Psycho boy? Was that me? Did I just do that?
I am Jack's Complete Confusion.
I am fucked.
And so, just under an hour after beating the shit out of the most beautiful face I've ever seen, I'm lying at home, suffering myself a whole new kind of water torture, lying on the solid, stained bed under the drips from the ceiling, blinking endlessly as they splash onto my cheeks like the tears I couldn't cry if I wanted to. Just lying there, feeling the blood slowly streak off my face, merging seamlessly with the rusty drips.
Was this one up on insomnia? Insomnia plus guilt? Extra feeling, all for the price of five minutes in the ring. But seriously. What the fuck? I'm enjoying the pain, enjoying giving and receiving, quite the modern man, enjoying spilling the blood of pretty young blonde guys, ugly married guys, toned black guys, old office guys, the blood of any guy willing to give it. I'm willing to split my face apart, to risk losing sight and sound and sense all for the sake of five minutes of pure primal bliss. Is this me? Or is it what Tyler wanted me to be? Or, is it what I wanted Tyler to want me to be? Whatever.
I am Jack's Split Knuckles.
I am fucking cold. But I can't move. Can't stop the drips. Just lying there. I hope the boy is okay. Although.no. No. I can't seriously be wondering how I'd feel if I killed him. No. Shut the fuck up. But I won't, because somewhere in Jack's head is the thought, what if, how cool, cool? Why? Maybe I did, maybe I wanted to, I couldn't say. More to the point, I won't say. Even if you wanted to know.
My face won't clot because the water keeps breaking the cuts open. My hair is stuck to the bare mattress in a river of bloody scum. But it's okay; I wasn't planning on moving right now. My muscles are twitching - I didn't warm down. Didn't think, just stopped and walked. Bailed. Walked. One of those.
His face keeps flashing in front of me. And then, there's Tyler. Standing right there. Looking down on me, and he doesn't speak, he spits. Spits onto my chest. Wrenching myself from the pool of shite, I move up towards him, narrowed eyes. "What?" I ask, like I didn't know.
He doesn't even answer me, just slams his fist into my jaw, and I fall back onto the bed. I don't look at him, because something in me tells me that to look into his eyes would hurt more.
Another punch cracks into my collar bone. Tyler's on top of me, knees digging into either side of my bruised ribs. He takes me by the back of my hair and drags my face up to his. Limp, I lie in his grip, lips not two inches from his as he breathes onto me; "You are one fucked up boy". I don't move. "But you're hot."
I'm not. Like I said, I'm fucking freezing. But then, the hand I can feel pushing against my cock explains that that's not what Tyler meant.
I am Jack's Complete Confusion.
I am fucked.
And so, just under an hour after beating the shit out of the most beautiful face I've ever seen, I'm lying at home, suffering myself a whole new kind of water torture, lying on the solid, stained bed under the drips from the ceiling, blinking endlessly as they splash onto my cheeks like the tears I couldn't cry if I wanted to. Just lying there, feeling the blood slowly streak off my face, merging seamlessly with the rusty drips.
Was this one up on insomnia? Insomnia plus guilt? Extra feeling, all for the price of five minutes in the ring. But seriously. What the fuck? I'm enjoying the pain, enjoying giving and receiving, quite the modern man, enjoying spilling the blood of pretty young blonde guys, ugly married guys, toned black guys, old office guys, the blood of any guy willing to give it. I'm willing to split my face apart, to risk losing sight and sound and sense all for the sake of five minutes of pure primal bliss. Is this me? Or is it what Tyler wanted me to be? Or, is it what I wanted Tyler to want me to be? Whatever.
I am Jack's Split Knuckles.
I am fucking cold. But I can't move. Can't stop the drips. Just lying there. I hope the boy is okay. Although.no. No. I can't seriously be wondering how I'd feel if I killed him. No. Shut the fuck up. But I won't, because somewhere in Jack's head is the thought, what if, how cool, cool? Why? Maybe I did, maybe I wanted to, I couldn't say. More to the point, I won't say. Even if you wanted to know.
My face won't clot because the water keeps breaking the cuts open. My hair is stuck to the bare mattress in a river of bloody scum. But it's okay; I wasn't planning on moving right now. My muscles are twitching - I didn't warm down. Didn't think, just stopped and walked. Bailed. Walked. One of those.
His face keeps flashing in front of me. And then, there's Tyler. Standing right there. Looking down on me, and he doesn't speak, he spits. Spits onto my chest. Wrenching myself from the pool of shite, I move up towards him, narrowed eyes. "What?" I ask, like I didn't know.
He doesn't even answer me, just slams his fist into my jaw, and I fall back onto the bed. I don't look at him, because something in me tells me that to look into his eyes would hurt more.
Another punch cracks into my collar bone. Tyler's on top of me, knees digging into either side of my bruised ribs. He takes me by the back of my hair and drags my face up to his. Limp, I lie in his grip, lips not two inches from his as he breathes onto me; "You are one fucked up boy". I don't move. "But you're hot."
I'm not. Like I said, I'm fucking freezing. But then, the hand I can feel pushing against my cock explains that that's not what Tyler meant.