User:Stigma-231/Dabbling

So maybe you were wondering, what does Stigma do in her spare time? I like words. Words are my favourite. What words? Every word, ever. I like to take words and turn them into something interesting, so I'd like to think. Maybe you'd be interested in them?

If you are, then you are indeed in luck. I have decided to take some of my mind grapes and smear them over this page. Even if they aren't related to Halo, maybe someone, somewhere, will find interest in them.

Half-Life: Full Life Consequences.2

''Yes. I am rewriting the work of art into something else, though I've already done that before. Except this one will be much longer and srs than the last thing I did that no one knows about! How exciting. Kindly remember that it is massively WIP, and mostly just what's been written down in my notebook thus far. By hand. With that said, expect mistakes. This will be revised in the future when I get the time. Anyhow, here it is, nice and raw; hope you enjoy.''


 * Somewhere in Black Mesa, the sun was rising.  That window filtered in the glorious light, painting its room in pale colours.  Maybe he couldn't see it, but the young man certainly felt the second wind that came with morning.  He sat, ever-tireless of his work, at a large metal desk.  His admirable form was lost, hidden behind mountains of papers and carefully stacked coffee mugs.  The former was his passion, each line of data a poem, a love song; the latter his life blood, keeping him wide awake when the dark circles under his eyes told him, screamed at his logic, "No!  No more!"  Sleep never got anything done—not around these parts.  Certainly, things had to get done!  He was on the verge of a breakthrough at long last, and there was no time to rest.  "I'll sleep when I'm dead!" he would tell his concerned colleagues, almost jokingly.  Almost.  But the young man had plenty of time left in this world, and surely he was of vale—enough to protect.  He was brilliant in mind and highly respected.  Even then, he could stand on his own two feet with his superb health and quick wits.  Truly, he was the poster boy for successful youth.  Life was the best, and each day only brought an even better future.


 * An animalistic groan was released into the stale air. The sun's light stabbed him in the eyes, drawing him from another dream.  Dazed, his besieged and aging eyes opened, a blurry reality flooding in.  The vision was gone now.  John's throat scratched out another groan, the foul stench of alcohol emanating from his breath.  His eyes lazily drifted over his surroundings.  He was buried under garbage, piles of empty bottles of beer, vodka, and every other alcoholic beverage known to what was left of man were haphazardly stacked all around the putrid floor.  The "good ol' days" never seemed farther, and God how he wanted them back.  All that was left of them were fleeting memories in a battered mind, brought back to the forefront only by tantalizing dreams fueled by his "addiction."  It was less an addiction, really, and more a sick coping mechanism.


 * The squandered man rolled over, a pile of garbage falling in his wake. But it didn't matter enough to clean up; nothing had mattered since Black mesa.  Back then, everything had indeed mattered, even he.  Now, though, it went without saying that everything about and around him was treated general sense of apathy.  Most of the time, he was too drunk to even remember that something lie outside the walls of his shack, or form a coherent sentences.  Either way, it still didn't matter.  No one ever came to him in his personal hell that took the shape of an old, decrepit building which stunk to the high Heavens, that was possibly the only way Heaven remembered him.


 * Right now, though, being remembered wasn't important to him. He wanted to remember, he wanted to forget.  He reached for another bottle with his filthy hand.  It returned with a present, which was promptly drained when he threw his head back.  The warm beer flowed down his throat.  It was awful, but it had to work.  Please work why isn't it working don't abandon me now.  He gave a roar of his accumulated frustrations and smashed the bottle against his forehead.  It shattered into an infinite number of pieces and finally did its job; he was knocked out cold as he fell to the floor.