Letter of Request #201:
My name is Alvin Adam.
My mother and father are not my mother and father. They don't know this, and that's for the better. I look like them, don't get me wrong. I share their skin, the lenses of their eyes and the high-maintenance stringy hair. I look well in place at the dinner table, in the vacation photos that turn my eyes red, aesthetic in the manner of a chair upholstered in the same color as the wallpaper. I must confess I take better care of myself, far better care of myself, than they do of themselves. But I am not their son in the sense that their minds combined to make mine. I stole the skin of their baby and fit it over me, letting the real child die like a cracked egg. Not metaphorically, mind you, literally. I was sent to spread the Family Disease. My real Family's Disease.
I do not love my parents. This is partially the fault of who I am, partially the fault of their own thoughts, which make them unlovable. That might sound a bit harsh, but I've always believed that everyone's thoughts make them unlovable. Then again, Rosie, but then once more her thoughts wouldn't normally be considered… good. The thoughts that make my parents particularly disenchanting would have to be about one another. A divorce would be nicer; it would potentially double my territory and they would start talking instead of thinking, which is easier to ignore. The problem is that they're nice enough outside their minds. You would never guess my father's having a one-sided affair with the prostitution market or that my mother is a sociopath. That my mother makes little daily lists of why my father doesn't deserve her and my father has a calendar marked with how many days it's been since my mother last lied to him about something there was no need to lie about. Of course, this is probably my fault because of the Family sickness, which I must have given to them somewhere along the line of my lifetime.
They get money from my mother's older brother, an actor, through some sort of unspecified extortion my mother initiated. They get enough to make me a rich kid, which I'm sure was a factor in which infant I would steal the opportunity of life from, in order to maximize the spread of sickness. I go to a private school, the kind with uniforms and hierarchy, which I fit comfortably into the 'upper-middle class' of. I know the material; I'm unfortunately well equipped from decades upon decades of this, leaving me with no choice but to listen to what they think. The topics go along the lines of sex, money, drugs, sex. I hear nothing surprising, only monotonous sin. I've infected a few, but it takes years for these things to take effect, and everyone here is in pretty bad shape already.
I can't hear everything that they think, blessedly, or else I'd likely drown in it. The thoughts waft around but do not penetrate me unless I seek them out, I meet the thinker's eyes, they talk to me, or they think something they want me to hear without knowing they want me to hear it. It's a fairly simple system, letting me choose when and who to infect. I know the immediate phrase that pretends to identify this is 'mind reading'. It's not mind reading. What I hear aren't words, they aren't even in human voices. I still 'hear' them though; I can hear the tune, the beat, the inflection. After all, thoughts are never words, they are ineffable; we just translate them into words so that we can tell other people about them. Because of course other people want to hear them, and unfortunately thoughts cannot be ignored in a way speech can be. My mind changes these obnoxious notions into words. (For your convenience, I will translate the thoughts I hear into words.) I have always had trouble reading people from across the room, without eye contact, without them seeking me out, without their thoughts. Perhaps those who can read people feel the gist of thoughts, and project them onto the face of whomever they're watching. It would make sense. I just take a step further in the direction of clarity and turn those thoughts into words.
My purpose is to spread the Disease. This is why I can hear thoughts, change fantasies; edit the things that get in my way. To spread the Disease, as quietly as possible, as to not attract undue attention from those trying to cure it. Other than this I'll live a normal life in this particular form, go to school, get a job, age, and die. Then I will return for a spell to Home. Home is where I have no body, and in a way no senses, making it difficult to describe. It is warm though, bordering on unpleasant but never passing over to agony. There I get to relax, feel good, and hear nothing but conversation and screaming. No thoughts, no inanity, no regulations on my feelings. I like going back Home.
It never lasts long before I have to leave, to re-insert myself into a newborn, steal their future, and wait impatiently to die again, to re-enter the outer stratosphere of pleasure. Suicide is out of the question, considered slacking off on the job, but it helps to fantasize. That was the subject of my thoughts directly before Rosie.
We met the first day of high school, in homeroom. She remained in her (what I incorrectly identified as) 'proper place' near the lower-middle class rich kids, among the cheaper brand names and the second-class celebrities. She was dressed like it was the first day of kindergarten, in a scrunch-fabric smock dress, checked blue with dirty fabric flowers. I walked towards her because lords could touch their serfs in ways that their serfs could not touch them. I planned to spend five minutes, maximum, listening to whatever drabble she had for me, maybe make her sick, and then move on. She was eating carrot sticks, as she does habitually. Although I didn't care then, I'd presently, probably, think she was anorexic if I hadn't seen her naked. I walked towards the desk where she was sitting, and she stood up when I offered my attention. She smiled. She had a funny smile that I don't like to call a smile because it's too cheap, sort of like candy from a dollar store isn't really candy. She giggled like a schoolgirl. I suppressed vomit. I waited for her to think something about me. I fully expected sexual attraction or annoyance.
He's a whore. That surprised me, seeing as it fell into neither and both categories at the same time. She grinned her dollar store grin at me, swishing her dress slightly. I managed to not change my expression. The plan was to keep up the schedule of boredom, infection, boredom, infection and eventually death pleasure and re-instigation. Rosie fucked my plan.
I began giving her things in an attempt to disturb. The bones from dead birds found my yard, doll heads, shards of glass, other things that reminded me of her; all dropped in front of her door. I wanted to see what she thought, to irritate the wound until the cause was exposed, to sicken her the hard way, the way that was used before we could edit daydreams. She did not respond. No thought, no word, no action showed interest. I watched her all day, I scanned through every glimmering conscious phrase, I neglected my duties in order to follow her, silently, to and from school every day. She walked, even though her family had several cars, and she lived, oddly enough, in a nicer neighborhood than I. With more security, and a gate that would have stopped anyone more reasonable than I was. I wondered why she was such a little brat, with the face of a cherub and a mind that had the audacity to call me a whore. She had nice things, nice enough to be spoiled, but not the best family health, as I assumed from the rapidly degenerating family portraits, displayed helpfully in chronological order across from a ground-floor window. Research at the local hospice provided a hereditary history of leukemia. I assumed from this that I should use less morbidity in the tone of my gifts, seeing as she would be numb to it.
So I gave her a rose on a Friday. I placed under the windshield wiper of the blue car, because I knew she was the first to use it on Saturdays to get groceries. When I returned to her house on Monday I saw with disappointment that my flower was still on the windshield, damp and wilted, untouched. I followed her to school, and she proceeded to say nothing, think nothing, for the entire day, except for a singular experience in class. She looked back at me, quickly, sadly, and thought 'Pity, there was potential'. I was irked, as I was entitled to be, and the next week I broke character and gave her a dead rose. Rotting, from the dumpster of the local florist. I could have just gotten another clean one, they didn't cost much, but a dead one seemed more appropriate to express my irritation. Anyway, because she ignored the one on her car, I broke into her house, which was easy enough once I stopped up the electricity of the security system, and found her room. It had pink walls and plastic flowers. I put the rose on her pillow, and, because I was still in a bad mood, crushed the light bulb of her lamp with my hand, smearing the blood on her bedside table. I searched for a fluff pink diary I had never seen but was certain she had, as if I could figure out more from that secondary document than from the raw source of her mind. I could not find it, but still wanted to annoy her, so I stole a few of her dresses, kindergarten dresses just like all the others I've seen her in, pinks and blues and purples, and left. The next morning, in school, she wore the flower in her hair, looking very smug. Apparently I had failed in my method but achieved my eventual goal of disrupting her, a victory confirmed when we passed in the hall and our eyes met. Her placid expression was ill suited for the whimsy-song of her mind.
Someone loves me
Someone loves me
He wants to fuck me
He wants to fuck me
Oh yes mommy
Someone loves me
As if she knew what I was hearing, she reached up and touched the rose. The day after that she took her clunky metal lunchbox over to my table during lunch and offered me her carrot sticks. She still had the rose, but it was in a pretty bad state, as in worse than before, and the petals dropped down as we ate together, tangling in her pigtails.
I decided that it would make little sense to give her the Disease, as she already had business with her own sickness. It would be easy, of course, to transfer the Disease to her, as it would be for anyone. You simply train a pattern in the mind. When a boy sees a pretty girl, casually think into his head that she would look pretty decapitated. It will scare him the first time, and perhaps the second and third, but soon enough he will learn to think it for himself. Tell a little girl that there are things in her skin, that they're going to crawl into her mind and the only way to stop them is blood. Teach someone how sexual maggots and festering corpses that you produce with your own hands are. It takes a push, admittedly, a nudge in the right way, but they'll assume the thoughts to be theirs, take them up, repeat them and cherish them as true. Occasionally, if you do it well enough, you'll see the results of your handiwork within your lifetime. I myself, having traveled from Home to spread the Disease and then back more times than I can count, have many times lived to see the work of my… pupils? Or are they victims? Carriers?
Regardless, it is easy. I could have done it, earned myself more time Home.
I did not. But we are dating, and if premarital sex earns me a few minutes, I've at least done that.
We did it in my living room the first time. We were pretending to study together, a simplistic and unneeded excuse, she was on the floor and I was on the couch. She said "C'mere." but she came to me, sitting on her legs atop my lap, her ankles at my knees, back concaved. She leaned in close, dollar store grin wide, and licked the outer shell of my ear; hands buried in my hair, pulling my head back. I exhaled slightly, closing my eyes
He's a whore…the thought was back. And for the first time I considered with revulsion the possibility that that was inauthentic. That another member of the Family had unknowingly sickened her to be attracted to me. She exhaled and inhaled for a few minutes, and I didn't talk, although my thoughts were screaming so loudly that I almost infuriated myself. She broke the silence.
"I think" she began slowly and quietly, and I managed to swallow my juvenile panic and refuse the notion that she wasn't like this from birth. I opened my eyes and she dug her nails into my scalp and continued "that you are stal-king me." She pronounced stalking in a way that reminded me of tossing two pennies in a jar, one at a time. ", and I am just kinky enough to get off on that" she made a sound like audio pornography, and backed off my lap, undoing the plastic daisy buttons at the front of her dress. I realized that my legs had fallen asleep.
Love does not change people. This is the highest and most disgusting form of bullshit.
A bitch is still a bitch, a psycho a psycho.
But it does change motive.
I've found that I want her to come Home with me.
(A/N: This is a oneshot. It has no second chapter. All you see is all I have for you. If you want more then 'Dye My Dress to Match my Eyes' another story of mine, involves Rosie. Other than that this is it.)