The Incurable
Rating: T
Pairing: GrimmHime
Disclaimer & Author's Notes: Lovely GrimmHime fans...Dare I say we need more of this lovely pairing? (I do not own Bleach, or any of it's amazing characters).
I'm just sittin' here on a roof top, and I'm, looking down on everyone...Everything. The stars here ain't half bad here. It ain't some fuckin' annoyin' sky, with some sad excuse for a damn moon. Trust me. After a few hundred years of staring at the damn thing, it gets old...She's getting old.
The war is over, and here I am. Alone. I ain't got a home, or somewhere to rest my head. This is the only place I sit, every night since a while after that whole blown-up ordeal. On my perch, right buy her window; I'm barely a few rooftops away. I know you think it's screwed up, yeah...But-
I'm stuck on it, you know? It's like when you get an infection, or you get drawn in by those drugs people rave on about. Kinda an odd analogy, but work with me here. Lemme explain piece by piece...
First Stage: you're messin' around, and then you decide to put yourself where you don't belong. You put yourself in that one situation, and then someone or something comes along. You play along with it; you act like you know what's goin' down, even if you do a shitty job at it, you know? Then, you're caught by surprise.
Stage Two: It starts out as something small- a slight insignificance. You go on your way, and you don't care to notice the problem at all. It's just there, in the back of your head. A small bump, even a rash. So, you say: "Hey! Lemme just forget that it happened." That's when "Stage Three" kicks in.
Stage Three (remember people, anything takes a process): It's an illness. Yeah. That lil' ol' sickness you had going on; it ain't just somethin' you forget like that. What's goin' on in your head ain't just whispers, anymore. It's not all 'shits-'n'-giggles'. It's screams; cries for attention. It seeps through the cracks in your skull- it's chewin' at your decayin' thoughts, until it's all you ever think of. It becomes anything and everything.
(Finally, the last stage. I know yer bitchin; about it. I'm getting' to a point) Stage Four: You're sick, and there ain't anything to stop that one illness you caught. You knew what you were getting' into, and you continued on. You're so deep in it, yer sinkin' in your own bullshit... It's tormenting you, now. It's your world.
I said I wasn't too good with those damn analogies. Fuckin' sue me for a poor excuse of a thought. The moon is kinda a distraction, too. It's smaller, this week, and dimmer. Anyway, It's the only thing I can relate to, now. Even with her gone- me here, and her in that small hole in the wall- I'm still feelin' those chills up my arm. The same ones I got when she first touched me. Sometimes, I curse getting the thing back.
What the hell didja do to me, woman? You, the in-fucking-curable cancer.
This is a test piece. If it'as liked, I'll continue, but, otherwise, it's trash. I did it at 2:34a.m. to see if I could talk in third person. I also wanted to try my hand again at writing for Grimmjow. Tell me what you think.