This just popped into my head. One-shot. Hope you like.
Sad & Twisted
Yes, I know, lots of people call me crazy! But how can I be? I feel fine.
I have no urge to disembowel or cut or bleed kittens. Shouldn't that be enough to prove I'm not a sick puppy?
I guess not.
But, you know what? I think the concept of insanity changes to one's convenience.
For example, my boyfriend. One minute, we are attached at the mouth and hip and he loves me and can't get away and when I feel that way too, he doesn't mind. The next minute, he won't come near me. We'd drifted apart. But he still went back to me eventually. He still loved me, he said. (Now that I think about it, he's never said that without a hand on my ass.) But I believed him. And he said he wouldn't mind being with me for the rest of his life.
So why did he mind when I just wanted it to stay that way?
He calls me a crazy bitch and—FUCKING ASSHOLE!!—won't let me make our love forever.
So it turns out, he was just talk and groping hands! He never loved me; at least not enough to swallow a pill bottle with me.
Just a pill bottle! It's not like I was asking for him to commit hara kiri. Just a few pills…or twenty.
He had stared at my hand with those wide blue eyes of his, mouth hanging open. I knew his face, and that one he was making just screamed "no." He just kept staring at me, horrified, while I counted the freckles on his nose.
"Why not?" I asked, and he babbled shitty excuses like, "Not now," and "Not ready."
And I didn't blow up--I kept control. Certainly not a habit of the mentally twisted, yeah?
I was very quiet and I listened to his bullshit, I listened carefully.
All the while I felt like my face and chest were on fire. My teeth hurt, I clenched them so tightly.
I was almost sure he knew what I was feeling. And he just let me hurt, he didn't take it back.
I was so humiliated. And he knew—he KNEW!!
So you know what, I looked him straight in the eye, screamed "Fuck you," and choked it all down.
Bastard called the ambulance after that, and about a week after that, here we are.
Can you see a bit more from my side of the soccer field now? Well, of course I want you to be playing on my team. But back to the story. I was all well and fine after the hospital spat me back out.
However, my parents made me see a psychiatrist (whom I call Mr. Faceless) about my "condition."
It was ridiculous. My poor dumb mom and dad did not know that psychiatrists are just paper cut-outs of actual human beings who didn't hear or even register the suffering of their clients, just the crinkle and dirty green of money! Mr. Faceless didn't seem any different...He wasn't, I don't think.
The man just listened and stared and nodded, scribbling on his little papers, not smiling or talking or twitching. And did he love Hawaiian shirts! All those trees and flowers made me want to attack him with pesticides and maybe a chain saw. And I told him this, too. He ignored me and went on scribbling.
After a little while (about four days), he refused to see me again, and his reason was, putting it less politely, "this bitch scares the shit out of me." However, just talking my heart out did help me calm down and think it out. So I guess he earned his stupid cash.
I will admit that maybe I was a bit overzealous about my BF's lies. And maybe, just maybe, he didn't deserve the 43 times I stabbed him in the chest.
But, damn! We could have really been in love!
Why did he have to lie and ruin himself? I would have made him happy, and we could have lived the future I always doodled about since grade school. Except not as badly drawn. Not as half-baked. Complete.
But then he says "no" when I try again. I say, "not like that, let's just be together," and he says "no."
Looking at me like I just grew three heads. Backing away, backing away.
He may as well as jammed the knife into my heart and my back—TWISTED it just to hear me scream before I went under. That's what it felt like. I can still feel it sting, right here under my ribs.
And he must have known my pain—he did it to me! It was HIS fault!!
So, I made up my mind: he would feel as I did, every bit of my pain—What as the saying, again?—He'd be walking in my uncomfortable shoes.
I planned it out in a careful, sane way.
I even dressed up all pretty before breaking into his house, my favorite knife in hand, and went into his room. He looked so peaceful asleep, I almost stopped. Then he moaned in his sleep and —you won't believe this—cried out some whore's name!
I lost it! My ears were full of lava and I was on fire again!
He kept moaning and squirming in his boxers and I just climbed on top of him and let the knife whistle through the air and I shrieked words I didn't even know, and he did too after the third slash…And it felt amazing.
We were both so hot, me with rage, him with his own blood. We were one.
And then he went cold.
He was getting colder. I didn't want that. I stayed on him to keep him warm.
I just kept screaming—I had to. He had to know I didn't just do this before he slipped away; It was his fault, he ruined everything, and I just wanted us to be feeling the same thing for a second.
How does that make me crazy?
This isn't based on any particular real life occurrences…Reviews now please.