This chapter only is rated PG-13, so I had to change the rating for the whole fic. Grr... WellI'm warning you now, this fic may be weird. And disturbing. And generally freaky. You have been warned. The song is 'Somebody Else's Song' again by Lifehouse which is an amazingly brilliant band. :D
Spyder616: Thanks! :DRooftops is coming soon, but I checked it today and found a little plothole that needs to be sorted out first. Don't worry it won't take long.
Emily M. Hanson: Thanks I tried for a different take on JJ. :)
Moonjava: Yay and thanks!
Jenn1: Here ya go, thanks and that was what I was aiming for.
C.D Anders: Thanks I'm glad he was in character. :)
LordLanceahlot: Ooo good! And thanks!
And again, thanks to everyone who reviewed! ;)
The True Feelings Of A Bitter Psychopath
Can't change this feeling
I'm way out of touch
Can't change this meaning
It means too much
I stare at the knife.
I stare at my reflection.
It stares back.
Never been this lonely
Never felt so good
Can't be the only one misunderstood
I turn the blade over in my hands and read the inscription on the other side. "Exploratus habere tuus inimicus," it reads. I remember my father giving me this dagger, when I was younger. It was part of our ancestral history, he'd told me, passed down from generation to generation. He said I was to take great care of it, and I remember how I had turned it over in my hands in fear and wonder then, and read the inscription that meant nothing to me. I had looked up at my father and asked him what it said. I remember him laughing and clapping me on the shoulder like he used to, as if I, at the tender age of 7, should know the meaning. At my puzzled expression he'd told me Alexander the Great had famously said it, and that it was Latin, and what it meant, but now, 12 years later, I cannot remember.
I sigh and wrack my brains for the answer but my memory fails me.
I remind myself of somebody else
Feeling like I'm chasing
Like I'm facing myself alone
I've got somebody else's thoughts in my head
I want some of my own
Looking to the side, I notice my forgotten glass of scotch is lying on the floor, its contents leaking out onto various framed photographs and an antique, and probably priceless, end table. I crane my neck and a scowl creases my forehead as I see every other picture except for the one taken of Peter and I at the Water Rapids Park is soaked, as if the photograph is repelling the liquid just to spite me. I rise to my feet angrily, dagger gripped tight in my shaking hand, and bring one foot down in the middle of the glass. It shatters instantly, disturbing all the other frames around it, and as I remove my foot the scotch runs in rivulets down under the frame and glass, tainting the picture of the rapids behind us an orangey red.
Satisfied, I turn away. As I do so, a glint of light catches my eye. I focus my gaze upon the ruin of a floor length mirror, and feel an instant migraine coming on. Hesitating, I transfer my weight from one foot to the other, a nervous habit I'd picked up in my younger years. I knew father wouldn't approve, but father isn't here anymore… thanks to that scum of a best friend.
Can you see me up here?
Would you bring me back down?
'Cause I've been living to see my fears
As they fall to the ground
Finally I tear my eyes from the mirror and what resides within, with considerable effort. I slump once more back into the Chez Lounge, not missing the irony.
Peter had lain chained in this very spot not an hour earlier. The only difference is I am not chained up and a murderer. Not yet, anyway. Subconsciously, my grip on the knife tightens and the blade cuts into my hand. I shoot up, wincing, and release the knife instantly so that it clatters to the floor with a sound like thunder. I inspect my hand but the cut is not deep, and strangely the pain doesn't seem to bother me as much as it would normally do. I glance down and pick up the bloodstained knife, this time by the blade, not the handle.
I press experimentally on the blade and this time I don't flinch as blood sluices down my palm.
I remind myself of somebody else
Feeling like I'm chasing
Like I'm facing myself alone
I've got somebody else's thoughts in my head
I want some of my own
I want some of my own
I want some of my own
---
Light reaches my eyes. I blink, once, twice, then sit up. I'm surprised to find I'm lying on the floor- and my shirt sleeve is soaked with blood.
My own blood.
I slowly reach to pull my sleeve up, and there tattooed across my arms are a gruesome collection of cuts.
I back-pedal as quickly as I can, slipping and sliding in my own coalescing blood, but find I cannot escape from myself. Harsh sobs rip from my voice box, and soon I find I cannot stop. I just lie there, surrounded by broken glass and pools of my own blood, crying like a schoolgirl. My father would not have approved.
Am I hiding behind my doubts?
Are they hiding behind me?
Closer to finding out it doesn't mean anything
Eventually I pull myself together and work up the courage to move. I stand up and sway dangerously from loss of blood. That can be remedied.
I wobble my way over to the drinks counter and replace what I've lost in blood with alcohol. That's become a rather nasty habit of mine recently.
After downing half the drinks cabinet, I wobble my way back to the psychiatrist's couch and slump onto it in defeat. As I do, my foot hits something solid. The knife slides out from under the couch. I shiver and quickly kick it back under, so I won't have to look at it. I know I'm being cowardly, and I know my father would not have approved, but right now I'm past caring.
I remind myself of somebody else now
Feeling like I'm chasing
Like I'm facing myself alone
I've got somebody else's thoughts in my head
I want some of my own
My thoughts linger on my father. The Great Norman Osborn. Lord of the Manor. Lord of his wife and son. Though, even Lords make mistakes. My father's was that he cared too much for the wrong things. His work for example, I rarely glimpsed him at the weekends, let alone workdays. Craving revenge was another of his mistakes, one that cost him his life. Perhaps it's one he's passed down to me. It certainly seems that way, for I cannot erase the image of Peter's naked face fixed to Spider-man's body planted firmly in my mind's eye.
Suddenly the meaning of the inscription of the blade comes to me. "Know thine enemy."
My father tried to kill Peter. Peter killed my father. But still the tables don't seem balanced somehow.
Perhaps I can change that?
I reach down and feel under the couch.
I slip the cold knife in my pocket.
I reach for my coat...
Fin
Ok, this wins the grand prize for the creepiest thing I've ever written. Remind me never to write anything like this again, I'll freak myself out.
Please review! :D