Title: Don't Let Me Remember-*-Black with an O~i CaN't SeE

Author: Naisumi

Rating: R

Parts: 3/4

Disclaimer: You've _got_ to be kidding...^.~

Archive: If you want, but could you tell me at least?

Warnings: Angst, symbolism, darkness, yadda yadda yadda

Notes: Well, this one is kinda short, but I really couldn't help it ^-^;;

Additional Notes: This is _not_ betad.

Enjoy, and please give me C&C!!! Comments and critics welcome, flames will be posted and laughed at and then used for the litter box.

"blah." People speak

-- uh...scene switch

--

Staring. He hated staring. They plagued him like a thousand fireflies, blazing endlessly with underlying hostility, sparks lit with dancing, jeering flames--flames so like their questioning stares filled with lingering eeriness. Always, they filled his head with a mire of glistening crimson, with the echoing hoof beats from some savage within. It scared him sometimes; other times, he was too numb to feel much else or anything, let alone fright. Shadows and flickering haunting light colored his mind, distorted his thoughts, his senses, his former dreams, now nightmares.

The dust settled about him and he gagged on his own tongue. Doubling over, he banged a fist against the closet door, hearing the furnace start up with a rumble. He tried to scream but felt more grime coat his lips as he opened them. Something scuttled past, feeling spiny yet feathery, and he recoiled, bracing his arms against the lime-coated walls and steel door. He hadn't eaten in a week and his stomach had stopped cramping two days ago. A wave of heat from the quaking furnace reminded him of pangs, though, eliciting a groan from deep within his heaving chest, struggling lungs attempting to draw in breath. The roiling warmth suffocated him; it was too much, filing his eyes with stinging sweat, raining from nowhere but inside. The unbearable darkness and vapor and invisible tide of heat, fear, nausea--all of it surged over him, choking him as if it were an ink-colored anaconda with scales of anxiety, fangs of brutal reality, surreality, fatality.

Abruptly, the doorknob rattled, clicked, opened with a clang. He tumbled out from where he had been leaning heavily against the metal-plated door. His mother stared coldly down at him, saying after a moment, 'Come upstairs.' He wiped the dust and cobwebs and sweat, tears, filth from out of his eyes.

It was always like that; always full of blazing pain and twanging chill, always belabored and beriddled with bullet holes from the keen prongs of hateful parents' words. He tried to hate them back but found that he couldn't.

'Useless cretin!'

'Maybe if he actually paid attention in school, he wouldn't be such a rotten bag of wind.'

'Don't you give a damn about what your mother and I went through?!'

'You miserable brat!'

'Go to hell!'

'Damn you--'

'--I hate you, you--'

'Idiot! You're such an absolute--'

'Moron! Deadbeat!'

'Scum!'

'Son of a--'

'Whore! That's what your idiot father calls me because of YOU! You retarded--'

'--good-for-nothing--'

'--piece of shit!'

'I--hate--YOU!!!--'

Something inside him broke. All the hate and bitterness and pain flooded over him like a sea of scarlet, drowning him in a haze of blood-tinted insanity. The next day, the police found him drenched in blood and sitting in the park, eyes blank.

'What happened, son?'

Fred turned to them and said honestly, "I don't know, but I think everyone's dead."