder is trademarked and how blood is a lot harder to get out of the carpeting then tears. Be interested in the next chapter.

Chaptuh Two!



He’d been running for a while, trying to remember the way to Vincent’s old house. “Now, was it left three times and then right, or left twice and then two rights?” Nick asked out loud, an annoyed expression on his face. It was obvious to the passers-by that he was angry with something he couldn’t control.

Of course, that could just be because he was running along a rough street with no footwear; that could certainly cause some issues. This had to have been the worst-paved road in all of New Jersey: that’s what all the residents said. There was an assortment of old trash mixed in with the concrete, creating a lovely obstacle course. Thumbtacks and staples were put into the road as it was drying, which turned it into a killer of feet and footwear.

It was because of all this that Nick winced every few steps, trying not to cry out it seemed. He was biting his bottom lip every time he took a step, looking incredibly angry. To the outsiders, it seemed like it was only because of the texture, but he knew it had a more significant meaning, a more personal one.

It was on this road a year ago when he had told Vincent he was bisexual. Vincent had told Nick that he was fine with it, but they had never quite acted the same around each other since then. Nick wasn’t sure why, he just knew he wished he could take it all back.

He didn’t think Vincent was homophobic or anything, he just figured he had presented it in a bad way. Maybe if he had been more subtle, or if he hadn’t brought it up at all, they’d still be best friends. After all, Vincent had always been the go-to guy when things got tough, the coolest of the three of them. After what had happened there, Nick was afraid to tell John the same thing, afraid that it would change that friendship too.

So he had sat in silence for a while, enjoying his time with John as much as he could. John and Vincent had stayed friends, and Vincent had tried to keep Nick involved, but it never quite worked out as planned. Nick never blamed Vincent for being a bit afraid, but that didn’t help him cope very well. The more he thought about Vincent, the more depressed he got.

This would be the first time in about six months that Nick was going to ask Vincent for much of anything, and this time he had been forced into it. He was hoping, praying even, that Vincent would still be willing to help an old friend out. If Vincent was willing to abandon him after three years of friendship, Nick wasn’t sure what he’d do.

Luckily, he didn’t have to ponder that thought very long. As he went over the situations in his head, he came up to Vincent’s house. He had no clue how he had found his way, all he knew was that he was glad he had. He trudged up the long white stairs, loving the feeling of the cool stone against his feet.

It was a quiet neighborhood; that much was certain. The only sound he could hear was that of his feet hitting the stairs, one at a time. It developed into a nice tune once Nick got his mind off of the whole issue at hand. He would step on one, and jump onto the next right after, making an upbeat song.

He stopped suddenly when a large black door opened, and out stepped Vincent, in all his glory. Well, as much glory as he could muster, being as short as he was. He was at least a foot shorter than Nick, who was around 6’2. But to make up for this lack of height, he wore whatever he could to make himself look like he was evil and just the tiniest bit crazed.

His “fashion statements”, as Vincent himself liked to call them, tended to involve lots of dark purple eyeliner, and just a tiny bit of lipstick. Not that black lipstick that most depressed kids have, either. Vincent liked to be different, so he had on lipstick the shade of cinnamon. It was meant to make him stand out, but most people only found it sexy, the way it showed off his delicious lips.

He had a tight shirt on that was the shade of a stop sign and a pair of loose black jeans held up by a rainbow-studded belt. On the shirt was a sentence in dark gray lettering, small enough print to require one to stare at it for a while to understand it. It said “Kiss me, I’m sexy” across his chest, with bright pink kiss marks spread throughout.

Nick stared at Vincent some more, trying to read the writing. Once he got to the end of it though, he couldn’t help but blush. Once upon a time, he’d had a crush on Vincent; it seems that never went away. Nick found himself staring even more at the muscles that were shown around Vincent’s sleeveless shirt, bulging areas that made the caramel colored skin glimmer in the light.

‘Well, it could be the muscles, or it could be the glitter Vincent liked to apply every morning,’ Nick thought to himself, trying not to laugh while staring, afraid of giving the wrong impression. What the wrong impression was, Nick didn’t have a clue. He was just afraid to show any emotions right now, it was already awkward.

After what seemed like an eternity, Vincent opened up his mouth to speak. Nick’s attention was immediately focused, as if he lived for such a thing to happen. “Hey…Nick, how’s it been?” Vincent asked, a slight grin on his face, like he was waiting to see Nick again.

It was only when Vincent asked how he had been, that he remembered why he was here. Nick ran a hand through his tangled dirty blonde hair, trying not to make the knots worse. He let out a sigh, holding back the tears once again. “John…he…he tried to kill me, I think.” Nick admits, still a few stairs away from Vincent.

Nick is shocked when Vincent lunges toward him, grasping him by the shoulders with both hands, quite a feat considering the height difference. “He did WHAT!?” Vincent screamed, outraged that John would do such a thing. John had never been quite right, but neither of them thought he would ever get violent like that.

Vincent kept screaming, he was obviously very, very angry at John for doing such a thing. He led Nick inside his house, through the bleached white doorway. Inside, it was much like the outside, grand in every meaning of the word. Arced ceilings, crystal chandeliers, you name it, it was there.

But the weirdest thing about the house was the color of the inside: black. Apparently, Vincent had been angry one day and had painted the whole thing black to help with his mood. His parents, who are away on vacation right now, didn’t much like the idea when it happened a few months ago.

But, as Vincent had said, they realized quickly that he had a very…special connection to the color. Whenever they tried to paint over it, he would scream about how idiotic they were, and repaint it. He had said once that he would only be happy when his house reflected his feelings, and it was getting closer every day.

Nick noticed just how far Vincent had come while his parents were away, and he was shocked. The white lace curtains had been torn, no, slashed, to resemble a spider web. The windows that weren’t covered by curtains had still been messed with, it seemed. The windowpanes were painted to resemble bleached bones, and blood was painted onto the windows, like the house was crying blood.

Nick walked through, noticing all these changes. He was worried about tracking semi-dried blood all over the carpet, but he realized nobody would notice: the carpet was already a dark red. With this realization, he felt just a tiny bit more at ease, which helped with his walking.

Vincent dropped him off on a couch made of pure white leather that matched the windowpanes and the curtains, asking him to sit tight for a moment while he went to go get some fresh clothes. Nick watched him go around a corner, and sighed softly, hoping this would all be resolved soon.

So Nick waited, admiring the handiwork that Vincent had done in a week. Everything matched, everything was equally creepy. Nick felt that the devil himself would be proud of such designing skills, such talent. It was such a dreadful house, it spoke volumes about how Vincent liked to live, and how he felt inside.

As he was admiring all this, Vincent finally came back down, carrying a pair of long black jeans that Nick had left behind a few years back, trying to see if they would still fit. They seemed to, so Vincent sent Nick over to the kitchen, to go change in peace. Nick kept peaking over his shoulder as he changed, expecting someone or something to come bursting in and kill him.

With this thought in mind, he left the kitchen just as soon as he could, leaving his pants behind on the black marble counter. As he came back around the corner separating the rooms, Nick was shocked to find Vincent laying down right in the middle of the couch where he had been sitting just moments before, while Vincent had gone to fetch clothes.

Nick made a deep sound in his throat, sort of a growl. He laughed to himself as Vincent jumped up; trying to act like everything was normal and he had just been sitting there. No surprise, thought Nick, recalling just a week ago when Vincent had called him and John saying how he hadn’t been getting nearly enough sleep.

Nick had his suspicions, he always had, but he wasn’t ready to come out with them yet. He was assuming that Vincent hated being alone, and that he was just searching for comfort in the presence of others. Nick found it sort of sweet that Vincent would latch onto his scent like that, but also a bit weird. ‘Then again,’ thought Nick, ‘Vincent has always been a bit…weird.’

“So tell me, what happened?” Vincent asked, moving over to one side of the large couch. So Nick went about explaining it all, managing to make it all the way through without breaking down, which amazed them both. Nick had never been all that great at suppressing his emotions, so this had to be very important for him to be able to hold them all off.

Nick inhaled deeply, watching Vincent’s face for any kind of emotion he could recognize. “So, now what?” Nick asked, ready to try almost anything.

"Nick admits, still a few stairs away from Vincent." It think that is grammatically incorrect. Switched tenses.

Also I feel that the jump into explaining that Nick is bisexual was rather forced. I understand you are trying to show that this was pretty important to him, but I personally think that if you have been nearly killed your thoughts are probably not going to be focusing about the significance of a particular road.

You could easily switch that explanation about Nick as he is nearing Vincent's house. As he starts to feel slightly uncomfortable due to their relationship changing since that day. Where it is now it came out of nowhere and felt like you just whacked the audience suddenly with a bat. First chapter is action, fear and rage. Then suddenly it jumps to "I wish that my friendship with Vincent had stayed the same" and into a flashback. I think you could use that portion to maybe elaborate more on John or just on Nick's reaction to the previous event. Then jump into the stuff about Vincent once he is close to his house.

But that is just my opinion.

Saw another grammar error or two but I can't find them after skimming over and am too lazy to go through the whole thing again.