Cross your heart
Hope to die
Stick a needle in your eye
My heart lurches I shake hit the wall fingers wobbling against their pose; eyes wide and chest thumping thumping thumping. It's bad this time. It's really bad and I can't stop my hands from shaking. It's so bad. I close my eyes and clutch my heart and plant my other hand on the floor to stop the trembling, locking my knees together and whimpering in an attempt to make it stop. There's nothing to distract myself with in this awful, white room that captures me in whiteness and more whiteness and it reminds me of paper fresh from the printer. It's all white and I loathe white because it reminds me of papercuts.
Papercuts remind me of pain and pain reminds me of needles. Needles remind me of Him.
He's tied down and unmoving. There's a dreamy, lost expression in his eyes. He smiles up at me so crookedly and it seems so wrong and unnatural, what I'm doing to him but he seems happy enough. What happens tonight stays with him forever. I know this because the crooked, dreamy look in his eyes means insanity and a mix of other assorted problems that will probably haunt him for a long while, and I wonder if the expression will stay fixed on his face for a year, two years, a decade.
I fish the needle out of my pocket and hold his eye open. He doesn't protest or scream or whimper, he just lets it happen. I smile back at his lips and I put the tiny, razor-sharp point to his iris, and touch it. Only a little. The next motion is to press down on the loop of the needle; so the tip sinks into the cornea and down, down out of sight into the rest of his eye and damage unseen parts like the retina and lens cortex. His eye is a nice blue, but I burst some blood vessels and a little discoloured stain appears around the needle.
He isn't smiling but his expression doesn't look pained, and he blinks, so the needle moves a little and peeps out through the two closed eyelids. He doesn't open them again. I carefully push the object further in with my index finger until I can't see it anymore.
I feel sad when I leave him there all alone.
The whiteness that traps me fades, as I fondly recall this memory. I lie on the floor on my back and look towards the ceiling, where a little fly is buzzing around manically, looking for an escape route. I laugh out loud. The little fly is fucked, because there's no escape route and it would take him days to find the tiny little spot he came in through. Death is in store for him.
As he comes closer I realize that he isn't a fly at all. He's a mosquito, which is worse, because mosquitoes bite and make little itchy lumps that are ironic and don't vanish until you leave them alone. I can tell the mosquito is engorged because its body looks large, so he probably won't bite me, which is a shame, because having a mosquito bite would take my mind off things.
It takes me about ten minutes to catch the mosquito in my palms. I feel it bounce around inside my hands like some deranged, insane person throwing themselves against the walls and I think that maybe I and the mosquito aren't so different after all. In fact we're quite similar. I lie down on the floor and start playing with my new friend.
First I take his wings off and watch him crawl around for a bit. Then I get bored with this, so I squash him against the floor and watch the blood burst out. It's surprisingly a lot of blood for such a small creature, and it marks the white floor so abruptly and it's so beautiful and I want it.
I want it because maybe, just maybe, it's His blood.
There's a chance.
I lick the blood from the floor and it tastes metallic and rusty and so, so, nice, that I feel better. It might be his blood.
It might be.
The writing is supposed to resemble a thought process. I heard two kids singing that promise poem the other day and I decided to write this. It doesn't have to be Kingdom Hearts, but I put it here anyway.