11
There's something so undeniably beautiful about losing control. Everything that happens feels like it's supposed to be happening, because you can't control anything. The world falls into chaos around you, and people scream and tell you to run and tear their hair out, but you just stand and smile because you've accepted that not having control is preferable. Standing and watching is the best thing you can do. Whatever happens, happens. That's what it feels like when you lose control, and it's a very peaceful feeling. Especially when you have a friend by your side, holding your hand, whispering comforting words in your ears, encouraging you, telling you that losing control is a perfect decision. He tells you that he'll take control—and if he takes control, then you have nothing to worry about. Somebody else deals with all of the problems, somebody else deals with everything over which you never even wanted control. Even if your friend is a shadow who only exists in the crevices of your cracking mind, it's a beautiful feeling. Like you're floating.
And blood is breathtaking, when you truly look at it. In fact, I've never seen anything that's so bright and so red—except for maybe Princess Zelda's lips. But her lips are much colder than blood.
It feels good between your fingers and once the stains are there, your skin takes on a glistening, rosy complexion. It's not the translucent pale color it used to be, and when you hold your fingers up to the light, they sparkle. Breathtaking is the only way to describe it. At least, my friend and I think so. And he's usually right. He's the artist, after all, and he's the one who painted the blood onto my hands—without him, my skin wouldn't be sparkling. I'm not scared anymore, and I'm not numb anymore, I'm just comfortable. I haven't been comfortable in such a long time.
