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 ^{(it's beta!)}

I don’t understand.

Breathing faintly, I peer around the side of the oak tree as I let my fingers dance across the leaves, my arms wrapping thoughtfully around the rough, moist bark. I blush as my stomach knots and swells with the flutter of delicate butterflies. My heart pounds with fear and excitement, as I curse the small voice that scolds my curiosity. It is now that I realise what I huge risk I am taking.

He looks so beautiful though.

"Just think of the trouble you’d be in if you were caught, Amor. They’d tell the Gods. They’d tell Fa-"

"-My name is not Amor." I interrupted. "My name is Lucien."

"That is what she calls you."

"SHE has a name."

"You call her Kate."

"That's because it's her name."

"Amo-"

My heart races with worry as something odd begins to leak from the boys eyes and fall down into the lake. Why is he so sad? In a daze of infatuation I wonder what might happen if I just touch his hand. Would they know?

Turn away now, no good can come of this! You know the rules : you MUST not go into the forest at night. They’ll see you, they’ll know. Amor, if you want things to stay as they are then go, go while you can! For goodness’ sake, foolish child - Please, save yourself!

Suddenly his eyes find mine.

It is now that I realise things will never be the same.

***

I am so sorry.

There is not much I can explain to you, either through lip service or cold, blunt honesty, that will not tarnish your innovative, unconditional fervency, destroying your almost bearable parody of existence. The reason for this is simply that my articulacy is wasted on idle empathy: How could I begin to tell you the end? Eruptions of truth wait merely to breathe a malign ecstasy of limerence through your soul that longs to deceive you with grave devastation.

Poor child, it would take the Gods an eternity to dull such moonstruck grief to a serene wound. Nevertheless, the end is there should you chose to find it.

I pray mercy for anyone who seeks such a hollow destiny, however.

The answer is for those who wish never to feel their own hearts beat again. The answer is lifeless and it’s knowledge is so very ugly.

You, on the other hand, are naive... and that gift is so very beautiful.

I can only wish that one day, although you may not understand the end, you may just begin to accept it.

Your maiden, Fatum.

***

My name is Impetus, let me tell you something important:

I am not your friend.

I am the cruellest sense of envy that crawls mercilessly through your sorry veins. Each involuntary butterfly that swells throughout your nervous soul. Every twitch in your weak, hungry eyes. You can hear my desperate cry, an echo that tingles like a scorching migraine in your conscience. An instinctive rush. A desirable, but dangerous feeling. That’s what I am.

As indifferent as I feel on the subject, I can’t help who I am. None of us can, in fact. Fatum moulded us: To love... or to hate; To protect or to destroy what is good in his world and, consequently, what is good in your life.

Life? Well, that’s another story altogether. Some greedy preacher once spoke of an amusing philosophy, commiserating with notions of free will. If ever there was a wasted hourglass, you would be hearing of it now. You wait for nothing. Free will? Don’t make me laugh.

You’d better get used to the truth: Life is most definitely not left in your clumsy, useless hands. We are the rightful owners. It’s a game. And it’s our game.

You humans.

...Helpless

...Arrogant

...Foolish toys.

You are all just a spec in our eyes. The strongest will rule you, the weakest will desert you... and you’d better pray that we don’t break you.

My name is Impetus.

Lying underneath a dispassionate pool of black ink, I closed my hand over my heart and waited, so scared it might stop beating. You can press something close to your heart with a harmless wish that it might just mould into your soul permanently, whispering into your ear an echo of laughter, until you forget why you were even lost in the first place. I repeated the beats of my heart as they drummed out my name. Invicta. I could tell, I knew that was what my heart wanted to know and this condoled me.

My name was not Panton Nocens.

He was wrong, because my heart did not beat that name to me. My heart would not beat in this rhythm if it were to cry Panton Nocens. My heart would not beat at all, because Panton Nocens means all evil, and Fatum christened me so. But he is wrong, for my heart beats. After waiting what seemed like a myriad of ages, I reluctantly took a huge breath, untying my lungs, then hopelessly clenched my eyes together. I couldn’t sleep.

I couldn’t sleep.

Instead I found myself staring past the trees over the tall, thin reeds and into the silver lake. I was so tired. My heavy eyes seemed to pull my motionless body closer to the puddle of liquid and lie myself retiringly next to it’s cold banks.

I let the warm grass gather between my fingers before closing my palm and gently knotting them in my fist, pulling out the strands and then laying them down beside me to find more blades of green to soothe my racing thoughts.

I crouched over the lake.

Hot tears burnt, rolling down my face onto the kind, empathetic bayou as sharp flames menacingly licked the weakest edges of my icy heart, melting it fast. Emblazoned with a voluptuous dangerousness, Fatum smirked at me, and I shot the most bitter look in return. I hated him for making me alone. I hated him for even making me. But at this moment, more than anything in the world, I hated him for knowing I was something great, and not letting me lose.

Why couldn’t I lose? I was sick of winning and the pain it caused others. My name is not Panton Nocens. It can’t be.

My blurry vision tried to focus on the medals of hope that dotted the night sky. One day will he let me look at them with hope? Now that I think about, I can’t bare to trust.. to have faith, but I just cannot bear to lose it either.

Will mistakes just heal themselves? No matter how many years sing loudly of triumph, how many brush my lips carefully with a forgiving touch as welcoming thoughts hurriedly dodge their way through my mind...faintly, at the bottom of my heart I would again let myself listen to the bitter chorus of regret.

Ironically chanting, it proudly reels out every mistake I fell victim to.

I leant up and, with a paranoid, poised slant of my shoulders, braved another look at the stars. Why are all things so beautiful so empty?

My eyes wandered around the forest.

Then I saw a girl.

That was the night everything changed and Fatum bled an awful lot for the world. A monsoon found the seas, flooding to the shores of the once thirsty areas that had only drank from droughts, preparing it for life.

Preparing it for us.

So, what are we?

We are the Gods, moulded by the mighty, noble Fatum. He created us as every tiny intricate mood and emotion, representing your thoughts, your fears, your tidy or scrambled secret little depths. He caged us in this lost universe in a location where you are untouchable but through emotions.

So, we can make you feel.

I am intorqueo: the living, sort of breathing personification of twists and irony. A part of us falls to Earth to deal with situations and complete the tasks Fatum sets us. I deal with the twisting and the ironic turns of your human games. Right now I’m in a high school class room watching a young human, a girl whose cheeks are furiously flushing a fuchsia pink whilst she stares forcedly down at the desk she is sat at, every eye on her. Laughing, whispering.

I am existing momentarily inside a handsome boy at the back of the class with piercing eyes and a baseball cushioned in his palm. His athletic figure argues with me as I knot through his veins and take control, doing my work and existing in this classroom whilst the kids wait for something to happen.

I’ve been watching with the classroom for a while, along with the other teenagers as the teacher revealed to the class a note from the now mortified, timid girl. She had attempted to lock the paper in her fist. She had been doodling for no apparent reason, just day dreaming. On the lined sheet read the three sentences, “Jay, I cannot wait to hold your hand, your lips touching mine again. I know you don‘t know who I am but I have kissed you a thousand times in my dreams. I cannot wait to dream again.”

The teacher had theatrically read it out to the class by way of punishing Lorna for her consistent daydreaming. What a bitch.

The cruel children laughed at the dainty, pale girl in the centre of the room, her eyes welling with human-like liquid of emotion. So many other emotions were in the classroom, invading other humans and making them laugh.

But then a baseball hit the floor. The noises of mockery silenced, everyone turning around to watch as Jay pushed his desk aside, all eyes admiring him, then swapping glances and looking around tentively, unsure of what to think or do as I moved his limbs, each step taking him towards the girl in the centre of the classroom.

Mouths open, the class’ laughter had long been wiped off the face of the Earth and Lorna could only see Jay. Firmly, seriously, he held her hand, holding her waste and lifting her to her feet. Eyes level, he turned his head and kissed her, soft and sweet before parting his lips and planting younger, hungrier kisses on her lips.

Then, casually, he smiled at her and returned to his place, the class absolutely lost as to what the hell had just happened.

I fucking love my job.