DISCLAIMER: Johnny belongs to Jhonen Vasquez. I made up the crack-whore
mother, and in my world he's a cutter. I love toying with his already
morose life!
Lying upon the hood of his jalopy, Johnny gazes at the stars above his head in a state of serenity. A dusty breeze breaks through the thin air, playing upon his atrophied band-tee before leaving him alone to the cold, metallic touch of his vehicle. He sits up and returns his glare to the bright lights of the city far below.
That damn hellhole. He doesn't look forward to leaving his cliff-top retreat from the harsh monotony of his hometown. He tires of the overflow of unsanitary bodies that drag through this bleak reality, ignorant of the depraved society they fuel with their mindless conformity.
He tires of the contradictory chorus within his own head, constantly controlling his actions. He longs for rest. The wall never stops drying, he moans to himself, and soon the blood will lose its ruby luster, and the monster will eat through my frail barrier.
Suddenly overtaken by self- pity, he wonders, Why did the Devil send me back to this pathetic existence? Did God waive my spiritual rights to punish me for my iniquity?
Somewhere deep within the abyss of his psyche, he knows that his situation is no more oppressive than that of the rest of the population. Everyone is a schizophrenic antisocial, turned habitual murderer on the brink of suicide; they just don't know it yet. Nonetheless, he is too absorbed in his depression to listen to his subconscious.
He pulls the cuff of the left sleeve of his black trenchcoat away from his wrist, exposing several small cuts, deep through the epidermis. And suddenly, the need for release overtakes him. He falls forward, his knees hitting the dirt with a dull thud. His abdomen quivers as a result of his overactive diaphragm, constricting in yearning. He desires pain; he needs pain.
Pain is the greatest high you'll ever feel. It's a fresh awakening that alerts your senses. It's also a reminder of your vulnerability. While pain is an example of vitality, it's also a short-lived experience of fatality. That's what makes it so addictive.
He repeats the word to himself: addictive. Images of his crack-whore mother, convulsing upon the kitchen tile before his four-year old eyes repels him, and he slowly gets up from the ground. I need to drive, he tells himself. I need to think about something else. I don't get pain today. Addicts are weak.
His knee-high leather boots resound upon the ground with a solid sound, ill- fitted for the suddenly queasy feeling in his central nervous system. He opens the door and slouches into his car, starting the engine. He chants to himself. Addicts are weak He begins a long drive along a windy road to a small shack within a bustling city. And he chants to himself. Addicts are weak.
Every day he chants to himself. Addicts are weak.
THE END
Lying upon the hood of his jalopy, Johnny gazes at the stars above his head in a state of serenity. A dusty breeze breaks through the thin air, playing upon his atrophied band-tee before leaving him alone to the cold, metallic touch of his vehicle. He sits up and returns his glare to the bright lights of the city far below.
That damn hellhole. He doesn't look forward to leaving his cliff-top retreat from the harsh monotony of his hometown. He tires of the overflow of unsanitary bodies that drag through this bleak reality, ignorant of the depraved society they fuel with their mindless conformity.
He tires of the contradictory chorus within his own head, constantly controlling his actions. He longs for rest. The wall never stops drying, he moans to himself, and soon the blood will lose its ruby luster, and the monster will eat through my frail barrier.
Suddenly overtaken by self- pity, he wonders, Why did the Devil send me back to this pathetic existence? Did God waive my spiritual rights to punish me for my iniquity?
Somewhere deep within the abyss of his psyche, he knows that his situation is no more oppressive than that of the rest of the population. Everyone is a schizophrenic antisocial, turned habitual murderer on the brink of suicide; they just don't know it yet. Nonetheless, he is too absorbed in his depression to listen to his subconscious.
He pulls the cuff of the left sleeve of his black trenchcoat away from his wrist, exposing several small cuts, deep through the epidermis. And suddenly, the need for release overtakes him. He falls forward, his knees hitting the dirt with a dull thud. His abdomen quivers as a result of his overactive diaphragm, constricting in yearning. He desires pain; he needs pain.
Pain is the greatest high you'll ever feel. It's a fresh awakening that alerts your senses. It's also a reminder of your vulnerability. While pain is an example of vitality, it's also a short-lived experience of fatality. That's what makes it so addictive.
He repeats the word to himself: addictive. Images of his crack-whore mother, convulsing upon the kitchen tile before his four-year old eyes repels him, and he slowly gets up from the ground. I need to drive, he tells himself. I need to think about something else. I don't get pain today. Addicts are weak.
His knee-high leather boots resound upon the ground with a solid sound, ill- fitted for the suddenly queasy feeling in his central nervous system. He opens the door and slouches into his car, starting the engine. He chants to himself. Addicts are weak He begins a long drive along a windy road to a small shack within a bustling city. And he chants to himself. Addicts are weak.
Every day he chants to himself. Addicts are weak.
THE END