Addicted To The Hunt

This is intended for anyone who has an addiction. Its purpose is to show the dangerous effect that addiction has, and that addiction is not limited to simply drugs, or alcohol or other things like that.

Addiction. Graverobber had no particular opinion of it. If anything, he welcomed addiction with open arms. After all, his business depended entirely on addiction. The glowing blue liquid that came in a little vial. The glowing blue liquid that had hordes of desperate women clinging to his legs, begging for a hit and paying in any way they could (by money or by flesh, Graverobber had no particular preference). Ah, zytrate. Such a glorious thing, don’t you think?

Graverobber would say otherwise.

Despite already burying his entire body into the business of drugs, Graverobber actually never liked his little blue product that worked as a light bulb. He dared not to try it himself, not because a good dealer never does his own stuff, but simply because he’s seen what it does to his customers. Panting like little whores as they clung to him for a hit, willing to do anything for a spark of his gun… it sickened him. But the money was good, so why would Graverobber care?

Only it’s not the money he’s after. Graverobber cares little for the wad of cash deposited in his hand every time he fired his gun. Graverobber had small interest for the brief escape of reality in the form of supple flesh. No, money and sex was only icing on the cake of his career as an underground drug lord. It was only the tip of the iceberg.

His real thrill was the hunt.

Prowling through the darkness, a light hum always at his lips as he casually made his way around the graves. Graverobber delighted in the heavy scent of death lingering in the air; delighted in dancing on the corpses buried under him. And most of all, loved the rush of adrenaline that circled through his veins when the alarm for grave robbers goes off. He loved ducking behind tombstones when the security lights flashed a little too close, loved committing illegal acts knowing he could easily get away with it. (Gencops were a little dense in the head, compared to Graverobber).

The drug dealer whistled a light tune, prancing into the graveyard as he went searching for a coffin with a nice corpse. His boots made no sound as he stepped over the malnourished dirt. The soles of his boots were stamped all over the graveyard, somewhat to confuse the guards but mostly because Graverobber liked taking the scenic route. His ever-crooked smirk was there, hands tucked into the pockets of his trench coat playing with an empty vial. Soon it would be filled with that glowing blue liquid, and soon Graverobber would have hordes of addicts at his feet, begging him for the tiniest dose.

His smirk fell a little, but Graverobber ignored the tiresome thought of selling the tiresome drug and instead focused on the hunt.

As Graverobber knelt beside a rotting corpse, watching the empty vial fill with swishing blue zytrate, he wondered a little about addictions. They were all-consuming, swallowing everything a person ever possessed that was slightly sane (though Graverobber wondered if there was such a thing as sane in this world). A curse, he would call it. A disease that once grabbed onto, you could never let go of.

“Graverobber?”

He looked up to the young girl standing above him, clutching the strap of her satchel as hints of fear flickered across her eyes. The alarms began to blare, and she gasped and crouched down next to him, head jerking this way and that. Graverobber stared at her for a couple seconds, the vial already full of his merchandise. He smirked, yanking the needle out of the corpse’s skull before grabbing his companion’s wrist and standing up, pulling her along with him. Her arm was almost deathly cold, but felt oddly right in his grasp. She shrieked a little at the unexpected movement, alerting the guards to their position.

Graverobber smiled wickedly.

Addictions are evil, unstoppable. They consume your thoughts and your actions; they give you no say in what you do or what you feel. And worst of all, you begin to need your addiction; you realize that no matter what you try, there isn’t any way you can live without it.

But as Shilo panted heavily, her long legs stumbling awkwardly as she ran behind him, Graverobber was starting to wonder if that was such a bad thing.

A Bug's Life

This is intended for everyone who has ever thought someone has a weird hobby. Its purpose is to show that no matter how weird that hobby is, the person always has a reason for why they have that weird hobby.

Shilo envied bugs.

She never remembered when it started, but now it was impossible to look at all the bugs in her collection without feeling a twinge of jealousy. Once upon a glowing white moon, those bugs were cleverly darting around with their buzzing wings and tiny legs. Once upon a moon they explored new places and revisited old ones. Once upon a moon they were free.

Free. That word seemed so foreign to the little girl curled up on her bed. What was freedom? Did it even exist? In the miniscule and sheltered world of Shilo Wallace’s life, freedom was being able to wander the house alone. It was to be independent. But no one was truly ever independent.

You depended on a home for shelter.

You depended on pills to survive.

You depended on your father for freedom.

Shilo smiled bitterly, her toes flexing under the soft comforters of the bed. Her door had a lock on the outside that barred her from leaving her safe sanctuary. She had already stolen a spare key to get it open, but still. Even if she did get past the lock on her door, she would have to be very careful to avoid her stern father, Nathan Wallace. It was a good thing he was a busy man, Shilo always thought. It was a good thing he gave way for her freedom (though limited it was).

Shilo got up from her bed, stretching her pale legs over the flickering yellow light. Casually, with stifled thumps of her feet, the girl made her way over to her collection of bugs and sat down. They all stared back at her with their dead eyes, and Shilo tapped a few glass jars.

They didn’t move.

Of course, how could they? The darn things were trapped in cages, never to leave for the outside world again. Shilo wondered how they felt; knowing freedom was only a twist of a lid away. They had tasted that freedom once, felt it and breathed it and lived it. But what about her?

What about Shilo?

She scoffed, pushing off the desk and padding over to the door keeping her locked away from the rest of the world. It looked innocent enough, with its dark brown colour and brass knob. Sometimes Shilo thought she could simply twist the handle and pull, and the door would give way. She tried several times, but it never did what she wanted it to. It never gave way for the freedom that Shilo so desperately longed for.

Angry now, Shilo spun around and stomped back to her bed, collapsing on the feather mattress and reaching out for her favourite teddy bear. It was as soft as always, the fabric rubbing against her bare arms as she squeezed it to her chest. From her perch on the bed, Shilo saw the blue glow of her mother’s portrait shining through the room.

Sitting up a little, with the bear still close to her heart, she stared up at the portrait of Marni Wallace. Her mother’s blank face continued to gaze apathetically at her as it always had for all the years she suffered with this hereditary disease. Shilo never understood how her father could love this expressionless woman so much. All she had seen of Marni Wallace were pictures and possessions. All she had ever known of her mother was her disease. The woman mounted up on her wall was nothing more than a stranger; nothing more but a corpse in a crypt.

How laughable, considering the daughter looked exactly like the mother.

“Medicate immediately, medicate immediately.” Her communicator began to beep, flashing lights onto Shilo’s pale face. The young girl looked to the wrist accessory and sighed. The blue pills were still sitting innocently on one of her tables even after all this time. A glass of water lounged beside it, unmoving. Just looking at it made her sick.

“Medicate immediately.” Her watch droned again, the lights flashing faster. Shilo scowled down at it, and in a burst of anger ripped the watch off her wrist and threw it at her pills. The communicator collided with the little bottle of medication and the glass of water, making both tumble to the ground with it. Water dripped from the table onto the floor, soaking the carpet. The soft ground had cushioned the fall, and neither the cup nor the bottle broke; they merely rolled around for a short while. Her watch was also unharmed, but the beeping stopped.

Shilo’s eyes tightened.

She pounced off her bed, stalking over to the cup and the pill container, sweeping them up before chucking them one at a time at her pretty wallpaper. This time they connected with a satisfying smash, sprinkling fragments of glass all over her bug collection.

But it wasn’t enough.

With an angry scream tearing from her lips, Shilo overturned the table in front of her. It hit the ground with another satisfying thump.

Still not enough.

She turned to the transparent sheets on her bed that acted like a mosquito net, and began to pull at them until they were scattered all over the floor.

But it still wasn’t good enough.

Finally letting the fire run rampant through her veins, Shilo lunged at everything in her room, smashing and ripping and tearing and shredding. Her covers were in a state of disrepair, and her stuffed animals littered the floor with missing limbs. All the clothes she owned with thrown haphazardly on the floor, some of the drawers broken. Her mirror was cracked, her windows were shattered, and the door of her room had mysteriously acquired several new scratches. And as Shilo stood in the centre of her broken childhood, the portrait of her mother still did nothing but stare down at her blankly.

“What about the bugs?” She seemed to say with her unmoving mouth, and Shilo looked to the desk housing her collection of bugs. They sat unharmed, their dead eyes still staring at her. The bugs that had once tasted freedom; who had felt and breathed and lived. Who she caught and added to her collection. Who had been denied of what they’ve always wanted since landing in those glass jars.

“What’s freedom?” Shilo asked them, speaking for the first time since entering her room earlier today. “Can you tell me?” They did nothing but stare. Shilo smiled bitterly, stepping over broken glass and fallen furniture to grab one of the glass jars. With gentle and slow movements, Shilo unscrewed each of the lids and turned it upside down, letting the dead bugs fall to the floor. It wasn’t long until Shilo let the last bug drop and she stood in front of a small pile of insects that died a long time ago.

The door opened and an older man with long, multi-coloured hair and a ghostly white face popped his head in. He didn’t seem fazed by the chaotic mess the bedroom turned into, and merely smiled his wicked smile at Shilo.

“Hey kid, you comin’?” His baritone voice questioned, smooth and silky yet eerie and haunting. Shilo looked down at the dead bugs lying in front of her, and a small smile crossed her lips. The man, Graverobber, tilted his head curiously at her.

“Yeah, I’m coming.” She said softly, making her way slowly out of the room and to Graverobber’s side. The light flicked off, and the dark brown door with the brass knob shut quietly behind the two of them.

Shilo envied bugs.

But not anymore.