The Little House Of Mine
My mind is a big house with large halls and many rooms. It looks new, yeah - until you come IN it. From inside it's more like an ol' castle. Ripped walls, cracked floor an' ceiling that threatens to fall down... nah, don' be afraid, it's holding on on those damn shreds for what seems like eternity. Sometimes I even wish it crushed down already an' ended it all up. I wish it rarely though.
The roar comes from the hall - frustrated an' enraged.
Yeah, I'm not the only one living here, so no surprising.
A shadow falls on the wall - an' a big furred creature springs out of the corridor with a lightening speed. Thick yellow mane seems to be untouched by the dirt of the castle, it shines with every movement in a deem light that comes from nowhere. The creature is always in motion: running, clawing, roaring - all in action. It hunts down shadows that dissolve as it's approachin'. It runs along the doors blindfolded by rage and... I dunno, maybe it's fear that I see in its eyes. I think that the creature wants out. The lion. The first animal in my mind.
There's second one here too. The one that is hard to see 'cos it always hides in darkness an' white shining eyes looking at you out of dancing shadows is the only thing you're let to see. It's always on alert too - but it never springs in action. Just crawls around with its body tensed, ready to fight but never fighting. It's also afraid - everyone is afraid here - but somehow it has enough strength to hold on an' push the fear back. Wolverine. That's how it looks like. Just don' ask me why - I dunno. It' s just there, a tensed furred part o' me.
If all this makes ya think the only being in my li'l house are animals, better swallow it up or I'll chock ya with it. There're also humans there. Take at least that scientist, an intellectualist in a white lab-coat with some thick book under his arm. He's wondering around, watching, examining, searching... For a long time I couldn't comprehend what he was doing until I saw him wiping the dirt from the wall as if to read something. Then he opened his book and put down some notes. That was then I realized what all that scientific crap was for. He was mending. He was mending ME, putting me together. Why? I dunno, but I doubt he cares about ol' Vic. He just wants ta live in better conditions, doesn't like the ceiling that threatens to fall down...
I dunno what does he look like, I've never seen his face. Sometimes I imagine him as stupid Chuck who still tries to cure me. Sometimes it's poor Jean who got lost in the li'l ol' house o' my mind. That feels good to have someone so sweet in my twisted aching head - but it fades too soon. What a pity. Especially when she's replaced with some f*cking bastard who's here not 'cos he can't find the way back or can't escape - he's just curious about what's happening around. Dumb freak.
The question that bothers me is that I dunno him. An' if I dunno him, how can I imagine him so clearly? I'm sick of these words, but I dunno. I dunno so much about what's going on in my head. Especially in the dark back part where monsters live... Shiver runs down my spine. I hate this place with every cell of mine.
There're three of them.
A killer. He isn't even a fully normal being. He's not a being at all. He's a stare...He's watching. You. His stare is icy-cold an' your bones feel like being covered with liquid nitrogen. If raw adamantium was cold when they poured it inta me, it must be like that. The killer just stares at ya, and when he does, ya'll never say he doesn't exist only 'cos ya don' see him. Ever.
A murderer. Tormentor. Maniac. He/it looks like the weirdest thing ya've ever seen. All bloody claws, sharp curled fangs, tales with razor edges, strong threatening paws - never knew whether they're covered with fur or scales. He/it goes along the corridors with roar an' shrieks an' ya always know when he/it is comin'. That's what the monster in me looks like. That's who make all those bloody kills, that's the one who pulls out the prey's guts, the one who rapes the girls leaving them bleeding on the floor to die. I hate him - an' I'm afraid o' him at the same time. It's strong, an' the one who's strong, got the mighty. The one I always fight, the one I'm always defeated by.
There's also a li'l freak there, in that damn dark part o' mine. He's crawling around, thin an' bony, with long legs an' hands that are dangling on his sides. He's looking for the monster. Each time he founds him, the murderer slashes him hard, an' I hear him screamin'. The monster does his best, an' it's enough to shut down anyone - but not this li'l freak. He survives each damn time an' as soon as he manages ta get up, he goes along to find a monster again. Mr. Self Destruct. The part o' me I wanna kill, though it's just what he wants me ta do. Thanks god, he's small enough not ta influence my survivor qualities. Thanks god, he's small... but sometimes... when the girl I'm f*ckin', bites hard in my neck... when the blood streams down, sweet an' hot... at that time I want more, an' I growl her to bite again. That li'l freak is worth killing.
Some more or less bearable part of me lives in the rooms.
I think that those rooms are my memory, or its remains, or... whatever.
In some of those rooms I see Birdy. I like those ones - where she's still alive. Not that I can take some profit from her, but it's still good. Just that she's there. She's in a li'l room with yellow curtains an' gray couch where she usually sits. She's dressed in white, in that dress I remember her the last time. She's smiling, she's happy. But I can't reach her. I can open the door - but I can't do through it. And I remain outside looking at her through that damn invisible barrier. Not that I do care much about her - but she's in my mind, and I wanna be able ta go where I want in my head.
Another room. A basement. A li'l blond boy chained to the wall. A bloody corp of a rabbit on the concrete floor - half eaten, bones visible among remains of flesh... I shut the door roughly. Not because of that f*ckin' basement, but 'cos of the despair in boy's eyes. It's HIS fault he's still there. He's got claws an' fangs - they're not yanked out yet. He CAN escape. But he doesn't. Why? For some damn reason people call hope. The hope for somethin' better. Stupid. Stupid.
There's one being in that ol' castle that can do what he wants an' go where he wants. He's fully responsible for what happens in there. His name is Victor Creed, though many people call him Sabretooth. He's the host there.
I'm the host there. The host in a li'l house o' mine.
The END.
My mind is a big house with large halls and many rooms. It looks new, yeah - until you come IN it. From inside it's more like an ol' castle. Ripped walls, cracked floor an' ceiling that threatens to fall down... nah, don' be afraid, it's holding on on those damn shreds for what seems like eternity. Sometimes I even wish it crushed down already an' ended it all up. I wish it rarely though.
The roar comes from the hall - frustrated an' enraged.
Yeah, I'm not the only one living here, so no surprising.
A shadow falls on the wall - an' a big furred creature springs out of the corridor with a lightening speed. Thick yellow mane seems to be untouched by the dirt of the castle, it shines with every movement in a deem light that comes from nowhere. The creature is always in motion: running, clawing, roaring - all in action. It hunts down shadows that dissolve as it's approachin'. It runs along the doors blindfolded by rage and... I dunno, maybe it's fear that I see in its eyes. I think that the creature wants out. The lion. The first animal in my mind.
There's second one here too. The one that is hard to see 'cos it always hides in darkness an' white shining eyes looking at you out of dancing shadows is the only thing you're let to see. It's always on alert too - but it never springs in action. Just crawls around with its body tensed, ready to fight but never fighting. It's also afraid - everyone is afraid here - but somehow it has enough strength to hold on an' push the fear back. Wolverine. That's how it looks like. Just don' ask me why - I dunno. It' s just there, a tensed furred part o' me.
If all this makes ya think the only being in my li'l house are animals, better swallow it up or I'll chock ya with it. There're also humans there. Take at least that scientist, an intellectualist in a white lab-coat with some thick book under his arm. He's wondering around, watching, examining, searching... For a long time I couldn't comprehend what he was doing until I saw him wiping the dirt from the wall as if to read something. Then he opened his book and put down some notes. That was then I realized what all that scientific crap was for. He was mending. He was mending ME, putting me together. Why? I dunno, but I doubt he cares about ol' Vic. He just wants ta live in better conditions, doesn't like the ceiling that threatens to fall down...
I dunno what does he look like, I've never seen his face. Sometimes I imagine him as stupid Chuck who still tries to cure me. Sometimes it's poor Jean who got lost in the li'l ol' house o' my mind. That feels good to have someone so sweet in my twisted aching head - but it fades too soon. What a pity. Especially when she's replaced with some f*cking bastard who's here not 'cos he can't find the way back or can't escape - he's just curious about what's happening around. Dumb freak.
The question that bothers me is that I dunno him. An' if I dunno him, how can I imagine him so clearly? I'm sick of these words, but I dunno. I dunno so much about what's going on in my head. Especially in the dark back part where monsters live... Shiver runs down my spine. I hate this place with every cell of mine.
There're three of them.
A killer. He isn't even a fully normal being. He's not a being at all. He's a stare...He's watching. You. His stare is icy-cold an' your bones feel like being covered with liquid nitrogen. If raw adamantium was cold when they poured it inta me, it must be like that. The killer just stares at ya, and when he does, ya'll never say he doesn't exist only 'cos ya don' see him. Ever.
A murderer. Tormentor. Maniac. He/it looks like the weirdest thing ya've ever seen. All bloody claws, sharp curled fangs, tales with razor edges, strong threatening paws - never knew whether they're covered with fur or scales. He/it goes along the corridors with roar an' shrieks an' ya always know when he/it is comin'. That's what the monster in me looks like. That's who make all those bloody kills, that's the one who pulls out the prey's guts, the one who rapes the girls leaving them bleeding on the floor to die. I hate him - an' I'm afraid o' him at the same time. It's strong, an' the one who's strong, got the mighty. The one I always fight, the one I'm always defeated by.
There's also a li'l freak there, in that damn dark part o' mine. He's crawling around, thin an' bony, with long legs an' hands that are dangling on his sides. He's looking for the monster. Each time he founds him, the murderer slashes him hard, an' I hear him screamin'. The monster does his best, an' it's enough to shut down anyone - but not this li'l freak. He survives each damn time an' as soon as he manages ta get up, he goes along to find a monster again. Mr. Self Destruct. The part o' me I wanna kill, though it's just what he wants me ta do. Thanks god, he's small enough not ta influence my survivor qualities. Thanks god, he's small... but sometimes... when the girl I'm f*ckin', bites hard in my neck... when the blood streams down, sweet an' hot... at that time I want more, an' I growl her to bite again. That li'l freak is worth killing.
Some more or less bearable part of me lives in the rooms.
I think that those rooms are my memory, or its remains, or... whatever.
In some of those rooms I see Birdy. I like those ones - where she's still alive. Not that I can take some profit from her, but it's still good. Just that she's there. She's in a li'l room with yellow curtains an' gray couch where she usually sits. She's dressed in white, in that dress I remember her the last time. She's smiling, she's happy. But I can't reach her. I can open the door - but I can't do through it. And I remain outside looking at her through that damn invisible barrier. Not that I do care much about her - but she's in my mind, and I wanna be able ta go where I want in my head.
Another room. A basement. A li'l blond boy chained to the wall. A bloody corp of a rabbit on the concrete floor - half eaten, bones visible among remains of flesh... I shut the door roughly. Not because of that f*ckin' basement, but 'cos of the despair in boy's eyes. It's HIS fault he's still there. He's got claws an' fangs - they're not yanked out yet. He CAN escape. But he doesn't. Why? For some damn reason people call hope. The hope for somethin' better. Stupid. Stupid.
There's one being in that ol' castle that can do what he wants an' go where he wants. He's fully responsible for what happens in there. His name is Victor Creed, though many people call him Sabretooth. He's the host there.
I'm the host there. The host in a li'l house o' mine.
The END.