Sometimes you need to scream. Sometimes you can't help it, the noise just builds up in you, everything collects together, and it just has to get out. So you go somewhere private, and you let the noise out. You unleash the beast.
I go to the roof. I open my window, slide it all the way, and I climb up there. Up on the roof I can see the whole town, in all of it's suburban glory, spread out in front of me. The sky is huge, enormous. It could swallow me if I look up too far, pull me in and strand me. Up on the roof, the moon is my friend, the pale white sphere floating in the hungry blue sky. She listens to me screaming and she understands. In my screams she hears the pain, the torturous pain, and she understands. All these things I feel up here, I get hooked on them. My soul, like a gaping black hole that is never satisfied, it latches on to the feeling. I can't let go of it.
Because that's just how I am. I feel something, my heart feels the tug, and I'll forever and always be going back for more.
Screaming. I first felt the power the first time someone called me that word. I came up here to the roof of my house and I parted my lips and screamed and screamed. When my throat was stinging with pain I stopped, and I felt a release. Since that first time I've gone back a hundred, a thousand times.
Blood. The first time I made a little cut, it was the first time someone had hit me because of myself. I had a bruise on my cheek that day, and in the bathroom during my shower I picked up my mother's razor, and I made a tiny little cut on the delicate skin of my wrist. The crimson flowed immediately, a small pool seeping into the grooves and lines in my skin, and I watched it, fascinated, my new obsession pulsing through my veins with adrenaline and pushing it's way out the cut. It bled more, harder, and I made more of them, friends for the first little stripe. Before very long there was a few ribbons and rivers of bright red running in curls down the slope of the bathtub toward the drain, and I stood there, watching as the hot water carried more and more of my scarlet life away. I let the cuts heal, and they did, becoming scars barely noticeable on my white skin, until the next time I needed to feel that pain.
There are many things I bond myself to. I have many addictions, I am a damaged person. I shouldn't be like this, I know.
But who can change the way the stars have set their minds?
The mall is a warped, disturbing place. Everyone else comes here to fulfill their souls, feed their own addictions. I watch young girls in the shops as they examine shoes, jeans, purses, and I listen to their giggles. I look into their generic blue eyes, and there is nothing in those eyes. There are the same eyes as many people, the same dull light blue I see in everyone's faces. I don't understand these eyes. They are eyes satisfied by materials, by artificial materials. How could someone live with eyes like those?
My eyes are green. A deep, spiraling green, never quite focused, and I like them that way.
There are so many people in the mall today: mothers with crying children, more teenagers, old women with placid smiles. I can't decide which are the most flawed, deranged people of all. The smells and sounds of this place are attacking my senses, trying once again to sell me something I don't need or want. Leather - buy these shoes. Grease - buy these fries. Cotton - buy this shirt. I try to walk with my eyes closed, but it doesn't work, so I just retreat to the part of the mall that hurts the most, the smaller hall with a few little stores and an exit, that's all.
I round the corner, turn into this hallway, and my addictive mind and heart are immediately captured by my brand-new obsession. I've fallen into a trap, and what beauty I find.
It is perfection, glorious perfection. It's everything I've ever dreamed of and much more. It's all of my favorite images, my favorite feelings, all bled into each other and woven in, out, and between each other. It's the stars, it's the moon, it's the sky all tumbled together. It's a rainbow, a lucid array of colours all in a row, sending me reeling.
It's all of these things in the form of a boy, a teenage boy sitting on a bench, staring into the window of a flower shop.
His hair is a mop of purest black, the ends flipping upwards the tiniest bit, framing the sheer perfection of his face. His eyes are green, too, I can tell from here, and outlined by long and dark eyelashes like a girl's. The little, pointed nose in the center of his face is dusted by a few dainty freckles, and his lips are pink, pouting, and he subtly bites them. He tries to hide his habit, but I have so many myself I see right through his disguise. The boy's body is like to a fairy's, a waist I could encircle with just my two hands, arms that look like they could be snapped with a single touch, and legs thin and long like blades of grass. He is small, and he looks even smaller wearing his jeans that are a little too long, a little too big. He is trying to blend in where he cannot possibly. He is pretending to be an ordinary teenage boy, but how can he when every piece of him whispers out "Pixie, pixie, pixie"?
He's staring at the tulips in bouquets, in pots, outside the shop. His green eyes, intelligent and bright, are fixed there, blinking occasionally. His little hands are holding his face as he stares. Like me, he is alone in his own little world, oblivious to everything. Only the tulips are in his mind.
Only he is in my mind.
A/N: This is one of my first stories on here that has multiple chapters. I hope you like it. I think it's a little different from my other work, but I've really enjoyed writing it. It's done, so the chapters will probably all be posted pretty fast. Please review!