You'd stare into the
mirror and count the veins in your eyeballs.
You'd spread out a layer of cards and look blankly at them, praying for the meaning to come out and touch you.
You'll be unhappy when its over. You're always unhappy when its over.
Your friend would lean into you and say something as mindless as "Cheer up." You want to punch him, rip off his clothes, throw fruit at him, then tap him on the shoulder and say "Cheer up buddy."
You're always alone. You make yourself believe that not only she loves you, but that she isn't dying, at least not just to leave you. You hate yourself, you have good reason.
They found this one week
at the mall. They called the author Lucky 12 after the name of the
store who's bathroom was defiled with this serial.
Yasmine snuck out of the unisex bathroom, followed by Framey and Jen.
Passing the clerk eyeballing them, they left the store. Framey made little sense of the wall scriblings, but he knew he'd return the next day for more.
Aside a crude drawing of a human brain: This is your brain. This is where the bullet goes.
Welcome to the small
minded world of the big brains and broken hearts. Framey paced his
closet sized bedroom. His radio was playing music his whole family
hated, but it spoke to him in ways even any God couldn't hope to
explain. The fleshy gears turned in his head, squeezing his giant
thoughts into tiny niches that he could ignore. His thoughts centered
around what the average heterosexual late teens guy might, females.
In this sad case, a specific one. She has spent many a day, knowingly
or not, ripping his heart out and slamming against his head.
Framey rubbed his forehead, a headache was growing.
Framey had a terrible habit of taking in strays, fixing them, loving them, and finding them leaving him. It was a hobby, a slightly self destructive one. Its hard to believe that seven letters can control your life so much.
A meaningless arangement of letters until the message is completed and garnished with a racing heartbeat.
He was hopelessly in love with Yasmine.
Framey collasped unto his cot, tears flowing down his cheeks. Moments like this always filled him with dispair and hopelessness.
Three chords break through the speakers, and Dan Andriano's voice sings Framey's feelings.
Welcome to the beautifully
warm world of psychosis and fear. Welcome to the world of literary
delights and cinematic misfits.
Perched high up in front of her computers keyboard, as she was usually found anyway, she mused. Her latest concern was how to kill her boyfriend.
Jen bit her lip. Rocketing forward, her finger rapidly hit the keys with a deadly precision. Grinning, her mind raced with the story she was putting out there. The role playing community she was a member of would not see this coming.
Jen was plain, shy, and average. Jen was the girl who had four friends all of her life. Those that got her, loved her, but nobody new ever understood. Her parents were the type that always called her special and brilliant, the little white lies children always here and parents think help. Jen would be the first to agree that one episode of American Idol makes the point by itself.
Jen was clever. Just above smart, and slightly below brilliant. Her dating life consisted of going to movies with Yasmine and Framey, which was almost always ruined by Yasmine yelling at Framey for kissing her cheek.
Confrontation didn't bother Jen at all, but this was pretty stupid. She wroked this all into the role playing story her and fellow net-nerds created.
She got up from her bean bag seat placed in front of her computer. Jen put the keyboard on top of the monitor and walked away.
The screen, before turning into an aquarium, showed a series of black lines that formed the sentences, "As he lay there bleeding, he held his tongue in his hand, trying to read the words she had carved into it. It read: 'She Loves You'. And all he could do was cry."
If you saw me now you'd
laugh. These words that seem to so unthrall you and tease... You
wouldn't believe a word if you saw these lips.
You'd hit the brick wall with any body part that could reach. You'd watch the graveyard as it aged just to see that one moment of pure irony when life changes its name. You'd say that only the good die young, even at your great grandfather's funeral. You hug a greiving friend or relative, but you, unlike these idiots, actually know that it is you that are being comforted by the hug, not them.
You'll be the first to admit that the red sting of your own arm opened brings its own comfort.
Death can be a magical thing. Thats why I'm a killer.
Standing alone in the bathroom with the words. The writer erased the last line and left.
Tracing the dent in the
bench between them, Framey looked at Yasmine's tearful eyes. He was
struck with opposing ideas and emotions. Framey wanted to reach out
and embrace her in all his love, but he also wanted to strike her for
putting him through this hell. He decided on something safer.
"There, there." A rage filled his mind, how stupid did that sound.
"I'm so glad you're here for me." The smile spoke, but Framey had the distinct feeling that Yasmine did not.
Tired of the riddle wrapped in the enigma and toppped with a question mark bow, Framey sighed. His body rejected the idea of doing anything else.
His mind started racing, his lips moving but no sound coming out. Yasmine was too distracted soaking Framey's shoulder to notice his mutterings. At least that was until he made one audible fracture of a sentence.
"...to stop loving you." Framey slammed his hand onto his mouth so hard that he immediately spit out some blood.
Yasmine sobbed deeper. "I'm not ready for that." Yasmine stromed away before Framey had gotten enough blood from his mouth to respond.
Knowing she was well out of earshot, Framey said, "I'm waiting."