Just Testing Out My Rusty Writing Skillszszs
I'm gonna come clean here and say that I once aspired to be an author. My high school friends can attest to that. I used to have a journal filled with story prompts and WIPs that were never written to fruition; and just like most frustrated artists, I gave up pursuing the art of creative writing.
Just a few months back, I tried my hand on writing fanfiction (don't judge me, y'all probably have read at least one fanfic in your life), and I chose Roma Montagov, a main character of Chloe Gong's These Violent Delights, as my muse in an alternative, modern universe, with no solid plot except for themes from the original work. When you have the time, read through an excerpt that I wrote (and one that I might never continue lmao). I accept in open arms any critical comments and violent reactions.
trigger warning(s): mentioned in the text are cigarette smoking, alcohol, sex, revenge, and blood
He stood before the balcony's ledge overlooking the luminous and hustling streets of Shanghai, a bottle of whiskey and a lighted cigarette on each hand, counting down the hours before he meets the company board and discuss business matters with them. There was a sense of uneasiness to him that kept him awake despite his efforts to clinch them down. A woman, whose name he couldn't remember, was sprawled naked across his silk sheets, spent from the rough night they had. He thought it was enough to keep the creeping uneasiness at bay, yet as the hours doubled, the distinctive feeling of being watched, of being haunted by the people from his past kept him on his toes. Don't even think about it. They can't hurt you. Not when you're so close to destroying them. It became his mantra, unspoken and lived day and night, sparking the dying embers of what was left of his soul, ignited by the hatred coursing through him for what was unfairly done unto him years ago.
They thought he was living in the ditches and slums of the city, too broken and skinned from his worth and dignity to start anew, yet here he was, sated in alcohol, nicotine and sex, leaning across the balcony railing in nothing but his boxers surrounded by wealth, grandeur, and gold --- like a king overseeing his empire built from scratch and blood, unbeknownst by people who thought of him gone. A loud bang erupted from the sky along with a shower of colors, signaling Christmas Eve. He takes a swig from his bottle of whiskey and bitterly stares at the towering glass building across him, a tiny speck from where he stood, but nonetheless a glaring reminder of what was done and what needs to be done. Damn the consequences, damn the woman who scorned and wretched his heart, damn the people who stabbed him from behind and left him crumpled and bleeding 'til his soul had nothing left but anger and hatred enough to burn them all to the ground. He will not be deterred by conscience and by his heart, if there was even anything left of it. He armored himself with the ruthlessness that he wore as his comfort suit, his cruelty to shield him from anything and anyone that wills to destruct him. If this is what it takes to avenge himself, so be it.
He inhales the last of his cigar and turns around to prepare for what's to come. Behind him, colorful lights and the loud hoots from people jesting in his somber evening buried the weight of his vengeance, for now.