Scarecrow is darkness and fear and red hot flashes of violence and screaming, splattered like blood on canvas, and lately he's been finding it intoxicating, pushing and prodding and wanting more of that heat, that violence, those moments where thin fingers dig into his shoulders and shove him back up against the wall.
It's beginning to confuse the hell out of him.
—
Stupid.
It's been puzzling me for months, and meanwhile I keep provoking him, wanting those bright flashes that sear themselves into my retinas and my memory, neat and sharp and exquisite. Knives slicing open flesh or a wire drawing blood, violence and the fear of impending death. It's almost too much, pushing my senses to fever pitch and my inhibitions to the same.
—
I can't breathe when he's like that, and I have a feeling that this was not meant to feel intoxicating, like a drug, pain and pleasure stinging me all at once. The bruises seem sweet in those moments, searing and unbearable, and the sweetness always keeps me coming back for more of it.
I am sure that Jonathan wouldn't have predicted I'd get addicted to him.