I dare not put a name to this piece nor credit this piece to myself. Because that would mean I did something productive, did something out of the ordinary, when in fact, I am very simple, very bland. Tell a joke, I swear I'll laugh. Tell me your fish died, your father died, your friends, I'll stare straight back at you and say 'sorry.' Tell me you're dying, I'll move on because to me, you've never been alive.
Until that day, I was stupid: admittedly cocky, cruel, and lifeless. I met a boy and a girl, and now I try very hard to avoid their deaths. Pinch me, I've had the metallic liquid pour freely from my body without regret for a boy, had my cheeks taste salt by the sight of one girl bruised, beaten to her very soul. Now I am dead.
I drink from another. He is my life-support and friend. I shouldn't throw words around so carelessly, but I feel, in my heart, he is entitled to that name. I've never had one before, so this feels terrifying, so useful and yet so innocent. Delicate. I drink his blood simply for the purpose of living. Living for a reason I yet not know, but everyone says I should. I wonder when I began listening to the opinions of others, but when the two voices cried out, I fought aggressively. The boy was not there as my friend choked the blood down my system. I recall gagging, spewing, and finally the pain, or lack of. It's an experience I can't exactly describe, or I will on my initiative. I'll just let you know, I turned into a creature dependent on blood, specifically that of his.
I cannot believe my motives and dreams changed so quickly. I can see him hovering over out backs; my imperative mission is deterred and now relinquished as I face my past. I can see both of them now with desires I can never fulfill. The boy is confused and wary of my brother, twin, my other. He doesn't know that I murdered him…yet. The cherished bonds I've made with them will be torn. I can see it in Ashura's intentions. I will be broken again, thrown into the pits of depression and hatred…and loneliness. I guess it is about time to end this life. I have experienced this renowned feeling of…love…and can only conclude of its insecurities and its glass-like state.
He's calling my name and opening his arms. Yes, my time is very near. He says he's been waiting for me and I realized I should have ended this torture long before it happened. My other is staring at me, angry, confused, sad. I hurt him because I couldn't make the commitment of friendship, because I value my life over his to my selfish wants. If I could tell a perfect, romantic, selfless story, it would begin with my death and the death of all the others, all at once so that may not have to suffer the pain of loneliness. The happiness still fresh in their minds as they drift off into idle dreams. Part of me is sad, but another is quite glad that she didn't have to see my violent sick past unfold.
Disillusioned as I may be, these are my worthless ramblings.