Raindrops
on Roses Aren't A Part Of My Favourite Things
&&
He sipped on
the distasteful Lime and Peach Daiquiri with ease and poise --
;; (It was the only thing keeping him in s a ne
enough for this supposedly euphoric series of events)
He scored well in the game of make-believe, he swore he could paint a faux face flawlessly, his eyes perfectly accented with joy and enjoyment and his cheeks tinted with a strikingly rosy, blood red blush from all the Daiquiris, Tequila shots, dirty disco dancing and all the flowery words he stuttered out to giggly skimpily-clad babes who insisted on flirting with him and only him. Another fucking party, party party all night long, where metrics weren't needed to measure how much one could drink but foolishness was the new metric. He abhorred these parties, or what a respectable old lady in a rocking chair knitting her life away would call Wild, Childish and Worthless.
This was party
#o9 in a month, in one fucking month. And it all revolved around the
same themes (and a few more of your favourite things):
Summer,
Bikinis, Sex, Alcohol, Dancing and Fun
It was disgusting, it was a live broadcasting repeat of every party he had been to in this month. He hated them, to the very core of the earth.
--But yet he couldn't de-associate himself from them.
&&
Mister Oh-So-Popular: decorated with six-packs and tanned skin, blue eyes any girl would drown herself in (like an ocean we go down), a personal bungalow all to himself, complete with three stories and a personal swimming pool, parents who were literally cash machines and he the credit card, girls flocking all over him.
It was a god-sent blessing to many. But it was his very own burlesque tragedy.
The synthetically concocted Lime and Peach Daiquiri disappeared within the depths of his mouth, the hydrochloric acid in the stomach churning the alcoholic substance he hated and loved so much. A piercing urge to spew vomit all around struck him.
"Ugh." He muttered, resisting against his opponent, holding back the vile liquid. He was getting giddy and light-headed.
Another fucking drink, just one more was all he focused his desire on. This was perfecting his new-found identity as a part-time alcoholic, he was such a flawless party-operated boy in the eyes of others.
\except in hers: my beautifully fucked up angel
Groping about madly and in his drunken stupor, he managed to grab a shot glass filled with lovely, lovely alcohol from the table where a wonderful exaggeration of intimacy was displayed by a boy and a girl making out on the table itself.
(…And as well between the shot glass and him)
He swallowed the liquid in his mouth, letting the alcohol dribble over his finely pointed chin, to drip down from his chin like a running tap, his Adam's Apple bobbing up and down. That was Tequila Shot Number Thirteen, he thought, slamming the now-empty shot glass adorned with strawberry patterns on the table. The tequila hit his head like a bullet from a fancy revolver. (probably he deserved that last shot)
A pretty girl was eyeing him as she scampered nearer to the nearly-collapsing boy.
He grabbed onto her for balance, slumping onto her slender frame. She balanced him and begin to lead him to a room.
At least she wasn't notoriously verbose.
Straightforward to Comp licate d;;
He preferred it this way when he got overdosed with alcohol. Thinking hurt him like a razorblade slicing through her flesh. So. Fucking. Much.
…He wished it was just not a simile. (cause you fucked me up forever.)
&&
He could never forget: That night when he had stayed over her house, alone with her, playing video games, enjoying the sound effects and the crisp, clear graphics on the screen, as well as a glass of coke. He had thrashed her again and again, while she whined. She had paused the game and gone off for a "break", or so she claimed, after three hours of non-stop fighting games and multi-player games. Conversations of ghost stories and murder he had with his own best friend got the better part of his brain after thirty minutes. He decided to convince himself he wanted to waltz off to the kitchen in search of more coke. Probably he shouldn't have. He should never have worried, even if the self-reassuring thoughts were plaguing him like how devils chase after the innocents.
The "I'll be right back" still rang in his brain.
He wasn't prepared for the sight, he admitted. He would never be. That cheery, anaemic raven-haired girl, body limp against the cupboards on the linoleum floor, with puddles of alcohol concocted with haemoglobin-deficient blood making oceans around her and boats made of broken glass and bottle caps gently sailing make-believe passengers on them. How could he not have heard the glass breaking?
Her gaze was blank, and she was smiling as she raised the fruit knife in her hand. The butcher-like carvings in her pale flesh on her arm spurt out more maroon, carving and etching his terror and disbelief into her own arm –-and his heart. Her laughter bounced off what was left of the pale whites of the kitchen walls, his fear bounced off her wrecked nerves.
Slit. One. Slit. Two. Slit. Three.
Blood from her.
Giggle. One. Laugh. Two. Hysterics. Three.
Tears from her.
And, he, her best friend just watched as she slit again and again, as she laughed again and again, as she cried again and again.
"You know what Sorapoopookins. It's fun. It's so fun. It's so fun!"
She screamed and hugged him ever so tightly, camouflaging him with royal red.
He gently removed her arms away.
If it brought her such pleasure…he'd let her be happy.
He picked up a bottle of vodka and let his hands hover over pieces of broken glass.
He grabbed the biggest, sharpest, handsomest one.
…
He would be happy with her too. (Slit)
&&
The opened doors were beckoning to him, the white sheets on the bed over-starched and spanking white.
The girl hastened in pulling him into the room.
He shut his eyes. He tried to block out the thoughts.
"Yuffie's parents died that day, Sora. The day you went to stay over with her."
(Idon'twanttoknowthat Ididn'tneedtoknowthat)
That Day:
Those tears looked like beautiful raindrops slithering off petals of intensely coloured red roses.
Those tears were tears of sadness.
…Those tears killed him.
The thick makeup on his faux face was fading off gradually.
The door closed.
"Goodbye."