taking a lesson out of sweeny todd
by: as beauty dies / pixie paramount (LJ) / Noelle
genre: paiiiiiin – implications of slash and murder, some shota (boy) and light sexual situations toward the end – angst, tragedy, paaaiiiin
note: This is heavily experimental on the narrative/style, I'm sorry if it doesn't make any sense. It's a stream of conscience from the character point-of-view and he isn't...well, sane.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
heaven ain't close in a place like this
i said: heaven ain't close in a place like this
(don't blink, you might miss)
the killers, hot fuss: "somebody told me"
once (upon a time)
He wakes in the morning with him hovering over him, that same liar's smile stretched over his face, across his narrow lips.
He wakes with a pain between his legs and a hollow, empty feeling worming its way through his blood stream—from his heart to every other pore in his body, infecting him.
All he can think to say is: "Why?"
And all he can say to him is this: "Because I could."
(And they kiss in the pale moonlight and as the day slips from light to dark, he fingers the tiny dagger in his pocket and sleeps, peacefully, for the first time.)
ending
There is blood on his hands and the end of a long, horrible dreaming weighing upon him.
There are tears running down his cheeks, his pale body sickly and emaciated now. His cloths are stained, his body is dirty and his heart is a hollow, dead, weight in his chest—it barely beats in his chest, now.
(And he is happy like this: sitting in bed and wearing his dirty, blood-ridden cloths.)
reminders of him
His blood is still stains his clothing, five days after the fact.
(Because blood burrows in deep and never really washes away.)
He hopes, above all other things, that it will stay that way—forever.
the barrel in his hands is still warm
It's a lightweight in his pocket—such a light, light weight—the box of cigarettes that where his, once.
He breaths smoke like a dragon, the cigarette burning to the end, cupped between his fingers, tipping perilously low.
Soon it will burn his inexperienced fingers and he'll have another scar on his knuckles, the dull pain will just remind him that he is still alive.
His fingers are still warm and sticky and smell, faintly, of copper and smoke and death. His whole body reeks of it at this point in time, as the ambulance buzzes by in the opposite direction and he hides in the shadows.
(he's beginning to hate all of this—beginning to hate life.
beginning to hate just the memory of him.)
happiness is:
Her lipstick is still imprinted on the coffee cop even after everything that has happened.
It's been three days.
His hands are still stained with long-dried blood and as he walks into her room, her coffee cup still on her desk, her pretty, forever-sleeping body buried far, far away—slowly rotting away with each minute.
He hasn't touched anything of hers since the day she dies until now, he still can't really admit the fact that she is gone.
He still can't believe that this empty apartment is his reality. He still can't believe that there will be no more silly laughter or fresh baked cookies or warm embraces—there will be none of that.
Not anymore. No ever.
(This is not happiness.)
If she where alive to see him live like this, she is sure that she would shaken her head and cried, It's a dirty, rotten, shame—that's what it is.
imagination (rule the world)
His lips taste like cotton candy and blood to him.
(But everything begins to taste like blood to him even his cigarettes.)
He's young and pretty and he laughs like bells—he laughs just like her—until his sides ache; he kisses like a boy whose never kissed before—all eager and wanting and rushed, clumsy.
He wants to laugh, bitterly, because, once, that was he (a long, long time ago).
His eyes and face and body are pretty and it's not like him, not at all, and he can forget the kind words and substitute them with things he'd never, ever say (long ago).
His hands are clammy when he touches him—warm and nervous as he fiddles with the notion, this is so, so wrong.
He hates how he tastes like vodka and tears and blood and—
He can't forget.
("I'm sorry.")
Even now, the boy's legs around his waste and him thrusting against him, moving inside of him, he can't forget.
(And he feels horrible and disgusting and just like him.
sometimes, the past speaks to him in rhymes
He died the day they told him.
("I'm sorry but your sister—")
He died and was buried with her and—
His soul, forever lost, roams the Earth and—
He hopes he haunts a living corpse and reminds him, daily, of what he left behind.
(Broken shards and a forgotten rag doll.)
He wishes for so many things; most of which will never come true (and he knows).
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
he haunts you still
that beautiful monster who crawled into your life
with a smile that said: you are beautiful
(& then he broke your heart with it)
- date started: 12/24/2007, 11:02 AM
- date finished: 1/23/2007, 12:07 AM