The silence was so loud. Like screams, filtering through every piece of his tiny body, shattering his bones and vibrating through his core (which was surprisingly hollow, like a small rag doll, suspended and waiting to be used) until he couldn't help but want to scream back. The cries were ear-piercing, soul-shaterring, even (they begged and moaned with the same sort of desperateness he'd held dearly in the hollow of his heart {with some sort of desire that one day someone would rescue him from the hell he'd been imprisoned in - cages that wrapped around his thin arms like vines, strangling him as he writhed} and he simply wanted to cry back to them, to ask them for help - but how could they help him?) and everything became darker. Like a flood, searching through the confines of the prison and crawling through the bars of his cage, spurring a howlish cry from the core of his throat (it was so feral in the noise that it frightened him as it happened, which caused him to wail even louder {and his ghoulish cries simply added to the never-ending chorus, calling out for him to join them. and he joined, though not willingly, and layered his own paper-thin voice to wails of those who were dead. a chorus of the dead.}) that he supposed would frighten off the thick, black liquid as it descended towards his ivory ankles.He writhed from it's grasp, fearing the depths of it as it reached towards him, begging him to close the gap between them. He bitterly refused, crawling backward into the corner of his cell (the back of his bare thighs scraped the concrete harshly, surely leaving marks that would be questioned later by the doctor), his large, diamond shaped eyes widening to that of a deer (an animal, that when caught in headlights, would become paralyzed with a fear so intense it would ruin it), his wails lowering in pitch, instead of raising (it sounded almost like a low moan, as he realized that his attempts to escape it were futile, and that it would simply reach him, and he would die).
"Help me! Help. Help me, God. Help me. Please. Help me."
The words manifested from his thin, cracked, bleeding lips before he knew that they had been trapped in his brain (he words sounded deranged, warped with his own fear {was it even his own voice? it straggled his throat, echoed within the confines of the cell, like a low moan} and his fear only grew further). Even in death, the small child's thoughts wandered. He fantasized, in his dreary death (he imagined that he was a pirate, with an eye patch and a parrot who promised to ride on his shoulder {maybe to be his only friend, one that would listen to his problems, and love him like no one else had. maybe it could be his family}). Maybe he had simply reduced himself to running from an over-active imagination that consumed every part of his distinguishable soul. You understand, this small boy had this annoying little habit (he also had the annoying habit of pushing his nails so hard into his skin that they left little marks - imprints in his skin to remind him of his own reality) of running from the problems that so openly confronted him (daring him in silent whispers only he could hear). Though (the small boy's moans faded out drearily, until they were a gargle that burned in his slender, bruised throat) it didn't really matter in the long run. Trouble faded (like promises and whispers once hushed in the dark) on it's own, died out along with the people who caused it (their skin turning to yellow dust and ash in underground graves of social tradition, a mausoleum of the damned). Maybe he would run (through streets and avenues, bits of useless fratalscape) until he couldn't anymore; would stop in his tracks, feet dragging against cold concrete for a few seconds before he met the ground with a dull crack of the skull, fatigued and tired and weak. He would bring a shaking hand up to his forehead and feel the thick slather of metallic rust there, crimson burning against his eyes until he fell still. finally able to rest tired legs, rest for eternity. But the silence (morphed into a being so frantic that the more evolved parts of his brain struggled to keep up with his imagination as it projected warped images into his timeline) caught up to him; curling it's dark fingers around his pale ankles, constricting like that of a boa snake, before winding up his still-breathing carcass, until it smothered him completely.
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"Will you shut up, please? I can't think, alright? And I need to think... Please, just shut up. Stop screaming... Seriously! I am trying to think... WILL YOU JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP. I AM TRYING TO FUCKING THINK."His hand, clammy and moist, probably from his own soil-rooted fear, clamped over her mouth like tape, warning her not to even bother muttering a word. But as he stood, almost lifeless (like a lifeless doll, suspended by the strings of it's puppet master), his thoughts drifted from the present and to much, much more irrelevant things. Animalistic feelings that gutted through his core, impulsive whispering to him like angels under his molten flesh. But she. She. She was delicate. Harmless. Like a flower, about ready to spring into a full blossom (such an interesting, compelling sight to look at it, but still not as beautiful as warranted. not beautiful enough to invoke envy, or pity, or jealousy - the emotions that were hardwired into human DNA). Was that all she was, though? This obscene, undiscovered beauty that lay before him? She tantalized parts of his human metaform that had never been awoken before, bringing to life a more feral, unrestrained area of his mental human being that he couldn't just simply control. And as he peered at her, he considered the thought that he already knew her, without even having a conversation (she reminded him of pirates on a treasure hunt - always looking for the goal but never really finding it, having to bury deeper and deeper into the pits of whatever might have remained, black, endless pits buried deep under the core of a still-moving surface {and when those who were lucky enough to find it finally find it, are they gleeful? are they happy? or are they mourning the loss of their brothers on the trip over?} always reaching for the unfathomable and falling further and further into a despair that tickled his brain stems). Was this beauty an artificial mask, he wondered silently (such thoughts reminded him of masquerade balls {people who tried to abandon what they'd conceived and detailed to be themselves, searching for an escape into someone else, if only for a night or a moment} where people paraded around with ridiculous masks. masks that concealed their true identity and portrayed deep unimaginable depths of a morbid imagination) but he abandoned such thoughts when he realized he could simply press his body against hers and feel her warmth vibrate underneath his own. This idea, simple and intrusive as it was, conceived the notion that she was indeed real like he had hoped (instead of his delusional mind conjuring images that he wanted, so badly needed, in an attempt at happiness. for what was a man without company? {what reason was there to live if no one would miss you? what would be your reason to exist?} and what did material things matter if you had no one to share them with?), but she was real. Quite real, in fact, that her cheeks were the color of cherry's as the wind licked across them (the wind that had been stifled by the thick air of the literal cage of concrete walls as they formed an alley at all sides, holding him captive, once again).
"I'm scared of the dark, did you know that? Gruesome, awful things happen in the dark. And it's dark here. Are you afraid? You seem afraid. And I'm terribly sorry. So, so terribly sorry, I think, for what I might do to you. Because you have to understand that I don't know what I'm doing. I can't save you from myself. So you can pretend to be my princess, just for now. Just for now. Only for a moment, if you want. If it makes you feel better. If it makes you less afraid."
His breath rushed over her face, his mouth merely inches from her nose. His blue eyes, usually so tame and mellow, were suddenly wild with adrenaline, as the poison licked through his veins and accelerated his heart. Once again, he tried to decipher what he was going to do (he was sure the walls were streaming closer toward him, pressing in on him from both sides and clutching him, urging him to stop). But as his eyes wandered (for he could not stop them, no matter how hard he willed and no matter how hard he fought - they always seemingly found their own path to the things that the brain had reminded them subconsciously were absolutely fascinating) from the faint traces of her lips, where they appeared from between his calloused fingers (his eyes dragged along them now rather hungrily, whether he noticed it or not {it was probably some muted desire, like that of a dog. an instinct that had been buried so deep within him that he had seemingly never been able to harness it - could not fathom the power that it had over him and the lust it possessed}) to the curve of her nose (it was rather beautiful, compared to most he had seen {the curve reminded him of something almost roman, which intrigued his curiosity to a breaching point}) to the deep blue of her eyes. And they were, to say the least, unbreachable. Johnny would like to have thought (as would most people) that there was a depth to his own blue irises that held the secrets of a thousand centuries, buried so deep that one couldn't help but want to discover them. But as he peered into her eyes (which he found himself doing more so than he would've expected, an innocent instinct that probed through him now like a light in a pitch-black tunnel) he saw secrets, stuffed and buried behind fake words and fake acts. And if it could been even described in such a simple, gruesome phrase, he would say it had intrigued him to a point of self-destruction. He was trapped momentarily in her frantic gaze (and for a moment he wondered if sitting behind solid bars would feel as caged as the feeling that was burrowing it's way into his chest - though he already knew the answer, even if it was buried away within the confines of his absent brain) but he didn't fight the feeling that rose. Instead, he welcomed it. he wanted to pry through her (dissect her like an animal lying lifeless on a cold, concrete table) and discover her secrets. He wanted to know her favorite color, or what sort of music she liked, or if she took long with her hair in the morning when she woke up. She made him want things he couldn't understand, things he had never felt. And it was like a whole new world was being put on display, in a glass tank he couldn't quite open, but only touch. But his eyes continued to wander, if they could even be restricted to such a simple gesture, and they found their way (with little difficulty), to a vein that protruded from the side of her neck. With a childish curiosity (it killed the cat), he extended a thin, veiny arm, and brushed the soft fabric of her skin so gently that it may even have seemed that he had not touched her. But his boyish curiosity was not interested in the warm texture of her golden skin, or the frame of her neck as it arched under his solid grip, but instead the pulse, that rang under his fingertips like an invitation. Pulling him in, welcoming him.
"Brilliant. To be alive, isn't it? I can feel your pulse. Right here. Please stop squirming. Please. Just stop. Stop. STOP."
His delicate, thin fingers moved like clockwork (they moved from signals in his brain he hadn't managed to send), and moved her neck. The fluid movement, which only took a moment, was followed a sickeningly thick crack that leaked into the air between them. The girl (whoever she was), was reduced to a doll in his hands.
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"I'm scared of the dark, did you know that? Gruesome, awful things happen in the dark. And it's dark here. Are you afraid? You seem afraid. And I'm terribly sorry. So, so terribly sorry, I think, for what I might do to you. Because you have to understand that I don't know what I'm doing. I can't save you from myself. So you can pretend to be my princess, just for now. Just for now. Only for a moment, if you want. If it makes you feel better. If it makes you less afraid."
His breath rushed over her face, his mouth merely inches from her nose. His blue eyes, usually so tame and mellow, were suddenly wild with adrenaline, as the poison licked through his veins and accelerated his heart. Once again, he tried to decipher what he was going to do (he was sure the walls were streaming closer toward him, pressing in on him from both sides and clutching him, urging him to stop). But as his eyes wandered (for he could not stop them, no matter how hard he willed and no matter how hard he fought - they always seemingly found their own path to the things that the brain had reminded them subconsciously were absolutely fascinating) from the faint traces of her lips, where they appeared from between his calloused fingers (his eyes dragged along them now rather hungrily, whether he noticed it or not {it was probably some muted desire, like that of a dog. an instinct that had been buried so deep within him that he had seemingly never been able to harness it - could not fathom the power that it had over him and the lust it possessed}) to the curve of her nose (it was rather beautiful, compared to most he had seen {the curve reminded him of something almost roman, which intrigued his curiosity to a breaching point}) to the deep blue of her eyes. And they were, to say the least, unbreachable. Johnny would like to have thought (as would most people) that there was a depth to his own blue irises that held the secrets of a thousand centuries, buried so deep that one couldn't help but want to discover them. But as he peered into her eyes (which he found himself doing more so than he would've expected, an innocent instinct that probed through him now like a light in a pitch-black tunnel) he saw secrets, stuffed and buried behind fake words and fake acts. And if it could been even described in such a simple, gruesome phrase, he would say it had intrigued him to a point of self-destruction. He was trapped momentarily in her frantic gaze (and for a moment he wondered if sitting behind solid bars would feel as caged as the feeling that was burrowing it's way into his chest - though he already knew the answer, even if it was buried away within the confines of his absent brain) but he didn't fight the feeling that rose. Instead, he welcomed it. he wanted to pry through her (dissect her like an animal lying lifeless on a cold, concrete table) and discover her secrets. He wanted to know her favorite color, or what sort of music she liked, or if she took long with her hair in the morning when she woke up. She made him want things he couldn't understand, things he had never felt. And it was like a whole new world was being put on display, in a glass tank he couldn't quite open, but only touch. But his eyes continued to wander, if they could even be restricted to such a simple gesture, and they found their way (with little difficulty), to a vein that protruded from the side of her neck. With a childish curiosity (it killed the cat), he extended a thin, veiny arm, and brushed the soft fabric of her skin so gently that it may even have seemed that he had not touched her. But his boyish curiosity was not interested in the warm texture of her golden skin, or the frame of her neck as it arched under his solid grip, but instead the pulse, that rang under his fingertips like an invitation. Pulling him in, welcoming him.
"Brilliant. To be alive, isn't it? I can feel your pulse. Right here. Please stop squirming. Please. Just stop. Stop. STOP."
His delicate, thin fingers moved like clockwork (they moved from signals in his brain he hadn't managed to send), and moved her neck. The fluid movement, which only took a moment, was followed a sickeningly thick crack that leaked into the air between them. The girl (whoever she was), was reduced to a doll in his hands.
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"So you're here to help me, right?"Her eyebrows rose a few millimeters, pulled up like drawstrings on a curtain, (revealing the silk painting behind, and it vaguely reminded him of that movie she had seen so long ago with the key and the garden and the flowers that were hidden away and buried like matches, forgotten), and his mind couldn’t help but drift over to the pre-pubescent form (him) sitting in the dimly lit living room of the orphanage, (on the mauve, hellfire couch that he'd had always hated, that he thought was the ugliest color in the entire world) watching another orphan sit stalk still, stalk still… unmoving, quiet, monotonous, and it was almost like she'd been the one who had died (and not the girl who’s head was smashed against the window pane, stained the glass until it was as beautiful as the windows that lined god’s church), and he had wondered what it must’ve been like for her younger sister to go that way, so suddenly, like popping a bubble (watching the ovulating rainbow disappear through your fingers), for life to drain in the blood flowing from numb limbs blue, frozen in merciful, tantalizing ice, to watch your life source pool in a small, mediocre puddle (and that’s all you had to show of your existance {cut short,} before anything worthwhile had ever been done, a waste of space and energy in the long run, really {johnny had never really liked her or her younger sister, had never really seen her purpose, because honestly, the most fascinating she had ever been was after her death}) and to let go as the ambulance lights pirouetted in unison on top of the ghost-white car, an omen, an upbringing, the reaper in all it’s crucified glory, a catacomb of ecstasy (because worries faded away along with regrets and laughter and memories printed on memories). Was it really better than living until old age, reflecting on life as the underside of the moon beckoned you to insanity, raw bones fatigued with the barren of burden long gone (now you were the burden), sitting among others of your kind to create some sort of support as you each slipped away into the grasp of the underworld, bodies half in and half out of the river of styx (the lost souls whispering cordial greetings into your ears)… Was one way really better than the other? He couldn’t know for sure, only knew what was good in the world of breathing and listening to your own heart pump under the milk-and-water sheets of your bed, to know that somewhere, out in the masses, someone’s eyes were rolling up into their head while at another location, a baby was falling into the hands of an enthusiastic maternity doctor, that it was more fun to drink alcohol and dump nicotine down your throat then to say... spend days cooped up under schoolwork (and responsibility {and emotion, where was it?}). All he knew was his life, and the way he liked to live it (or the way he thought he did); death was an entirely unknown, mysterious subject (and shying away from it wouldn’t do him any good or any bad, would just create unanswered questions, bacteria that was neither harmful nor helpful, just there).
"Because you can't help me. He's rotting in my brain, he doesn't come out. He won't leave."
He wasn't looking away, and neither was she, fascinated by the way his pupils seemed to dance (it was almost impossible to see them against the blatant darkness of his irises, jet-black ink palpitating against a sea of shadows, two thickly-veiled, opaque wells that held things she couldn't quite pick at... and she wanted to dip fingertips and draw ripples across their surfaces {it would be so smooth, melted licorice, maybe...}) His gaze suddenly shifted over to his hands, and all she could do was follow it after a moment of dazed silence. They were pale, dotted with {im}perfections, scars and bruises the slightest tinge of purple (yellow laced around their edges), painted across his knuckles in constellations, chariots of color and cuts and rhythms (she wondered vaguely what he had done to make them look this way, to heighten them to this degree of stunningly beautiful {im}perfection; it must have taken years.) She bit her lip, the cigarette barely shaking in her grasp as she lifted it, hand gliding upwards a few centimeters. He shifted on his seat and his eyes returned, picking up her own; (his voice had turned raspier, lower, into pomegranate gravel though it flowed in small, {she was so tired of paradoxes}, electrical currents of taciturn dialect, crickets brushing their wings together, like waves on sand}, and her body stiffened slightly (something it did on it's own) but she didn't reel away, just licked her lips and inhaled slightly (she couldn't lose her breath again because the pain made her head spin, and it was so cruelly playful, lungs with a mind of their own {two miniature brains sitting in their depths, and maybe this was payback for everything she had coated them with, had licked down their sides, but she really couldn't give a damn anymore, refused to give a damn, anymore). His shadowed pools dropped, returned (she couldn't keep track and yet, she couldn't help trying) to his scarred hands.
"Let me ask you. Are you afraid of the monster under your bed?"
"Because you can't help me. He's rotting in my brain, he doesn't come out. He won't leave."
He wasn't looking away, and neither was she, fascinated by the way his pupils seemed to dance (it was almost impossible to see them against the blatant darkness of his irises, jet-black ink palpitating against a sea of shadows, two thickly-veiled, opaque wells that held things she couldn't quite pick at... and she wanted to dip fingertips and draw ripples across their surfaces {it would be so smooth, melted licorice, maybe...}) His gaze suddenly shifted over to his hands, and all she could do was follow it after a moment of dazed silence. They were pale, dotted with {im}perfections, scars and bruises the slightest tinge of purple (yellow laced around their edges), painted across his knuckles in constellations, chariots of color and cuts and rhythms (she wondered vaguely what he had done to make them look this way, to heighten them to this degree of stunningly beautiful {im}perfection; it must have taken years.) She bit her lip, the cigarette barely shaking in her grasp as she lifted it, hand gliding upwards a few centimeters. He shifted on his seat and his eyes returned, picking up her own; (his voice had turned raspier, lower, into pomegranate gravel though it flowed in small, {she was so tired of paradoxes}, electrical currents of taciturn dialect, crickets brushing their wings together, like waves on sand}, and her body stiffened slightly (something it did on it's own) but she didn't reel away, just licked her lips and inhaled slightly (she couldn't lose her breath again because the pain made her head spin, and it was so cruelly playful, lungs with a mind of their own {two miniature brains sitting in their depths, and maybe this was payback for everything she had coated them with, had licked down their sides, but she really couldn't give a damn anymore, refused to give a damn, anymore). His shadowed pools dropped, returned (she couldn't keep track and yet, she couldn't help trying) to his scarred hands.
"Let me ask you. Are you afraid of the monster under your bed?"
