AN: No idea where this came from so dont ask. Bascially, it was 2:30am and I couldnt sleep. This took half an hour to write and its nothing all that great. I thought it was kind of cute though -shrug-. Oh and btw, I have no idea what the eff is up with my writing style in this...
Warnings: mentions of man lovin but nothing graphic
Disclaimer: they're dead, aren't they? thats proof enough.
Detication: Im gana go ahead and give this one to Heather, cause she's in Maine and I miss her.
When you're five years old, and being whisked away to another country because your parents have just died, you tend not to think about the legal ramifications your temper tantrum just had on the people seated around you on the plane.
When you're seven years old, and have gone a little over a year with no parents or friends, you tend to get lonely, and sometimes converse with your chocolate bar. It never has much to say.
When you're nine years old, and you open your bedroom door to see some ginger kid sitting on your bed, playing your PSP, eating your chocolate, and breathing your air; you tend to hit them repeatedly and scream how everything in the room belongs to you.
When you're eleven years old, and that albino piece of shit is sitting in your room, playing with his toys and talking to your friend while you're trying study for tomorrow's exams, you tend to hit the little brat repeatedly and scream how everything in the room belongs to you.
When you're thirteen years old, and have three girlfriends but feel nothing for any of them, you tend to wonder why you've been staring at him so much... And why in the world is red suddenly your favorite color?!
When you're fifteen years old, and just ran away from the only real home you've ever had, you tend to feel frightened, cold, hungry, unsure and maybe, just a little sad that the box you're sleeping in doesn't come with a freckled, redheaded roommate.
When you're seventeen years old, and hightailing your ass out of a murder scene for the first time, you try to ignore the bloody prints on your new leather outfit, and focus more on forgetting that the guy you just ended had a wife and two kids.
When you're nineteen years old, and just blew half your face to smithereens, you tend to wonder why the jackass even answered the phone when he saw your number, and why he's got you jacked up on so much morphine, and why he keeps whispering that you're still as pretty as ever... Is the damage really that bad?
When you're twenty, and just got laid for the every first time, you tend to wonder why you hadn't done it before, cause shit, its fun. Then you roll over, and see the red, sweaty, shaggy mess on the pillow next to yours, and you remember.
When you're dead, you tend to wonder what the fuck just happened. Cause a second ago you could've sworn you'd stripped the bitch of any hiding places... Guess not, cause here you are in... Limbo? Well hot damn, never though you'd make it this far. Pretty fucking good for a murderer, drug lord and thief. And its probably better like this, cause that revolver was goin straight into your mouth as soon as you got home anyway. Watching him die was just too damn much...
"I heard what you said," You look around, cause that voice just sounds too good to be true, "about being sorry and all."
And yea, it's him alright. Not too many other people on the planet can look like they dressed in the dark and still be that damn good looking. So he heard it, huh? Well, its not like you hadn't meant it...
"Apology accepted."
When you're dead, and he's here, and he's smiling like you're his whole world, you tend to know that it's all gona be alright.
AN: R&R?? I won't beg for this one, but it'd be nice. I'm feeling kind of...blah. It is now 3:19am.