Disclaimer: I do not own Danny Phantom or any of its characters, it's that simple.
Authors Notes: Okay, I rated this T for a reason, this deals with more mature themes, in my opinion. It delves into fetishes, obsessions, and darker things, it is looking inside the mind of someone long gone into the world of dark insanity you could say. However, he is still brilliant. Please note, I do not know who the girl is in which Danny speaks of often in this short tale, please don't ask me, I'm not sure whether she is from the show or not. You decide; this comes in first person, and I don't think I ever mentioned names in it to make it slightly more mysterious. Plus it gives me the option of if I ever wanted this published, I could make it non Fan Fiction easily. I hope you do not gag, and please review.
My sweet ambrosia, my darling gem, my favorite toy, my undying possession, she was a victim of apathy and masochistic desires. She had shame without sorrow, lust without love, but none of her cerebral impurities was of my concern. I was able to satisfy the sick lustful being inside of her, and that was the only gift I planned to give her. She played decorous; this was her gift to me.
Every night she became a young scared child, and every night I got to play pedophile, taking away something I longed for but never had; her innocence. Truth be told, I was only curious as to the root of such things so that I could more efficiently break it - violate it - rape it. I never wanted it; I loathed it, it ate me, day in and day out I watched her with dead eyes, I was gone, not only to myself, but to her as well.
The thought of her and I, that day, I remember it so well, I was in the tenth grade, sixteen and without a drivers license, I still don't know why she had come to pick me up, in fact, to this day it still puzzles me, however, she had. I would have never considered us friends, no, it was not a friendship at all, from that moment on it had turned into a mutual ground.
Her eyes were filled with mourning and fright, both more than likely fake, but none of that was relevant.
I should not have taken her arm and lightly run my fingers down her wrist. I had a sudden fascination with the parted skin and crusted blood over each wound. I'd seen movies, bloody ones, ears cut off and tongues ripped out, hands mangled and eyes split. I was never bothered by them, but now, the cuts so real and the flesh around it so pale; I fixated on this phenomenon.
She pulled her hand away, the fear in her eyes now far more genuine. She looked at me in shock, as though she could tell that her pain was my release.
With insomnia, you thrive on tedium: the rhythmic circles of a sponge on surfaces, the perfectly timed click of pacing feet on the cold wooden floor. It was almost as good as sleep. But after your legs wear out and your cheap apartment is spotless, you start to think. The less sleep you are on, the more vivid the thoughts become. Delusions and illusions are your salvation in this mediocre and half-assed Hellhole.
Vertical cuts below the eyes, cheeks seeped in tears of blood. She weeps, and seeks her savior. I am her God; I am her seemingly selfless protector with my own darker motives. She is my slave and victim. Her fingernails like razors running down her smooth pale wrists now ruined for my pleasure. Her bare chest, smooth and untouched by my dementia, her long brown hair covers her. I put a hand on her neck and it lingers for a moment. I move to brush her hair behind her shoulders.
She lowers her head but her eyes are still caught in my gaze. I put my hand over her eyes and move it down, closing them for her. Her eyes were still that of a virgin. She trusts me to be her eyes; I move her gently onto her back.
When I opened my eyes again, I was the revenant. My senses were sharp despite my sleep deprivation. Sleep was a luxury for the sane.
My fascination with the dead had begun when I was fourteen, perhaps fifteen, my birthday, which I no longer even consider anything other than my death day, was close to that time, I'm not sure when the darkness had begun to kick in and slowly take me over, bringing me down into what I am today. It was subtle at first only little bits, I tried to remain a good child that my mother and father would have wanted me to be, but nay, that was only fanciful thinking.
However, as I was saying before, my fascination with the dead had begun when I was fourteen or fifteen, I myself was considered amongst my own friends as half gone already since my 'incident' as they called it. I wanted to learn more about it after I had stared at the unmoving corpse of my puppy Aster, he was so mangled, the driver hadn't even stopped. You would have thought that I would have cried or showed some other human emotion, but no, I was fascinated by it till the point that my father pulled me into the house and my mother called in a psychiatric doctor to question me. As if they would understand my problems. Soon, as I remember, the darkness had began to take over, speak to me, my head swelling with a thousand demonic voices screaming for me to do their deeds. They had me digging up graves, pouring over my live fellow classmates to figure how they might end up on the dead side.
She was a pale thing, she reminded me of something that should have been dead so long ago, but still walked on the earth's soil. I could never quite catch her until that day, that glorious painstakingly grim day she had picked me up from school and studied her open skin so passionately. Though still, through the crusted blood and morbid outlook it was still her pale skin that struck me, I could not get past it; pale skin had always been a bit of a fetish for me.