Black. Still black. Everything is black in here.
I've been sitting,
crossed legged and empty headed
for the last I-don't-know-how-long and I know He's been watching me. I know He's got his eyes on mine and He's ready to pounce and His pupils are all dilated because they're trying to suck up my light, they're trying to swallow me whole. He's going to kill me, I know.
But I can't feel Him. No, I can't fucking feel Him and I know that He knows that I know that but He won't do anything about it because that's just the way He is. That's just the way He's always been. And to be honest, honestly, this wasn't so bad at first. I didn't mind the cold or the empty space or the static noise drilling into my head, left foot knocking out my eardrums and it's just
Dammit, (dammit!), it's getting cold in here.
"Hey," I want to say but my throat's all blocked up and my stupid eyes are tearing and I have got to get it together, now. But I can hear her voice; her lemon, bitter, sweet voice. So beautiful, my goodness, she's a symphony; the first movement of my allegro con brio and just as soon as she begins, I want to drop kick that stereo.
I can't tell if my voice carries through the blindness and actually, I still can't see anything and I'm still wondering, did I even speak? When have I ever said, anything?
(Don't start now.)
"Oh, baby," she says, doing that word-sigh thing I hate/love/hate but I find myself wishing I could see her.
I find myself wishing she would hold me, her right thumb running back and forth across my cheek like she's doing right now.
And of course, suddenly, there's a screen in front of me, floating above the space that I'm in and there's nothing on TV, just like every single day since 1923.
Just like every single fucking day. But that's not true. I'm on the tube.
So I watch myself and I'm watching myself and I realize,
that's not me. That person, with the jet black hair and cigarette-cool air and wannabe track marks playing tag up and down his arms; that's not me.
But who am I trying to kid, in all seriousness,
Why can't you ever take responsibility for yourself?
Maybe, because you're a liar-LIAR. Maybe, because it might not be my fault after all and I'm a whiny, whining brat.
Maybe, Mom, because you told me that everything was going to be okay but I'm sitting here, crossed legged and in the dark and you told me that it was alright because I'm my mother's son and it's perfectly natural to feel this way. It's perfectly natural to touch this way.
She's breathing heavily; panting, actually. And her fingers are in my hair and her lips are too close to my bellybutton and I'm a real dirty son of a bitch.
And He's been watching me.
He's always watching me; when I'm trying to be or not to be, or just kicking back and crying into a pillow I've been meaning to get rid of for the longest time.
He's going to kill me, I know, but it's all a sham of a race and lately,
(but no, really)
lately, I feel like beating Him to the finish line.
I've got a needle in my vein and your life force in my heart
and it's still all black, all black in my head.
A/N: This was written for the May 2010 Writing Challenge Contest in the Review Game. Go check it out sometime.