You stupid little fuck.
I hate you.
I want to crush your windpipe between my hands, pull on lead gloves and pummel the shit out of you. I want to make you bleed, hear you beg for mercy, smell the scent of your sweat and tears as you cry out in pain.
Then I want to kiss you.
And I hate myself for that.
I'm not a fag. Really, I'm not. I hate most men. Most women, too, for that matter. I've been with a few girls, but I've taken them roughly and only when I've had the money to buy a night with them. They've all been the same, with fake gasps and so much makeup it smears on the sheets. When we have a bed, that is. Most of the time it's under the bridge, real quick, give her your money and get your kicks and then get the hell out of there.
But it would be different with you. You, with your soft curls, your blue eyes, your wonderful pink lips. I attacked your sister just to get near you. When I throw my fist into your stomach, I get so turned on that I have to pin your arms back so Morris can hit you. That way no one can know but you.
It frightens you almost as much as it sickens me. You're such a girl, you fucking Walking Mouth. Hm, I wonder why Jack calls you that? Is it because you're his bitch? I'm the only one who thinks so, but I see the looks that the stupid cowboy-sporting asshole gives you.
Am I jealous? I can't be. I've never been jealous of anyone before.
No, that's a lie.
I've been jealous of Morris. I don't care if he's my brother, he seems to get the upper hand of everything. Jack always taunts him like they're old friends, and Uncle Wiesle really seems to favor him. It just isn't fair.
So what if I'm bigger and slower? It doesn't mean my brain is somehow defective. It doesn't mean that I don't love making other people smile as much as I love seeing them hurt.
Is that wrong? Is it wrong to want to press your head against someone's chest and listen to their panicked breathing, to listen to their heart thump like stones being dropped into a muddy puddle on the street? To want to feel them squirm, taste their tears, beat the shit out of them until they are understand that you are the one in charge?
I'm not queer. I can't be. I'm too big and hard-featured to be gay. I'm not one of those pansy boys with tight pants who only come out at night. I don't know anyone else who wants boys the way I want them.
But I can't be gay, I can't. Because I'm a Delancey, and Delanceys are straighter than the line a newsie makes from work to a card game.
I just like to be the big man in the relationship, you know? I hate it when girls squirm and cry beneath me. David Jacobs would be different, however. David would be a relief. Just imagining his eyes filling up with tears makes me shiver in anticipation. His sweat and blood would taste sweet, like honey, honey the same color as the Walking Mouth's lovely golden curls.
But I don't like David that way. I don't like anyone, even myself.
I have to kill him.
I have to make sure that I never come across David when he and I are alone. I need to fix him good, feel myself in him just once. I need to make him scream out in pain, show him who's in charge.
As much as I can repeat those words, I know they are only half the truth. Yes, I want to make him hurt for making me suffer the way he does.
But I also want to kiss him.
Even though I hate him.
Even though I hate me.
I'm not a fag.
Really.
I'm just...
Me.
But that's just never enough.