Note: Silverflashpup, I sincerely hope you don't stop reading because I think it gets more tutti frutti... if it becomes untasteful, please do let me know, I don't think it does, but I tried to keep it similar to his character... I hope I did a decent job. I'm trying to watch my spelling.
Thank you, lads and lasses. =)
I fit my own preferances. I'm rarely concerned about pleasing anyone else. I really don't care to be around people, so what do I care if they hate me? I'm a sociopath... and I like it that way. I probably should take better care of myself, though. Oh well. You wouldn't feed your worst enemy either.
I woke up on my living room floor to the doorbell, but when I went to answer it, no one was there. Turning back to my paint setup, Phsycodoughboy was standing on my chair, studying my work.
"You should have used better paint," he recommended.
I shooed him off of the chair, with my foot, and kind of hard. I wanted to kick his little styrofoam head off. I sat on my sofa watching TV. It was just noise. I hardly ever even watched it anymore. It was the final thin string connecting me to a world I probably should never have become part of to begin with. I flipped through the channels.
"... murdered last night in the Second Street Gallery parking garage. Justin Hullin was seventeen year old art patron and had several of his works on display that night. Police say he was beaten to death. As of now the assailants are yet to be identified."
I turned the TV off and threw the remote at it. It hit the glass and bounced off with a crack that told me it was broken. I didnt' care. I rolled onto my other side, feeling nauseus. I didn't know if I was more angry at myself or those little fucks that took my job away. I should probably have killed them. Not necessarily to save 'Justin Hullin', but at least to punish those little bastards. If I ever got convicted of a crime I didn't commit, I swore to God there'd be more hell to pay than that contained in my basement."
The phone rang. I couldn't believe it was still fucking connected.
"Hullo?"
"You're such a prick... such a hypocrite..."
"I told you I wasn't even there to see you," I snapped at Devi. She sounded like she might have been crying. Which made me wonder, but not enough to ask her.
"I can't believe you. What did he do, get in your line of vision while he was unlocking his car? Look at you wrong? Did he fucking sneeze in front of you? What terrible crime did he commit, Johnny? I'm just dying to know. Or have you been spying on me again, you son of a bitch!?"
"Devi, I'm hanging up now. Call me back when you feel like explaining what's wrong with me now."
"If you hang up I'm going to kill you!" she snarled.
I believed her. I stayed on the line but silently, waiting to hear what I'd done now.
"Well?" she demanded.
"What do you want me to say? I don't even know what you're fucking talking about."
"Justin!" she snapped. "What did he ever do to you??"
"Justin Hopkin or whatever the fuck?"
"Yeah... Justin Hopkin or whatever the fuck," she growled sarcastically.
"I don't know, two guys were beating him up in the garage when I pulled in."
"Fuck you, Johnny! A murder happens when you're around and you didn't commit it?"
"When I pulled in there were two jocks beating the shit out of some skinny little kid,"I replied. "I just wanted to glance around and be out of there, I wasn't in the mood for killing at the moment."
"Do you know who that 'skinny little kid' was? What am I saying, of coarse you do, you've got nothing better to do than follow me the fuck around all day," she went off.
I sighed. "No, Devi. Enlighten me, who was this poor, poor victem?"
"Fuck you," she said blankly and hung up on me.
I sat down on the sofa. I scratched my head and stood back up. I went to the refridgerator and made myself a sandwich. Then I threw it away. I don't eat much. Then again, I don't do many things that require energy besides kill. Then I got in my car and drove to Devi's house. I hardly ever care about stupid things, but this bothered me.
I knocked on her door. I heard the lock slide open, I heard her wait a couple of seconds, and then she opened it. "What do you fucking want?"
"Who was the kid?"
"Fuck you, Johnny! Just leave me alone!"
"Who was Justin?!" I demanded. "Tell me!"
"You know goddamn well who Justin was!"
"WHO WAS HE??" I yelled at the top of my godforsaken black lungs.
"He was my boyfriend!" And she promptly slammed the door in my face. And with that I drove back home.
--
I sat on my bed. I found it kind of ironic that the week in which I got the most sleep was the week I hadn't even been in my bedroom. But I sat on it regardless. My mattress squeaked. It was old. Probably as old as I am. I laid down. My eyes were heavy but my mind wasn't clear. Only two things induce sleep in me: extreme exhaust and a clear mind. And I was battered down. I couldn't go as long without rest as I used to be able to.
My mind was cloudy and angry, and so was I. I just kind of stared at the ceiling. My face was hot, too. I was mad at Devi. I was really mad at that kid for dying. I was mad at myself for caring that Devi was mad at me. I was mad at Phsycodoughboy and Mr. Fuck for existing. And most of all I was mad at that canvas for not having anything good on it yet.
I fell asleep in a fitfull manner. I didn't want to dream. I remember thinking that as I drifted unwillingly into my subconcious. It was like a bargain. "Alright, I'll go along with this as long as you don't make me dream."
Thank you, lads and lasses. =)
I fit my own preferances. I'm rarely concerned about pleasing anyone else. I really don't care to be around people, so what do I care if they hate me? I'm a sociopath... and I like it that way. I probably should take better care of myself, though. Oh well. You wouldn't feed your worst enemy either.
I woke up on my living room floor to the doorbell, but when I went to answer it, no one was there. Turning back to my paint setup, Phsycodoughboy was standing on my chair, studying my work.
"You should have used better paint," he recommended.
I shooed him off of the chair, with my foot, and kind of hard. I wanted to kick his little styrofoam head off. I sat on my sofa watching TV. It was just noise. I hardly ever even watched it anymore. It was the final thin string connecting me to a world I probably should never have become part of to begin with. I flipped through the channels.
"... murdered last night in the Second Street Gallery parking garage. Justin Hullin was seventeen year old art patron and had several of his works on display that night. Police say he was beaten to death. As of now the assailants are yet to be identified."
I turned the TV off and threw the remote at it. It hit the glass and bounced off with a crack that told me it was broken. I didnt' care. I rolled onto my other side, feeling nauseus. I didn't know if I was more angry at myself or those little fucks that took my job away. I should probably have killed them. Not necessarily to save 'Justin Hullin', but at least to punish those little bastards. If I ever got convicted of a crime I didn't commit, I swore to God there'd be more hell to pay than that contained in my basement."
The phone rang. I couldn't believe it was still fucking connected.
"Hullo?"
"You're such a prick... such a hypocrite..."
"I told you I wasn't even there to see you," I snapped at Devi. She sounded like she might have been crying. Which made me wonder, but not enough to ask her.
"I can't believe you. What did he do, get in your line of vision while he was unlocking his car? Look at you wrong? Did he fucking sneeze in front of you? What terrible crime did he commit, Johnny? I'm just dying to know. Or have you been spying on me again, you son of a bitch!?"
"Devi, I'm hanging up now. Call me back when you feel like explaining what's wrong with me now."
"If you hang up I'm going to kill you!" she snarled.
I believed her. I stayed on the line but silently, waiting to hear what I'd done now.
"Well?" she demanded.
"What do you want me to say? I don't even know what you're fucking talking about."
"Justin!" she snapped. "What did he ever do to you??"
"Justin Hopkin or whatever the fuck?"
"Yeah... Justin Hopkin or whatever the fuck," she growled sarcastically.
"I don't know, two guys were beating him up in the garage when I pulled in."
"Fuck you, Johnny! A murder happens when you're around and you didn't commit it?"
"When I pulled in there were two jocks beating the shit out of some skinny little kid,"I replied. "I just wanted to glance around and be out of there, I wasn't in the mood for killing at the moment."
"Do you know who that 'skinny little kid' was? What am I saying, of coarse you do, you've got nothing better to do than follow me the fuck around all day," she went off.
I sighed. "No, Devi. Enlighten me, who was this poor, poor victem?"
"Fuck you," she said blankly and hung up on me.
I sat down on the sofa. I scratched my head and stood back up. I went to the refridgerator and made myself a sandwich. Then I threw it away. I don't eat much. Then again, I don't do many things that require energy besides kill. Then I got in my car and drove to Devi's house. I hardly ever care about stupid things, but this bothered me.
I knocked on her door. I heard the lock slide open, I heard her wait a couple of seconds, and then she opened it. "What do you fucking want?"
"Who was the kid?"
"Fuck you, Johnny! Just leave me alone!"
"Who was Justin?!" I demanded. "Tell me!"
"You know goddamn well who Justin was!"
"WHO WAS HE??" I yelled at the top of my godforsaken black lungs.
"He was my boyfriend!" And she promptly slammed the door in my face. And with that I drove back home.
--
I sat on my bed. I found it kind of ironic that the week in which I got the most sleep was the week I hadn't even been in my bedroom. But I sat on it regardless. My mattress squeaked. It was old. Probably as old as I am. I laid down. My eyes were heavy but my mind wasn't clear. Only two things induce sleep in me: extreme exhaust and a clear mind. And I was battered down. I couldn't go as long without rest as I used to be able to.
My mind was cloudy and angry, and so was I. I just kind of stared at the ceiling. My face was hot, too. I was mad at Devi. I was really mad at that kid for dying. I was mad at myself for caring that Devi was mad at me. I was mad at Phsycodoughboy and Mr. Fuck for existing. And most of all I was mad at that canvas for not having anything good on it yet.
I fell asleep in a fitfull manner. I didn't want to dream. I remember thinking that as I drifted unwillingly into my subconcious. It was like a bargain. "Alright, I'll go along with this as long as you don't make me dream."