Emohiro

Let’s make a deal. If you put a pretty girl in a dress in your filmclip, I will sit through your shitty song. ♥ shamp

Sometimes, I think people underestimate how many things I’m capable of poking a stick at. ♥ shamp

People had always told Euchrid that he was crazy. They’d actually given him documents proving it. Yep, they’d ticked the crazy box and pigeonholed him with “body integrity identity disorder” or “BIID” to the lazy typist. The nuthouse write up claimed that it had begun when he was six or seven years of age. He couldn’t remember back that far, but if you asked him how long he’d been this way, he would tell you “forever.”
 
Try as he might, Euchrid couldn’t help but feel that there was something wrong with his arm. Specifically his left arm. I mean, it seemed to work okay, most of the time. It wasn’t injured or anything. In fact, much like his right arm, it was lithe and toned, with just the right amount of hair. It was the sort of arm that any slightly overweight, lethargic, internet addict would be jealous of. To the other kids at school, the arms were identical, except for a few stray freckles on the left and a scar on the right where he’d fallen down a flight of stairs as a child. 
 
But Euchrid knew better. He’d lived with it. He knew that this arm, that had been attatched to his body his whole life, didn’t belong to him. He knew that it couldn’t be trusted. So by the time he’d reached high school he’d decided to go on the attack. His first attempt had been mildly successful, yet gave him little to no actual gratification. He purchased some fencing wire and a pair of pliers. It wasn’t going to be fun, and it wasn’t going to be pretty, but his plan was simple. Starting with his fingers, he would wrap the wire around the point where they met with the palm of his hand. Then he would use the pliers to twist the wire as tight as he could, cutting off all circulation, as if he were placing his hands around the throat of his worst enemy in an attempt to rip their head off. 
 
Euchrid’s plan was to cover them up with gloves  until they finally rotted off, like a lambs tail. It got to the point where he could no longer remove the glove. Trying to lift his arm would cause him so much pain he’d break down crying. But deep down, Euchrid knew that it was all worth it.
 
It was far too long before his drunken, emotionally absent, mother noticed the fixed grimace on her son’s pale face. She actually reached out to touch his gloved hand, slurring “what’s wrong, boy?”. Euchrid recoiled and began to cry again. Not just from the pain, but also because his cover had been blown. An ambulance was called and the glove was carefully cut from his hand, revealing a horriffic black mess of wire and blood. The doctors had no choice but to amputate. They removed everything below his elbow and tossed him into a psychiatric hospital quicker than his mother could down a bottle of cheap, store brand vodka. 

Years passed. Many doctors and professionals came to see him. To do tests, desperately trying to find out why he would do such a thing. Hoping to write a book about it and become the new Dr. Phil, with absolutely no desire to simply help him and surgically remove his whole arm. Ironically they forced him to attach a prosthetic arm to the stump he hated so much. Just a plastic arm that didn’t belong to him, stuck on the end of a stump that didn’t belong to him. They forced him to participate in talks with other BIID sufferers. They’d all sit in a circle of chairs, staring at the ground and discussing their condition. Agreeing with each other, week after week. New sufferers would come with fresh cuts marking the border between their body and the offending limb. Legs. Arms. Fingers. Toes. The scope of this disorder was far reaching, as was the diversity of it’s sufferers.
 
Euchrid sat outside in the cold smoking a cigarette, his prosthetic arm hanging limply from his torso, ignored. Through medication and therapy, both him and his stump had come to a bitter understanding. He heard footsteps approach him from behind. He didn’t turn around. Instead he kept focusing on the mouldy bricks that made up the pavement and took another drag on his cigarette. “Do you mind if I steal a cigarette off you?” said a young woman’s voice.
“Sure.” he replied, reaching into his pocket, handing them in the direction of the voice, but still refusing to look up.
“Thanks” she said, pausing as she lit her smoke. “I’m guessing by your arm that you’re here for the BIID meeting too. My name’s Belle”
Euchrid finally turned and introduced himself, looking her over. Looking for scars or missing limbs. She was complete, but she had a bandage wrapped around her left bicep. Her wound was obviously fresh. For some reason he couldn’t stop looking at it. He scanned her body over and over but couldn’t stop himself returning to her wound. He smiled, for the first time in ages. A huge, beaming smile. Suddenly he was laughing uncontrollably. He dropped his cigarette. After a lifetime of feeling strange, a lifetime knowing that the arm he had been given did not belong to him, he finally felt complete. For, you see, the arm that this girl had been so desperately trying to rid herself of, actually belonged to him.

♥ shamp

(Topic sent in by the lovely miss sparrowjames)

Here’s the game: Someone give me a topic and I’ll write a shitty story about it. Or don’t… whatever. ♥ shamp

After hours of denial, I’d finally accepted the fact that I was at The Pier (a small town imitation of a nightclub). My gaze drifted across the semipermeable dance floor, and settled upon a seductively dressed young lady of unquestionable beauty. Clearly consumed by alcohol, she danced unselfconsciously with a young gentleman that i recognized from high school. Before too long my cynicism reappeared and i turned to my lady friend with the intention of pointing out how hilarious the two looked, flailing their limbs in an obvious attempt to sleep with one another. My lady friend then informed me that the girl i had momentarily fallen in love with was, in fact, a prostitute. Feeling slightly naive, my natural instinct was to defend my love’s honour. “There’s no way that that girl is a prostitute!” I adamantly replied. My friend assured me that it was true and proceeded to give a list of reasons why she believed it. I remained unconvinced, and the topic of conversation changed to whatever drunk people discuss in rooms they hate, full of people they hate.

The following morning, me and another friend decided to tick off the obligatory Beryls feast and walk along the jetty. As we made our way up the jetty i noticed the young fellow from the previous evening, who was also walking with a friend. Unable to avoid awkward conversation, i decided to skip the small talk and prove to my lady friend once and for all that the girl that he had somehow hooked last night was not a prostitute. After an uneventful “Hi, how are you? I am fine.”, I ignored all social etiquette and blatantly asked ” So… was that girl you were dancing with last night a prostitute?” to which he, slightly taken aback, replied “No.” and then pointing to his friend, said “It was this guy’s sister.” ♥ shamp