[13/9/2013] [14/9/2013]
[Happy Friday the Thirteenth, everyone.
This a special story dedicated in memory of someone. I still don’t understand. I guess I never will understand fully how chemical changes can affect the mentality.
Andd… I didn’t intend it originally, but it ended up as a very clear reference to a fandom. But no worries, it is weird and lousy because of my brain. Or lack thereof. ]
There he was again. Standing in his way, blocking the kettle.
He’d really like a cup of coffee but it can wait. Not with the way he was leering at him. With eyes that whispered “Murderer Murderer” softly in his ear, his breathe cold and sticky, like the blood on his hands and sprayed on his face.
He blinked rapidly, trying to control his breathing, as the smell of blood suddenly permeated through the whole room, as he stared at the lifeless body of the man who was also standing by his shoulder, laughing off his head.
“No…no …”
Under his breath, he started to mouth out his name, his age, his address, his current location that was not the blood soaked room –
“..re you alright?”
He finally looked into the brown eyes of his sister. Kind, sweet, dearest sister, with warm brown eyes that now stare with worry. Why was she worried? He wouldn’t hurt her. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.
Except he did. He’d killed someone.
And he’d dreamt of more.
He made a smile, and reached out awkwardly to sort of rest his hand slightly on her shoulder, in a pat of sort.
“Everything is fine. Nothing to worry.” He tilted his head. “Weren’t you working on your art project? How’s it so far – show me?”
As he watched her hesistate to tuck away her concern, he followed her out, ignoring the whining pleas of a man that shouldn’t be there – that wasn’t there.
-Â Â -Â -
The noise was too much, the smell was too much – it was too crowded.
Everywhere, in his head, in the room, in his lungs, beneath his skin.
He needed them to stop. He wanted them to stop. He needed to just, just STOP feeling, stop seeing, stop even thinking – He needed freedom.
He didn’t know when he stood up, or when he even crossed the room.
He found himself in front of the window and pulling out the grills. (No, no wait, no, it shouldn’t normally be possibl – high adrenaline, pressure, mental stabilli – )
He shut the rush of buzzing noise in his head, the static voices out, out and tossed away to the harsh wind that tousled his hair, and nipped his nose.
There was no one below, there would be few people walking by – no one, precisely.
No one more to confuse him. No more things to hurt him. No more things to hurt. No more things he could hurt.
He leaned forward.
And.
He let go.
  He could finally reach peace – or the closest he could get. Silence. Nothing. Emptyness.
No more.
 [There are people felt your missing presence more. Much more. But what’s done is over and too late is never more than just, too late. Requiescat in pace. ]Â















