I painted the wall with her blood for a while. It's not tedious work, it's almost like when I used to paint real pictures with real paint. On real canvas. Before I became this little death whore. Do I make it clear how much I miss my art? I tried my hand at writing once. They say pictures are worth a thousand fucking words, which makes me wonder why if drawing and painting came so easy to me, poetry and stories were so difficult.
I emptied the body of the football player of his blood and then I went through his wallet. It's always nice to know what you've just ended. His name was Daniel Pilluck, his was 18 and he was in the 12th grade at Hawthorn High, the Wildcats, for whom he was the first string quarter back. Born September fifth, 6'3, 174 pounds. If you can point out one thing about him that made him different from every other yuppie yokle in this pit of the world, I'll point out some regret about killing him in .4 seconds. I chewed on this while I worked, and then went to my room to look out the window at the rising sun. I watched it rise for a while, and reflected upon how undeserving human beings are to have such a beautiful sun to light such an undeserving world. After about an hour, I went to watch some TV. I laugh at a lot of media anymore. I adore the stupidy and the security people find in things like this. I really do.
I think around eleven in the morning I fell into a deep dark sleep. I don't dream much. I think if I did, I might slip the rest of the way over the edge. I can't really imagine what that would be like. I consider myself most of the way nuts anyway. I woke up when it was dark. Psycodoughboy stood over me.
"You're my best friend."
"Uh, thanks," I murmured sleepily.
"Will you do me a favor?" I didn't really answer him. "Kill yourself for me?"
"I've tried," I muttered. I sat up. "What fucking time is it?"
"Time for you to kill yourself."
"Okay... fuck you." I sat up and stretched. I went and sat in the basement and stared at my wall. My stupid wall. My fucking stupid wall. I turned and grabbed a switchblade from the ground. One can never underestimate having a switchblade handy. I use it alot. I carve things into my arm. My chest, my wrist, whatever's handy. Pain is one of the few things that live on in me. My talent, my vigor is gone, but pain is still pretty vibrant. My best work is carved directly into me. I cut my arm down the middle, and watched crimson envelope the skin. I cracked my neck and waited for it to drip. I let it drip on the concrete and abosorb into the floor. There are nasty things under the floor that like my blood.
WORTHLESSLIFELESSLOVELESS.
"Shut up," I muttered.
USELESSUNWORTHYPATHETIC L O N E L Y.
It howled 'lonely'. You know... there's never a need to overdramatize lonliness and write poems about it, and to paint it into canvasas and immortalize it. Being lonely in and of itself is enough reason to kill yourself. So I cut into my vein and blacked out on the floor. Simple as that.
I woke up a few hours later. I was stone cold. I was freezing. I was painfully, painfully cold. In fact... I was so cold that I started to cry. I was tired of living and breathing and being bothered by that pesky beating thing in my chest that brought me nothing but pain. I was tired. And I was so, so cold. I couldn't even bring myself to peel my body from the floor. I just sobbed. I found Nailbunny's voice in my ear.
"Don't cry, Nny... don't cry."
But even Nailbunny couldn't help me now.
For no particular reason, I knew who I wanted to see. Don't guess me, don't predict me, don't judge me. It was Devi, of coarse. But I didn't want her to see me, I just wanted to see what she was doing. I wasn't going to stalk her, I was just going to...
Stalk her.
I was lonely. And the truely lonely, stalk. I wanted to see her. I hadn't seen her since she got away. I'd let it go, just not quite her. The fact that there was something out there that I couldn't kill or get my hands on or access or end or manipulate was a little unnerving. I wanted to see what it was up to.
So I got back in my stupid car, my stupid little dark green car and drove to her gallery to remind myself what it was like to create something instead of ending everything. I drove with no music, which I felt myself beginning to loose taste for anyway. I decided long ago that when I loose my taste for music I'm going to kill myself, because there will no longer be any beauty left in the world for me.
I got out and walked across an empty parking garage. I glared at the scum in the corner beating up a younger kid. But I walked away because I hate humanity. Just more evil I haven't absorbed into my polluted soul. I walked in to the gallery, dimly lit, of coarse. Oh, lovely. Thanks fate, I caught that one... Devi's new work was on display. She was in the middle of a crowd of people, which made my life amazingly easier. I knew she wasn't looking for me, and with all the wasted deadheads wandering around, I knew I wouldn't be the only trench coated moron stalking through the dimly lit aisls of angst portraied with different shades of black.
I started to wander around the museum. I made myself look at every picture and disect it until it wasn't beautiful anymore. All the things I used to look for when I painted came rushing back to me... use of texture and shadow, now things I looked for when I killed. Texture of sweaty skin, shadows to hide in... So sad. I grinned sardonically. The farther down the aisl I went, the more striking the images became. Until I set eyes on something so vile and so disturbing the only relief was the frame. Set with dark dark hair shading his eyes and a pathetically gaunt face, his skinny little fram clothed only in a black button down shirt, I stared at myself, scratched into a canvas. It was me on that portrait and Devi D scribbled at the bottom. I turned briskly to leave and found myself staring at Devi.
I emptied the body of the football player of his blood and then I went through his wallet. It's always nice to know what you've just ended. His name was Daniel Pilluck, his was 18 and he was in the 12th grade at Hawthorn High, the Wildcats, for whom he was the first string quarter back. Born September fifth, 6'3, 174 pounds. If you can point out one thing about him that made him different from every other yuppie yokle in this pit of the world, I'll point out some regret about killing him in .4 seconds. I chewed on this while I worked, and then went to my room to look out the window at the rising sun. I watched it rise for a while, and reflected upon how undeserving human beings are to have such a beautiful sun to light such an undeserving world. After about an hour, I went to watch some TV. I laugh at a lot of media anymore. I adore the stupidy and the security people find in things like this. I really do.
I think around eleven in the morning I fell into a deep dark sleep. I don't dream much. I think if I did, I might slip the rest of the way over the edge. I can't really imagine what that would be like. I consider myself most of the way nuts anyway. I woke up when it was dark. Psycodoughboy stood over me.
"You're my best friend."
"Uh, thanks," I murmured sleepily.
"Will you do me a favor?" I didn't really answer him. "Kill yourself for me?"
"I've tried," I muttered. I sat up. "What fucking time is it?"
"Time for you to kill yourself."
"Okay... fuck you." I sat up and stretched. I went and sat in the basement and stared at my wall. My stupid wall. My fucking stupid wall. I turned and grabbed a switchblade from the ground. One can never underestimate having a switchblade handy. I use it alot. I carve things into my arm. My chest, my wrist, whatever's handy. Pain is one of the few things that live on in me. My talent, my vigor is gone, but pain is still pretty vibrant. My best work is carved directly into me. I cut my arm down the middle, and watched crimson envelope the skin. I cracked my neck and waited for it to drip. I let it drip on the concrete and abosorb into the floor. There are nasty things under the floor that like my blood.
WORTHLESSLIFELESSLOVELESS.
"Shut up," I muttered.
USELESSUNWORTHYPATHETIC L O N E L Y.
It howled 'lonely'. You know... there's never a need to overdramatize lonliness and write poems about it, and to paint it into canvasas and immortalize it. Being lonely in and of itself is enough reason to kill yourself. So I cut into my vein and blacked out on the floor. Simple as that.
I woke up a few hours later. I was stone cold. I was freezing. I was painfully, painfully cold. In fact... I was so cold that I started to cry. I was tired of living and breathing and being bothered by that pesky beating thing in my chest that brought me nothing but pain. I was tired. And I was so, so cold. I couldn't even bring myself to peel my body from the floor. I just sobbed. I found Nailbunny's voice in my ear.
"Don't cry, Nny... don't cry."
But even Nailbunny couldn't help me now.
For no particular reason, I knew who I wanted to see. Don't guess me, don't predict me, don't judge me. It was Devi, of coarse. But I didn't want her to see me, I just wanted to see what she was doing. I wasn't going to stalk her, I was just going to...
Stalk her.
I was lonely. And the truely lonely, stalk. I wanted to see her. I hadn't seen her since she got away. I'd let it go, just not quite her. The fact that there was something out there that I couldn't kill or get my hands on or access or end or manipulate was a little unnerving. I wanted to see what it was up to.
So I got back in my stupid car, my stupid little dark green car and drove to her gallery to remind myself what it was like to create something instead of ending everything. I drove with no music, which I felt myself beginning to loose taste for anyway. I decided long ago that when I loose my taste for music I'm going to kill myself, because there will no longer be any beauty left in the world for me.
I got out and walked across an empty parking garage. I glared at the scum in the corner beating up a younger kid. But I walked away because I hate humanity. Just more evil I haven't absorbed into my polluted soul. I walked in to the gallery, dimly lit, of coarse. Oh, lovely. Thanks fate, I caught that one... Devi's new work was on display. She was in the middle of a crowd of people, which made my life amazingly easier. I knew she wasn't looking for me, and with all the wasted deadheads wandering around, I knew I wouldn't be the only trench coated moron stalking through the dimly lit aisls of angst portraied with different shades of black.
I started to wander around the museum. I made myself look at every picture and disect it until it wasn't beautiful anymore. All the things I used to look for when I painted came rushing back to me... use of texture and shadow, now things I looked for when I killed. Texture of sweaty skin, shadows to hide in... So sad. I grinned sardonically. The farther down the aisl I went, the more striking the images became. Until I set eyes on something so vile and so disturbing the only relief was the frame. Set with dark dark hair shading his eyes and a pathetically gaunt face, his skinny little fram clothed only in a black button down shirt, I stared at myself, scratched into a canvas. It was me on that portrait and Devi D scribbled at the bottom. I turned briskly to leave and found myself staring at Devi.