A/N: A different take on Creek, don't worry, they won't all be this dark. I decided to write a piece reflective of one steretype of Craig, not something I necessarily believe or follow 100 percent, but a good challenge none the less. What inspired this little piece was actually my decision to finally read Like Pinning Butterflies. If you guys are into that kind of thing, really great story by a great author. Not my Creek cup of tea, though, it did inspire to pen this there's that.

Hope you guys liked it, please read and review!

"Fuckin' sociopath."

Sociopath. That's what they call me. Hey, my name is Sociopath, don't wear it out! Hey, you have no idea who I really am, because I am a Sociopath! I don't really care about you or what you have to offer, because I only care about myself! (In other words, I'm a Sociopath).

Smile. Just kidding! I'm a Sociopath.

I stare across the void, unblinking. Unmoved. Funny how a little thing like five feet can suddenly look like the gaping open mouth of the universe the second someone says something that might be considered 'the truth'. Ah, the truth. You and I have had our nights together, once upon a star. Not much left between us these days, though.

"You don't sweat do you?"

I sigh, the gush of air feeling rough and sandy between my dry lips. I try not to speak unless I have to. Words are just a fancy way of sugar coating what you see with your eyes. "Feel it in your heart" well what's a heart? A fist wrapped in blood. A motor. A conduit.

"I don't like wasting valuable resources," I say. I wonder why we're here. I glance around the room. It doesn't really make sense. Every word that rolls off my tongue sounds as vapid as I am inside, and yet he loves me. He always has. Perhaps he thought that there was some mask I was wearing, some tear away paper thing that given the right tools would reveal something more solid, deeper down. Something inside of me that was salvageable.

God, was he wrong.

"I love you."

"Thank you."

Here we are again, a stalemate. He stares at me for a long moment, and I think perhaps that I did love him, once. It seems a long time ago, and it's not so much of a feeling. More an inclination, a pinch behind my navel that reminds me that if it weren't for him, I'd probably be collecting heads for kicks.

He looks hurt, something I've never understood. The open expression of something that seems to me should be reserved for private time. I've always found it vulgar to just shove your emotions in people's faces, to give them no choice but to have to respond to you, comfort you. I never do that for him, but he still looks at me like he wants me to. Like he's waiting for me to. It infuriates me, in a strange way. It makes me feel uncomfortable, like Thanksgiving dinner.

"Craig—ngh—I'm leaving tonight. I'm going away."

My ears perk. Going away? Where is he going? My head feels fuzzy all of a sudden, and I look at him with a renewed interest.

"I'm sorry."

What's he sorry for? He's always talking in riddles—I can never understand. What the fuck does he want from me?

"I'm leaving you, because I can't—N-Nobody can…I can't live like this."

The room feels like its closing in on me, and my heart is racing. What is he saying? I can't figure out what he means. Words, words, words, words! I can't do anything with those easy fucking words. I stare at him, and I feel angry. I want to hurt him, to hit him like I've done to others before. He's going away? For how long?

Forever, you fucking idiot.

I can feel myself standing, but I'm not sure why I'm doing it. He watches me, and I see a flicker there—fear. I'll never tell him, but I like it when he's afraid. He should be. I'm not safe.

"Go away, then."

I don't mean what I'm saying, I never do. My legs feel stiff, and wobbly. Like a fucking gazelle. That's what I feel like, a goddamn animal. Unfeeling, uncaring, unmoved—

Then why are you sweating, Craig?

Fuck off.

He's crying. I don't understand. He's the one leaving me, so what the fuck is there to cry about? Shouldn't I be crying? Oh, if I could. If I could cry we'd probably be doing something normal—sitting on the couch. Watching a movie. Fucking. Something that makes sense.

He turns, his thin body shaking as though gravity has begun to crush him. And he's walking away, and I still don't get it. I never have.

I watch him go, and when the door closes I sit back down.

They call me a sociopath.

But sitting on the chair, listening to the silence—I'd swear I almost felt something like. Loss.