Themes: Bryan
Locked doors. Or expected to be locked and then resented. Behind them teeth, and fingernails that threatened, when he got almost close. But shackles all the time. Made of words or pills or sex or cute little tazers. Drug-laced dinners. Sedative smoothies. No eating, eventually knife-hoarding. Overarching confusion unless making mincemeat. Unless in or causing pain.
Overarching boredom, until something… everything got broken.
Meticulously stringed insect wings. Meticulous piles of steaming horseshit: everything he said lucid. Between wrecking stuff and needing to wreck more stuff. The melty-content before boredom, dread, confusion settling back heavy and uneven, impossible to tune out. Like unscripted screams, way back when. And sleep-sobbing.
That left too. Then just meticulous arrangements of fingernails, making letters to Jesus or Santa Clause or mom. Mom. Who the fuck?
Sometimes sleep. Mostly sitting, waiting, to be less confused or less bored. Grin grin, grin grin grin. Or bored enough. Except, annoyingly, shackles. Shining in pitch black like, "He said…" or not words. Bodies to hurt, bodies to do whatever. Bodies restraining. Pale skinny thing, half as strong, half as confused, twice as smart. Made his own smoothies.
Sometimes dreams. Always nice ones, though nobody else seemed to think so.