Disclaimer:  Nothing belongs to me save for the wonderfully useless drabbles.

[A/N]:  This is a collection of drabbles and/or one-shots.  I may update soon, or not at all.  Really, I told myself I was going to write 'Death to Spottie' today, but when I took out my notebook, this is what happened.  Enjoy (hopefully).

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Throb

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Madison Square

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            He came one day to your school.  He was new and he smiled.  His name was Mark but could everyone please call him Mush?  Smile.  Wink.  Girls swoon at his feet.  But that didn't matter.  What mattered was the way Blink looked at him, hearts in his eyes and faint grin on his lips.  Mush saw him and it was like jigsaw pieces finding their match.  It was just him and Mush and Mush and him.  Just Blink and Mush.

            There's no more room for you, Racetrack.  No more room.

            That night you can't sleep.  Your head is filled to the brim with memories of you and Blink.  Just you and Blink.  The memories twist and turn and push and pull, fighting for dominance.

            Remember, one time at the movies, when his hand had lingered near your knee and you were breathless the whole time, thinking of how if you moved your leg just so…?  You don't remember much of the movie.

            Remember, working on your end-of-term ninth grade English Project at his house and you were with him in his room and the computer was on, playing a Beatles CD, and the fan was whirling swish, swish, swish?  "I want to hold your hand," The Beatles had said.

            Remember, remember, remember.

            You don't want to remember.  You rise from your sheets and stumble into the bathroom.  Breathing is difficult.  You feel like you aren't getting enough oxygen, and everything is seizing up inside of you.  Is this an asthma attack?  Or maybe you are getting too much oxygen, and all of your red blood cells are bursting inside of you and you are filling with dead cell particles.  You briefly wonder if anyone has died of oxygen poisoning.

            It's all these memories, you think.  Too many memories.  Too many moments.  There is so much pressure building up beneath your temples.

            You massage your temples slowly and think that maybe if there was a way to let out all these memories, the throbbing will stop and go away. 

            Open the cabinet above the sink.  You look for a razor.  You're going to shave your head, you think deliriously.  Then the memories won't get tangled up in your hair; they would be released.  You can almost hear the chk, chk, chk of the blade dragging over your skin.  You can almost see the blood pounding under the thin layer of skin that stretches over your temples.  So vulnerable.  One flick of the wrist and the memories will be gone, gone, gone.  No more remembering; no more thinking.

            After throwing down everything from the cabinet shelves, you still can't find the razor.

            Maybe tomorrow, then.

            Somewhere in the background you can feel the throbbing of blood through your veins and arteries around your ankles and it irritates you.

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End [Throb]

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