//I am the son, and the heir

Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar...//

Content for once in my lonely subsistence, I lie in the black sea of my oblivion, disregarding the silver-haired, substantially elevated figure, dressed all in some drab form of grey to compliment his star-dusted torrent of tinsel locks, sitting nearby in the center of my imaginary room, his piercing panes staring at me with calm appeal as if he is preparing to solicit some imprudent demand of me. I detect a hint of lusty admiration there as well...his eyes...just about the only thing that intrigues me about him. So reminiscent of snow-soaked, frozen crystal...melting ice...those orbs of shattered icicle shards, stabbed with wintry daggers and forever scarred with wounds from the frost, now thawing and healing from the cold of immortality and succumbing to the new-born warmth of spring's life...his insouciance dissolving in my balmy, human aura. But that fucking snowman is in for a steamy revelation that isn't coming from his corn pipe: I'm bitter, vicious, and cruel as a rampant, chaotic blizzard. I'm dead too, and I'm not saving him from the frostbite of nonexistence. He can catch hypothermia and freeze to fucking death right along with me.

//I am the son and heir

Of nothing in particular//

/Would you be so kind as to turn that coarse garbage down...? It is hindering my indulgence of this lovely piece of prose.../ His tenor has warped into a slightly more goaded version of his traditionally light and lenient accent, slightly British. But that's only when he's pretending...deceptively quiescent volcano...

He looks up from his iridescent literature, an act he rarely performs, save to reprimand me, his naughty, morbid, dark side. Well, since we really are not one in the same, thank the mighty Lord Chaos below; I suppose I would denote the ominous, disturbed child who dwells within the identical mind due to the horrendous fact that, for some inexplicable rationale, he has invaded. Thieving bastard...He needs to get his face out of that candy-encrusted paper and see the real world...wait a minute...look who's talking...? I'm the one corresponding with someone living in my head...ah well...

/Excuse me, but don't you find it the least bit rude that you did not even respond to my kindly request?/

He blinks naively, cocking his head slightly in the direction of my dismal, secluded corner of the room where I remain huddled up in the miserable, grim ball that I am, taking joyously masked delight as I blast the fucking shit out of the squawking hordes of rotund, obnoxious, chicken-transcending Chocabos blocking my path, giggling drunkenly as their vibrant organs bubble out of their enflamed hides and burst into the 16-bit sky, splattering against my screen in a prismatic rainbow of graphical gore as I triumphantly flourish my noble blade stained with the crimson remains of those abominable poultry slain by its silver of truth. The world is saved from those vile, capon souls doth with their demise bring about a new era of reform and eternal light! Yeah, so what if you're not supposed to hurt them. I cheat, as I do in everything. And in case you haven't figured it out yet, I'm a bloody violent person. I place intense emphasis on the portion of my preceding statement involving carnage and spill of a certain claret, delicious liquid. When isolated, as I most often am, I am left to my own brutal devices. Then again, I purposefully hibernate in this forsaken crook to be as far as possible from him...by Ra, I despise him with a burning passion that eats away at what little soul I still retain. It always seems to maim him a bit more each time I distance myself from him. I love causing him pain...

/Are you paying attention to me at all...?/

I spin around; I have been so absorbed in my wondrous game of shiny pullet slaughter that his heartless command escaped my mind. 'I'm sorry...what was that again...'

He whispers rancorously, tenaciously quieting his voice to avoid rupturing the delicate walls of my soul, /Could...you...please...turn...down...your..."music...?"/ Normally, I would be simply reluctant to acquiesce to him, but the quotation marks surrounding the term associated with my personal pleasures destroys all hope of that.

What the fuck is this fallen hunk of angelic crap think he's talking about!? Impudent, uncultured fool...No wonder he was thrown in to coexist with me...obviously doesn't know decent music when he hears it...most likely excommunicated because of his horrid musical taste...offended the others' harp playing skills...he should learn to play nice with the other angels. I don't even want to know what he listens to...asshole...you can't get much better than those supernatural Smiths...

I finally counter him with a snappish retort, 'Garbage...? Coarse?! How the fuck can garbage be coarse?! Do you want me to tear your little wings off!? That's sounds like what you're begging me to do...I would be quite obliged if you would allow me to simply reach and over and wrench them off, if I could just see them...' My easily abstracted mind drifts away from that tantalizing topic after my utterance of the last word, and I continue ruminating over my starlit song, the sparkly electric lyres twinkling through my ears as I hum in tune with the celestial beams of resonance.

/I don't have wings!/ He huffs indignantly with that imposing voice of his, my statement finally dawning on him, its scorching, blistering rays of morning slamming into him with such a force that he ignites into a torch of saintly anger. How very amusing. He's rather endearing when enraged, in a sickening sort of way.

/Just because I represent goodness and attempt to maintain my depiction in your rampant mind does not mean that I have those femininely deplorable feathery wing.../

He falters. Typical. He's so easily humiliated...

/I am simply nauseated by your inane assumption that I possess them! Such a pathetic mortal rumor...how dare you insult me like that, you awful, sinful, terrible, wretched girl! I-/

'Ah, ah ah...be nice to the other children, wouldn't want the all powerful daddy to get angry, now would we...?' I taunt him in a hot, syrupy tone, savoring the look of protestant irritation on his face as I mordantly wave my pasty finger at him. 'Right...' I sigh sarcastically in a scornful tone, varying my focus greatly yet again as I respond to his preceding rant. 'Of course...how do we know you're not just folding them up in your fucking clothes...? And I do not appreciate that derogatory reference to my gender. '

/I offer my sincerest apologies.../ He sneers, that merry look of disgust dripping from his mouth in almost poisonous streams of emerald spite. /And we don't know, whomever this plural individual is that you are referring to. But if you really want to know, then you are most welcome to-/

I yelp, shocked at his fragmentary insinuation, gracelessly scampering deeper into the corner, drowning out his distinguished voice with the blaring lyrics of my lustrous metallic poetry.

'Ack! No! Bloody fucking light...stay away from me, you-you...stained seraph! You sick, twisted, overgrown cherub...I am most definitely not searching your clothes for them...EW! I'm going to have to cleanse my ears now...' I hurriedly begin scurrying around, desperately scouring my mind for a bar of soap...detergent...shampoo...a flame thrower...something...damn armamently under stocked head...

A crimson sheen tickles his cheeks at my frightened reaction to his previously thought innocent suggestion, and he pauses before answering, looking towards the cerebral ground in shame. Fucking defiled angel...dirty thoughts he is having, me thinks...moreover, me knows...and trying so sadly to disguise it. After all, his heavenly kind is not meant to have such tainted thoughts. Oh, please...it's all a heap of shit.

After a brief moment of awkward silence, he hastily sputters, /I-I...I didn't mean it like that! But...I mean...you awful little girl.../ He sighs, annoyed with me...as usual, and hiding his patently filthy train of thought...creepy little sap. His eyes shift to the direction of the abundant black vacuum that envelops my mind in its moldier areas, ignoring my disdainful stare.

He always takes such bizarre pleasure in referring to me as "little," but I would contrarily speculate his age, in appearance, is nothing more than five years subsequent to mine, though I could be mistaken. Though many would argue that the sheer presence of that slate-hued current of diamonds upon his head represents his vast epoch of attendance upon the earth, you really must view him in person to make a proficient decision. His softly flowing, unreservedly smooth facial features reflect that of a younger man, what with his ribbon-like, sleek lips, though I would not have knowledge of their precise feel, and never intend to gain that illumination, his overly-dilated pools of sight adorned with flecks of empty nothing descending into an eerie abyss void of life, and his supple flesh evocative of a pretty child's. Why such a cold, idiotic bastard is blessed with beauty unbound, I will never know. The world is a malignant, vindictive creator.

//You shut your mouth

How can you say

I go about things the wrong way

I am human- //

Shocking me with his rapid modification of the subject, he fumes, gritting his perfect teeth, /I've had it! I can't take that offensive excuse for music anymore! I must put an end to it.../

He snatches my black headphones from my unsuspecting hearing organs, interrupting the godly cadence of the Smiths and their convincing claim at my mortality; I screech as he tosses them nonchalantly in the depths of nothingness.

'I detest you,' I grumble as he robs me of one of the few solaces I still posses. I crouch lower into the shadowy corner of my side of my mind, doting over the misery that is my life. If you could even call this fucking piece of crap a life...

Inching closer to me with those aquamarine, empty eyes that always seem to shine with the very light of Heaven, perfectly framed with matching silky lashes, he attempts to offer me condolence in that infuriating way of his, as I creep further away. Why doesn't he just go and fuck himself? No one else would want to partake in that, and certainly not me. Bloody fucking hell, I abominate that silvery being of the moonlight...

/Are you all right...? You're particularly angry this morning...even more than usual.../

'Do I look all right? Why do you care about me at all!? Just go clip your wings and drown yourself in the fountain of youth...'

He looks at me, flutters his eyelids a few times, his white brow twisted into a perplexed expression.

/What...?/

He's trying to make some sort of small talk by serenely requesting what the fuck I just said, omitting the naughty language with considerably more repellent examples of verbal communication. One of the most fucked up things about him and one of the most cringe-inducing quirks that cause me to despise him so; I shudder with seething resentment at the very consciousness of his aura. Another thing: he's blatantly smothering his rage, as he always endeavors to pose as the virtuous one. Besides, he doesn't hate me as I loathe him...I still can't figure out why...

'Yeah, so my fucking sentences don't make much fucking sense in the morning. Big bloody fucking deal. I haven't had any fucking coffee and I need some fucking sleep...really fucking badly...and no, that luxury would not involve you, you bloody, distorted-'

He clenches his fists, ready to explode in an eruption of extraterrestrial wrath; I'm just about to detonate in an upsurge of human laughter. After I collapse his repulsively charming face in on itself, of course.

Regaining that illusory composure of his, he sighs, /I...Before I commence speaking with you, I want to make this clear: I am a former heavenly body, and, though I have not gained knowledge as to why I am confined to your body, I do know that as such I hold no attraction to my human counterpart...and I most definitely I do not experience simple human emotions such as love or sexual desires of the flesh...do I make myself clear...?/

Hm...lying sack of golden shit. He says this while toying almost lovingly with the thick, inky strands of velvet that droop melancholically across my ashen cheeks in a glossy, black cascade of glitter, twirling the spindly locks around his finger, mesmerized. One of the few interesting things about me...I get a lot stares over that sea of ebony silk...I should hack it all off and use it as a whip to beat those incommodious, impertinent, gawking fools across the face...or slash their hearts out...they make me sick.

I swiftly jerk back away from him, nearly on the verge of vomiting at the very thought of being touched by him.

'Uh-huh. Then what the fuck was up with the blushing bit earlier...? Quit lying, no one believes you, fly-boy. Wipe that erotic expression of your face, and then go beat yourself over the head with a radioactive sledgehammer...and you're not in chipper cloud land anymore, you crack-addict, so get over yourself and that "I'm a perfectly inhuman and clean angel" crap.'

/You make absolutely no logical sense...this is about them, isn't it...? I don't see why you trouble yourself with such petty affairs after claiming a forever lack of feeling for all those alive...so why do you even bother? All it does is hurt you more...and yes, I am aware that you do, in fact, suffer, divergent to the play of numbness you act out each day with such proficiency and that notion you have embedded so deep into your bleeding heart that you nearly believe it yourself. But I simply do not understand why you'd want to unnecessarily wound yourself further...you need to move on.../

'I don't know...couldn't you just leave me alone for once? You're not a very nice hikari...and to clarify matters, I only call you that because I don't know what else to call you, mainly because I abhor declaring your name...but you undeniably don't meet my criterion for a light equal. Why do you always have to be so damn sensible...? Just go dunk your fucking pretty face in a tank of kerosene and incinerate yourself...do everyone, including me, a well-deserved favor.' I brusquely turn away, my distraught state expertly hidden by the sneer painted across my mouth.

/Hm. Like you deserve a favor from anyone, you negative little girl. What you need is to talk to someone and get your true feelings out...or some serious counseling. Why don't you sample that for a while...? And get that awful look of scorn off your twisted face, which, by the way, does not conceal your sorrow very well...but it does such wonderful flattery to your features.../ Pitiful excuse for sarcasm.

'Hell no. And you sound like some sort of psycho-analyzing creeps who are just as high on heroin as they are on helping people...you know, all they do is sit on their fat asses all day, on terribly comfortable couches, I might add, doodle on pads of paper, and make themselves sound like mindless idiots, doing all this excruciatingly scholarly work while at the same time miraculously appearing intelligent to everyone else because they fucking wear glasses and they're bloody rational! All they have to know how to say is "How are you feeling...? Why are you feeling that way? Let's talk about those feelings." And that's fucking it! Along with knowing how to charge gullible individuals obscene amounts of green-dyed, mutilated, and then processed trees! They can be illiterate, but as long as they can say those three things and utilize a writing utensil for that illusory scrutinizing action, they're set for life! Lucky bastards...'

/Oh, you're just upset, so you make up these dreadful things that aren't true. But why not see one...? What could it do to hurt...?/ Moron...

'My previous response to those damn quacks wasn't ample enough an explanation for you?!'

His oceanic eyes tumble around their sockets once, and he whispers reassuringly, in a manner that causes me to desperately crave a nuclear upsurge to occur within my mind in his precise spot, /Oh, hush...If you ever want him to like you in the least bit, maybe you could attempt looking a tad bit happier sometimes instead of crying on her shoulder all the time.../ I attempt to poke into his thoughts with my limited skill, only managing to pick up something about begging himself why in God's name he tried interfering with such human subjects as love. Hypocrite...

'First off, I like being depressed. And he's never going to like me I the least bit, so what the fucking hell does it matter whether I look nice or not?! He loves her! Don't you see them walking down the fucking hall together, both ignoring me? What else can I do but be upset!? Happiness sucks ass and not good ass either. I'd rather be a dead corpse rotting in my worm-infested tomb than being a chipper idiot here, hopelessly dreaming about him and how she used to be my best friend! And I don't cry on her anymore...because she doesn't love me anymore...' I look away again, beads of remorseful tears effervescing up in my eyes at what love I used to know...I don't want him to see me weak...

/Don't say things like that! She still is your best friend...I suppose.../

He doesn't understand shit. Why couldn't I have gotten stuck with a somewhat emotional other half? Or at least one who's slightly devious to the point where he has enough deficit of morality that he could help his evil self gain some last-minute illumination from her erudite comrade on a math test so she doesn't bloody fucking fail but no...cheaters don't prosper. They may seem to, but their hearts will really fail them or...some other kind of useless shit spiel that he gives me all the time ...

/And no, I don't think you're weak at all for having emotions. Don't be like that.../

He still has no fucking concept of how to placate a psychologically mangled girl. He reaches his faultless hand out in what I deduce, after much deliberation on the subject, is a gesture to make me feel better. I cringe at his contact with me, edging even further away.

'Oh, shut the fuck up.'

I have forgotten that as kindred spirits we can read each other's thoughts. But for some reason, it only seems to work decently for him. Fuck it. That's because I don't have 'divine sight,' like that fucking bloody bitch does, or whatever the fuck it's really called. At least that's what he tells me...he loves to mock me and shove that in my face just to piss me off, and then say, in that sweet voice of his, that he wasn't doing anything. Well, I say he can go shove that up his ass. What a wonderful seraph...derides the person he's supposed to reside within the same body with...Oh, fuck this. I despise sharing a body with someone so damned preachy and...I came here first! I deserve the damn piece of fleshy shit more than he does! I constantly must suppress the desire to vomit with antipathy when conversing with...him. I won't even dignify him with that repugnantly honey-immersed name of his...

/I think you should really seek help.../

'I already bloody know that! But you know how fucking cheap my delightful parental units are! They wouldn't even buy my damn little sister a pad of stickers for a buck when she was five years old, for fuck's sake...'

/Don't be so...heartless...you make these assumptions that you don't know are true about people which lead to believe that they are all an accumulation of terrible creatures, or, as you would so bluntly put it, a 'bunch of fucking bastards.' / He hesitates, vacillating of his opinion towards his own use of such vulgar vernacular.

'What...? Sure, I don't make sense...'

/I'm sorry, I just don't know how to communicate with you!/

He tosses his porcelain hands up above his nearly gleaming face, moaning exasperatedly at my unreceptive, divergent conversational skills. Perhaps I should pick up a copy of one of those social-outcast self-help books. Solve your people problems and become one of those mindless drones that patrol the earth and report cases of irreparable bad fashion and hideous men's gorgeous factors! Make friends! Look beautiful! Talk to the person of your dreams! All for the super-duper low sale price of all intellect that we can suck out that pretty little skull of yours with our hose of brain unconsciousness! What an outrageously minimal cost for eternal stupidity! But hey, you'll be...popular! Here at Self Help Books R'Us, ignorance really is bliss! ...On second thought, perhaps the idea is not quite so tantalizing as I assumed. Besides, I hate people. Oh, was he talking a minute ago...?

/And it wasn't their fault; your sister was um...I don't know! They're just.../

I suppose he was. He casts his eyes towards the ground, again. He doesn't know what the bloody fuck to do. Good. I like baffling him to the point of weeping. He looks like he's about to start sobbing over his ineptitude and frustration right about now...

/No, I will not pleasure you with my pain, you sadistic girl. I'm not about to shed tears, for I am incapable of that display of sentiment./

Damn. Fucking bastard...won't even cheer me up in the least...

/And your parental beings...perhaps you should offer them less malice. After all, they are-/

'Cheap. C...H...E...A...P. Cheap bastards, to be exact. Do I have to give you a definition too? I don't think bastard would be there...well, Let's check our lovely little dictionary of the mentality of Raven Abner.' I flip through the musty leaves of my psyche's elite provider of advanced vocabulary; much preferred over all other humanly produced ones, as mine is most unambiguously superior.

/You have such a strange name.../ he murmurs with minor disapproval.

'Shaddup! I like my name. Rather dark and magical...' A smirk slips across my mouth, and I ponder on this apprehensive insight for a few moments.

/It's a fucking black bird!/ He instantly smacks his slender fingers to his lips at the realization of his proclamation, hurriedly murmuring prayers of regret of repentance. Mustn't let one's rage slip between one's fingers in the presence of the Lord.

I roll my eyes, riled, yet somewhat entertained at his pathetically devout nature. 'Precisely...Oh, deary me, you said the fucking F word...hn, oh, found it!' Chuckling to myself satirically, with his fierce glare hovering about my shoulders, intermingled with his skipping feelings of atonement for sensing any form of spite for his inmate all the while, I arrive at my literary destination. 'Let's see...the exact definition of cheap, according to my personal word-denotation provider, is the following:

Cheap \Cheap\, a. [Abbrev. fr. ``good cheap'': a good purchase or bargain; cf. F. bon march['e], [`a] bon march['e]. See Cheap, n., Cheapen.] 1. Having a low price in market; of small cost or price, as compared with the usual price or the real value.
2. Of comparatively small value; common; mean. I-'

/All right, we get the bloody point already.../

'If this annoys you, then maybe you'll understand why your virtuous nagging pisses me off so much!' I slam the dust-drenched jacket of my faithful tome shut in quite the hostile manner, quickly murmuring apologies to it for my abusive actions.

/You may feel contempt for your light right now, but in good time you'll realize that you never would have turned into the whole person you are without my divine guid-/

'Whole...? Whole?! Are you crazy? I'm a shattered demon never to walk this forsaken planet again with-'

/Gain some control and respect for your last hope! You do realize you'd most likely have died were it not for me.../ He stupidly attempts to clutch my flailing wrists in vain as I roughly shake him away before he can finish this fruitless act of darkness' restraint.

'Yes! That's why I hate you so much! Do you think I want to live!?'

/I.../

'Fuck off! And don't you ever try touching me again! I mean it...' I administer a sharp, marvelously painful slap to his flawless face with my incensed mind; such things are possible within the depths of one's brain. Anyway, this decisively chosen antidote evidently gives him the clear picture that I just want him to piss off and leave me be in the pit of desolation and misery I reside in as a slowly degenerating wraith without having to endure his bothersome caviling echoing through my shadowy crevasse as well.

Oh good, he's gone off to contemplate why the fuck his heavenly existence was cast into my pessimistic body, most likely. Or to play his non-violent, bloodless video games where one is able to grasp the once in a lifetime experiences of the adrenaline pumping, exhilarating, vigorous tasks of solving problems in a logical, intellectual fashion. That, and rescuing drooling, helpless people from urban-related disasters with your reason. Sounds like such a grand diversion that I might take it up myself...or rather, down, when I plummet into the boiling chasms of Hell. Then it will get an eager audience, I am sure...

A new pair of earphones materialize at my whim, and I replace them in their rightful place, sighing as the harmonious sugar pours out of them once again.

//And I need to be loved

Just like everybody else does...//

Apparently no one else agrees with these tuneful prodigies about my ardor's communal condition.

****************

//I am the son and the heir

Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar//

"Miss Abner!"

What new irritation is this that I perceive invading my factual fantasyland...? I detect the abridged version of my parentally given title resounding throughout the empty area, at least, void of any sort of aptitude. Each and every day, I am enveloped by such sheer idiocy and inanity and am compelled from unleashing certain doom upon my classmates on a regular basis. They are dubbed as equals, and yet, I would never qualify them as equivalents to anything save a grimy pile of bullshit. Wait, I must correct myself; that would be impertinent both to the bull and his human-surpassing excrement, which just so happens to be much cleaner than many of my nauseating cohorts as well. My sincerest apologies are offered to those male cows out there in their eternal fields of green, and their droppings. Musing over this enjoyable topic, I respond amiably,

"Yes, my lovely educational dictator whom I revere with an undying passion because otherwise I will be unable to succeed in this desolate world...? What is it that you would request of me? Perhaps a demonstration of pyrokinetics? Or a curse cast charitably upon-"

//I am the son and the heir

Oh, of nothing in particular//

"Stop that, please..." he sighs jadedly in that vexing voice of his at my enhanced terminology and morose persona that no one really understands. Except for one...but she's gone now...forget her! Just like Lucius said...damn him...he's always right...damn him and his fucking...right...ness...get over her...

Waiting agitatedly for him to respond to my question, I appear as if I am anticipating it patiently with my cool, sardonic manner that so many fear; I can sense it in their meek eyes.

He finally breaks my tranquil surf of poise, "Could you please pay attention and stop getting lost in your own thoughts? And stop angrily glaring at yourself. Are you all right...? Anyway, this is going to be on the exam, and-"

"Myself...?" I inquire, baffled at this presented notion. "Are you suggesting that I'm...a schizophrenic...? I am horrible affronted at this stab upon my sanity. You know, I think that both my speaking cohort and myself would take great offense at the proposition that we are one in the same, though he could hardly react with hostility, as his status as my seraph so implies...I may be forced to terminate you if you don't withdraw that statement, Mr...Mr..." suddenly at a loss for words for once in my existence, I falter on his name. "What are you called, again, oh instructively enlightening unit? For some reason, I cannot summon the wit to recall it...oh, inform me please, as you are so employed to do with my family's good income..." I break into an acerbic grin as I lean leisurely back in my 'of comparatively small value; common; mean' synthetic seating apparatus, relishing the look of ire, bewilderment, and distress smacked across his sweat-drenched, corpulent fa