Pondering It

You dance around in your sugar high, twirl in circles and declare your love for me. You search half way across the world for me. Your attempts at being romantic I find to be sometimes not only disgusting but just plain out weird. I dislike your presence a good eighty-five percent of the time. I am repulsed by how you inhale sugar like a vacuum, and your "sense of fashion."

But I still find myself so very intrigued.

I'm waiting for the day your hair falls out, as a result from the numerous and frequent times you have dyed your hair. Make up your damn mind brat!

It's just those little things about you, those annoying, pesky, tiny habits of things that you do that create a much larger problem for me. Your persistency, your whining, your yelling, and oh for fucks sake did I mention whining? Every second of every day a constant ringing in my ear that makes me want to fall to my knees and beg for hearing loss.

Which is why I secretly bought ear plugs, so as soon as I hear your footsteps at the door I jam them in. Resistance is futile; you have found a place on my lap at seven thirty every week day after work, to ramble on about everything you can possibly think about.

I hate it how you are so damn sensitive to everything. The look on your face when I yell at you, that kicked puppy gaze. I just can't stand it.

All in all I just can't stand you. Yes you, all what, hundred thirty, maybe hundred thirty five pounds of you? Yeah, seems about right. Your body looks positively weightless, laying under the bed sheets, fast asleep.

I also hate how you tend to drool, leaving a puddle for me to wake up next to in the morning.

The one thing that I have to positively hate the most however, the one absolute thing that pisses me off the most, is the words that come out of that loud, obnoxious, wide mouth of yours.

Stupid brat, love doesn't exist. There is no such thing as happy endings, and you most certainly will not be here forever.

Why do I hate that the most? Because it makes me so very sick to my stomach.

The urge to vomit it causes within me is worse than when I accidently sit on the couch, only to feel a wet squashy feeling, and learn you again have attempted to make pancakes, while listening to music on your ipod, watching the subtitles on the news, while dancing around to said music, whilst in my living room. If you didn't get all of that, I'm trying to lead to the fact that your countless distractions cause you to spill pancake mix all over my couch, all the time, and you never clean it up.

Anyway, back to my point.

I just wish you would figure it out already. There is nothing deeper to me, nothing lovey and mushy looming in the psych of my mind. The only true, beneath the surface feeling I have when you're around me is utter annoyance, and that's easily read on my surface.

Stop saying you love me, stop pretending I love you. Stop making this into something it's not, stop dreaming up these fairytales in your head. Stop sneaking into my bed, stop nibbling my ear, and for the love of all that is holy, stop even all attempts at cooking, because I'm sick of sitting in pancake mix!

Just stop, okay? Please?

So maybe my annoyance isn't all your fault alone, maybe I'm the one screwed up in the head. I don't need the constant reminder that I'm "the one who sees a dead man everywhere," thank you very much. No matter how intoxicated I am, no matter how mentally consumed in the middle of sex I am, no matter how tight I shut my eyes, he is there. The man I killed, blood, gun shot wound and all, is right there.

I remember so little of it, yet my senses of it are so hightened. I've gotten to the point now when I can at least anticpiate the panic attacks, or the sudden shift between one ego of mine to the other, allowing me to politely excuse myself and at least save you from the hours of torture my mental breakdown would have otherwise caused you.

Okay, maybe the politely excusing myself's aren't so poilte, more like me locking you out, or locking myself away.

I hate how it doesn't phase you anymore though. You give me this pathetic, sad, knowing smile, like you can sense the deep corners of my mind are drifting in, and you don't put up a fight.

You let me be.

There was once though. One time. You just had to make that mistake. You're so foolish, so damn stupid. You can't save me, you're not a knight in shining armor. The strongest sword of diamond couldn't even leave a scratch on the tendrils of my mind, my memories, my insanity.

It was pathetic, really.

We were eating a simple, hastely made dinner at the table, when it just suddenly began. In my peripheral, I saw my hands begin to shake, and I felt a chill run down my spine. I could feel the beads of sweat form, and fall from my forehead, down my chin, and the second it hit the table, I pushed my chair back, and stood.

" I hate you." All I could think was no, no please don't say shit like that, not this, I hate this, stop,stop,stopstopstopstopnostop

And from there, all was black.

Apparently, as you would reiderate to me later, after saying that, I had walked swiftly to my study. Stunned and offended, you had followed me, not allowing me to close the door.

You believe the door is a barrier between us, a wall seperating you and me. Really, it is a method of defense, for both our protection.

I assume that my twisted, disoriented mind felt vulnerable, in danger. The defense had been shattered, and there you were, before it, weilding a bright light that could be my maker of death.

I pity my alter ego. It wraps itself up in a replay; over and over again, the betrayel, the rape, the blood, the pain, the pain, the pain. Blood is everywhere to it, all over it, the walls, the floor. There is nothing but blood to it, nothing else. Shuichi seemed to it an invader, something wrong, this wasn't part of the memories.

Light, goodness wasn't a part of its sick, twisted memories.

If Shuichi hadn't had a massive, swollen cheek and a slightly puffy lip, I wouldn't have believed him when he claimed I had hit him.

"Why did you hit me last night?" you asked, calm, cool, collected. The three C's that I had thought you incapable of commiting.

"What?" I didn't know what shocked me more; your claim, or your attitude while saying it.

"You freaked out last night at dinner, so I followed you. You hit me, and then you grabbed my shirt, and threw me to the ground across the room. I booked it out, and slammed the door in your face. You were coming after me for more."

I looked down and noticed my glass had slipped from my fingers, spilling water and glass everywhere.

I was so shocked.

"I," I couldn't quite think of what to say, but I knew I should have said something.

"I know you, I know you wouldn't do that, right? I mean, that wasn't you, right?" He looked at me, with this look, I unno, hopeful, maybe? Pleading? Scared?

"No, God, Shuichi…no."

"'Kay."

I couldn't believe it. That's all you said about it. 'Kay. Like some friggin' delusional house wife who thought nothing of the abuse she suffered at the hands of her drunken husband.

You're not that delusional. You're somewhat reliable inteligently I guess. Why don't you fucking run away?

I'm bat-shit crazy, for goodness sake!

I hate that about you. I hate that you stick to your notion of 'love' and say 'Kay' to me hitting you. Attacking you.

I don't even care whether it was me, or it or not. It happened. My body attacked you, my eyes watched it happen, my ears heard you scream, my hands hit you.

Either way, you learned to never follow me again. Which I am thankful for.

I just wish you'd leave though.

Pack up, get out, and do it quick. Do it when I'm at the store, on a book signing, hell, while I'm sleeping. Make it hurt too. Make me hurt for causing this mess.

I'm sick, can't you see that?

Don't you know the horrible things I think sometimes?

I want you to hate me, I want to humiliate you, degrade you, distort you, make you so sick of me that you leave.

Do you know what I think of doing in order to accomplish that?

You were sleeping, much like right now, your back facing me, raising, deflating, over and over again while you slept. My tired conscience was flickering in between myself, and it.

Kitizawa was standing in the corner, bleeding, smiling to himself, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Blood was oozing from him slowly, collecting in a puddle at his feet.

I ignored him, as usual.

But it, that other part became fucking excited.

It wanted to rape you.

It wanted to wrap my hands around your throat, strangle you, make you want to scream but unable to, and take you roughly, painfully, make you suffer.

I hate it, I hate it more than I hate you, because there's this foggy line sometimes between me and it, and I am not sure where it lies.

What if it was really me that wanted to do that? What if it was really me, Eiri, Yuki, whoever I am, that wanted to make you scream in agony, by my doing?

I saw myself as Kitizawa; standing in the corner of every room you would be in, bleeding from a gunshot wound you made in me, out of your pain, your hurt, your utter, irreversable awakening to this world. Your introduction to this horror film.

See, I'm so insanely sick.

Sitting here, back against the headboard, I am exausted and want nothing more than to sleep peacefully.

Yet sleep will not come. Kitizawa is in the corner, broading and bleeding as usual, and your breath is moving in, and out.

In, and out.

I hate how you breathe, and how that puddle of drool makes tidawaves by the gusts from your mouth.

I hate, hate, hate you.

"Yuki, stop staring at me and pondering how much you hate me, because it's not gonna make me leave."

I almost fall off the bed in shock.

You laugh a little and sit up next to me, yawning.

"Nothing will ever make me leave,"And to prove a point, you straddle my naked hips with your own, and kiss my cheek. With an annoying ease, you wrap your arms around my waist, and lay your head on my shoulder."Because I love you."

Kitizawa is laughing now, from his spot in the corner.

It, that other fucking, disgusting part of me is twitching with this urge to throw you off of me, and to fuck you violently.

I don't notice that I'm trembling until you do, as I discover by the puzzled look in your eyes.

"I just wish I could make you happy." You mumble, grabbing my face in your palms.

And then it hits me, I think. That cliché realization thingy.

I hate you, everything about you. I hate your noises; your habits; your cooking; your blatant confessions; the mood swings; the fucking whining; your damn ambition to save me; your resistence; your drive; your willingness to suffer my abuse; the fact I'm not sure if its me or it that wants to rape you; the fact you'd probably endure that kind of shit from me.

See? I hate you.

But, for some reason, I think you do make me happy.

Right now, I'm happy.

You, sitting here, right in front of me, pleading for my sake, I'm happy.

With all of your bullshit that I put up with on a daily bases.

I'm fucking happy.

I look in the corner, and Kitizawa isn't there anymore.

End

Wow. I have 9 days left officially in the school year, and then I'm a senior. I'm SO OVERLOADED I CAN'T FUCKING BREATHE.

Tomorrow I have an I.B. Biology lab report due, usually around ten pages long. It's ten at night, and I haven't even started.

Fuch high school. I'm so –done-.

I was searching for a file for my report, found the first five paragraphs of this, and just HAD to finish it.

Tell me what you think xD