Before It's Voiced

Occult

Thanks to chaotic-panda for beta'ing!

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occult

works dealing with witchcraft, spiritualism, psychic phenomena, voodooism, etc... works dealing with the mysterious or secret knowledge and power supposedly attainable only through these and other magical or supernatural means

The heat on Pete's skin and the chills running down his spine hours later at his book release party are, for once, completely separate from the anxiety such celebrations typically bring. Instead, the trembles in his hands and the shaky smile on his lips are part of something bigger, something deeper, a reaction to a horrible gut feeling connected to the photograph folded up in his back pocket.

He brushes his hand across it, imagining he feels a strange sort of electric shock spread up his arm and into his shoulders at the action. The picture— the knowledge that he has it, the feelings it evokes— is a constant weight on him, distorting everything with a new center for the world to revolve around. A new gravity to keep Pete grounded.

No one else in the bookstore, though, seems to notice the monumental shift in the universe or, if they do, they've been in on the game all along. Everywhere Pete looks, he sees the setting with a startling clarity. Blue and yellow balloons scatter near the ceiling while seashore-themed decorations cover every available surface. Perhaps the publishers had a feeling Pete didn't plan on writing any more books after this; he can't recall them ever going so far in creating a themed party. Still, the attendees seem to be appreciating it, laughing at the shell-shaped cookies and blue punch left on the refreshment table.

Every so often, Pete will catch his mother watching him and she'll nod, a meaningful gleam in her eyes as she looks through his books-- his entire collection of works proudly displayed on a bookshelf near the center of the room. People gaze longingly at the latest one, whispering to each other about the genius Infinity on High as if there's anything brilliant about writing a story he can't remember; as if there's any valor in ignoring the message he was handed hours ago.

"Excuse me, Mr. Wentz? Would it be alright to talk for a few moments?" Someone asks him in a soft voice, a brunette woman with her hair back in a tight ponytail and phone ready to record. A blogger, then, or some other sort of press. Pete smiles tiredly and nods, looking away from the blue streamers and images of beaches taped to the walls.

"Oh, yeah, of course," he says for the thousandth time since the party started. Of course, he'd love to tell people what each character symbolizes in his book. Of course, he'll sign his name over pages he bled and wept and screamed over.

Of course, he'll take the picture and keep it close and, of course, he knows exactly what to do.

Somehow, it amuses him that these two simple words have become his favorite lie. Even someone as unpredictable as him has to have his go-to habits, after all.

The blogger— a kind but relentless girl by the name of Hayley— leads him away from the thicker parts of the crowd and towards the bookshelves strategically placed to create a barrier between the celebrations and the rest of the public. Though he won't say it, Pete's glad to leave the decorations and noise behind him; someone had decided on ocean waves as the background ambiance and the gentle sound only causes Pete's stomach to twist in an unfamiliar sense of longing.

It's the same way the sea blue shades and sandy yellows makes him homesick for a place he'd thought he'd forgotten, fluttering in his chest like the flipping of a page. His heart's a book, written with words still dripping darkened ink into the empty aching blankness of his ribs. Each beat is a page turned, each breath a tumble of letters left to rot beneath his skin. He's an entire series of novels, aching to be read by the one person who could ever get away with stealing his words.