|
|
Post by Nikki on Aug 21, 2010 4:08:14 GMT
"The reason no one stops to realize is. . .well, you kill them all," I say kind of lamely, and then I snort, breaking into a genuine laugh.
But I know what he's saying is true. Once I calm down, I say, "But yeah. You believe them all. I see it on your face. I mean, you might as well. Any possibility's as good as the next."
|
|
|
|
Post by boo radley on Sept 10, 2010 3:46:10 GMT
I smirk. That was partially true. "Except that you can see every true moment, every realization, every thought in their eyes, right before it's all over." It's true. They say a person's life flashes before them before they die. But when they're not dead, but know they will be soon, it's not just their life that flashes before them. It's their entire being.
|
|
|
|
Post by Nikki on Sept 10, 2010 3:55:40 GMT
"I don't ever look. I don't ever notice." I'm too busy watching you. "And when I do it, I don't know. I mostly enjoy the blood."
At first, I thought it odd that I should miss something so significant. Then it occurred to me that I was avoiding it. Why?
The small deductive section of my mind that remained fumbled for the answer, and I didn't really like what it came up with. I imagined that's what I looked like when I was looking at him...an open window. Every time I looked at him and he didn't see me the way I saw him, I died a little death.
It must be entertaining to be around me. I'm a person you can kill over and over.
|
|
|
|
Post by boo radley on Sept 10, 2010 3:58:44 GMT
I glance at her very curiously. Enjoying the blood... is the first step. There's a connection. I understand what's going on. Every. Single. Bit. of it. Blood is relaxing. And at the same time, it's exciting. I'm not entirely sure yet. "Then you admit you're not... the civilian version... of 'sane.'"
|
|
|
|
Post by Nikki on Sept 10, 2010 4:05:07 GMT
I glance over at him. "I don't judge you for your antisocial personality disorder, your post-traumatic stress syndrome, your OCD, your inappropriate use of defense mechanisms, your manic-depressive tendencies, or your tardive dyskenesia. And I don't judge me for my..." I trail off there. "I don't know what I am. But the point is, the term 'sane' is up to interpretation. Psychologists would never call a person, 'crazy.' There's no such thing." I frown. "Technically." I sigh. "I'm as intelligent. . .and with it. . .as I ever was before. I could peg myself with a million disorders, I could.." I could cure myself of you, if I wanted. I'm just...there's something. . ." I struggle for the word. "...Red, in there now. And it wants..."
More bruises, more time, monsters, answers, cold tile against raw skin. It wants more of you in any way, shape, or form it can get. Spurn, strike, neglect, lose. Hatefuck, semisplice, suckerpunch. This is a picture of Harley and me, sawed-off shotguns and stiletto knives. Harley was a good dog. She had a short life but she sure knew how to beg.
|
|
|
|
Post by boo radley on Oct 18, 2010 2:53:07 GMT
"It wants to experience what we experience," I finish off simply. "Because when it's inside it can't. It just... does what we do." It's true - it's something I'd contemplated time in and time again. "It's like the monster - because when it comes out, all sorts of emotions plague a person's face. You'd - you'd think they'd notice that. But they don't. Never do. They think it's all about them. But not the monster inside."
|
|
|
|
Post by Nikki on Oct 18, 2010 3:03:20 GMT
"Yeah, I.." I let out a squeaky little laugh. "I never for once thought it was all about me." I sighed.
|
|
|
|
Post by boo radley on Oct 18, 2010 3:07:17 GMT
I nod, realizing that's probably why I've put up with her all this time. I wouldn't normally. "And so... you are different." Yet she still irks me. I don't push on that right now, though - the fun's over. At the moment, I'm at the bottom of the roller coaster ride.
|
|
|
|
Post by Nikki on Oct 18, 2010 3:11:54 GMT
"I am what I am," I say unapologetically. He doesn't have that usual energy about him, that kind of mounting tension I'm so used to. He just looks tired.
|
|
|
|
Post by boo radley on Oct 18, 2010 3:14:55 GMT
"And what you are is different. So we come full circle." I feel the paint drip down my face, slowly. Sweat. Dripping down as if it's every little secret or thing that could hold me back - one at a time. Drip. Drip. Drip. I shut my eyes and focus on it. "If we're not different, we're so similar to them that the world doesn't want to be like us two, who represent them exactly for what they are, with all their inhibitions stripped away."
|
|
