What Might I Have Left?
I will never be a musician. Although told throughout my life not to squander my talent, I find myself depressed whenever I lift my bow to my cello, or play a nifty little melody on the piano keys. I do not disappear into the music when I would like my problems to leave me alone whilst I devote my braincells to focusing on the music, but rather become more troubled.
I will never be an artist. Although I've found it within myself to draw a few things greatly appreciated by others, I will always find fault with my work, and grow to hate it.
I will never be a writer. It just isn't my strong suit. I find error with everything I've written, and would prefer to keep my thoughts hidden from most. I also have horrid work ethic and seldom finish any written project I start.
I will never be a lover. I simply am unaffectionate with all the loving warmth of a sillhouette of a person rather than an actual person.
I will never be a dreamer. I simply do not dream. At least not anymore. I had them once, but had them all crushed and scorned. I had the curious aspiration to be a certain occupation when much younger, and an honest and decent one at that. My father literally spit in my face when I told him.
I will never do anything noteworthy that will change the world forever.

Anti-Twilight Persuasive Essay
Something I wrote for an English assignment a while back. My teacher is incredibly biased towards the topic as Twilight is her favorite book, and I was the only one not to get their copy back, so I'm pretty certain she took it and shredded it into miniscule pieces.

The novel ‘Twilight’, although classified as ‘romance’, contains little, if no romantic elements at all, and is really a tale of obsession and pedophilia.
Every girl dreams of finding the perfect guy and having him return her love, right? But Twilight, in all actuality has very little to do with love. A fluffy romance novel about an incredibly superficial teenage girl and a vegetarian vampire, Twilight has managed to worm its way to the top of our youth’s reading list, conversations, obsessions, and culture in general. But is it really the best possible object of fixation for our generation? To start with, the protagonist, Bella Swan is extremely bland. She would be classified, by literary lingo, as a ’Mary Sue’. A Mary Sue is a depressingly dull character with absolutely no personality whatsoever, yet is still made out to be perfect. It’s worth mentioning that Bella has nearly no flaws, aside from the fact that she’s incredibly clumsy, and even that was designed to make her ‘cute’ so she’ll appeal to the readers. She has an odd obsession with a boy she notices in a cafeteria, who she becomes convinced she is in love with without even bothering getting to know. One of the reasons Twilight gained popularity is because supposedly the ‘characters are identifiable with’.
Surprisingly, Edward (the object of Bella’s affection) is described as even more perfect and attractive than Bella. He has no flaws at all, and despite the fact that he’s a vampire, he can magically resist drinking human blood and be around Bella without harming her once. If all the parts describing Edward’s perfection were omitted from the novel, it would earn a total of roughly twenty pages. How many times does Bella need to go in depth about how insanely attractive she finds Edward? We don’t need to be reminded how ‘topaz’ his eyes are every five sentences, or how is voice is ‘like melted honey’ (which makes no sense, because honey is a liquid to begin with, and therefore cannot be melted). He would be classified as a ‘Gary Stu’, the male counterpart of a Mary Sue. And yet due to the fact that Twilight holds more appeal for female readers, the fact that he remains devoid of a personality is overlooked, due to his appearance. Edward is also on the abusive side, although the books do their best not to let it show. He sneaks in through Bella’s window to watch her sleep, which would be classified as ‘stalking’, and yet instead of being creeped out, she takes Edward’s gesture to be ‘sweet’.
Everybody enjoys reading a good romance novel, right? And if certain elements of Twilight were overlooked, or not analyzed at all, it might appear to be an innocent romance about a girl who falls for someone it appears she can never have, but Twilight is more of a ‘stalking story’ than a ‘love story’. You could go to any Twilight fandom blog and find at least twenty different girls declaring their love to fictional characters. ‘Teams’ are even formed, displayed on merchandise and web pages. Team Edward refers to the group obsessing over Edward Cullen, where as ‘Team Jacob’ refers to Edward’s love rival, Jacob Black. It is extremely unhealthy for young girls to love fictional characters. None of the characters are actually real, or ever will become so. And if that weren’t bad enough, Bella ends up being downright nasty to any of the ‘human boys’ in Twilight that have the misfortune of liking her. Mike Newton, one of Bella’s seemingly infinite suitors has the most personality out of any character in the book, and yet we find him being described (through Bella’s eyes) as annoying. She leaves other ‘nice’ comments for the readers about other male characters in the book. Eric, one of her classmates, is described in appearance alone as being on the ugly side. And Bella describes him as such while he’s trying to help her, out of kindness. Are these the sort of values society has deemed appropriate for teen girls?
Twilight even goes as far to mock the Quileute Tribe. Stephanie Meyer, the author of Twilight portrays the tribe as impoverished, ill-tempered, and miserable. The buildings’ paint is described as peeling, and it sends Jacob into a fit of rage when his friend takes food from him, because he’s unsure if he’ll have money to buy more.
And as if the above statements weren’t bad enough, the series even goes as far as to incorporate pedophilic tendencies in both Jacob and Edward. In the last of the (thankfully only) four books, Bella gives birth to Edward’s half-vampire daughter. Upon seeing the infant, Jacob becomes infatuated with her. It never directly says the word ‘love’ to describe Jacob’s feelings, but as the chapter is told from his point of view, it becomes painfully obvious from the way he describes his feeling for Renesmee’ (the infant is poorly-named, yet children belonging to Twilight fans have been christened with it). Edward himself is supposedly hundreds of years old, and his relationship with Bella in itself is pedophilic. Just because his body remained unchanged doesn’t necessarily hold true to his mind. Bella was literally in love with someone who was older than her great-grandparents, yet according to fans, this is somehow justifiable by Edward’s appearance. It only hasn’t been seen as disturbing because he doesn’t age physically, yet would Bella still love Edward even if he looked as he really should, considering how old he supposedly was? Due to the fact that the ‘heroin’ (and I use this in the lightest context possible) is, once again incredibly superficial, this seems incredibly unlikely.
In conclusion, readers should become infatuated with literature that holds better values, plot, and possibility; in other words, soup-can labels would make a better read than Twilight.

**Announcement** I'm attempting to finish old entries and be all-around more active on here. I have a Creative Writing audition this approaching Monday and have been franticaly (sp?) doing my best to assemble a portfolio in time, so if anything decent can be thought up in that time period, it might be posted on here. I may also take a few of the things I've written here and edit them to make them more appealing and presentable and add those to my portfolio as well.

By January, I've Come to Hate You
January has come, and my emotions worn weary. My sense of humor has dulled, and although I am still fully capable of entertaining those around me with my offbeat remarks, I hardly feel a thing. Neither guy is willing to release his hold on me, and I feel myself being suffocated. Now, there is a countdown. I must find love by July, or perhapse end up being defiled. Conflict has arisen with a certain girl, who I feel myself falling away from. She is no longer real anymore. He has clouded her vision. I loathe him. I itch to wrap my hands around his scrawny gullet and constrict them until he is deprived of oxygen. But I can't. Not for her. And she's begun to loathe me for it. But I see him for what he is. And what he's doing to her. And she knows what he's done, but he twists things. I'm not the only one with a hold put on me. I've begun experimenting. How shallow men are these days. All it takes is a few subtle changes to my appearance, and more have begun noticing me. A third party has entered the dispute. One who has loved me for nearly four years now. But do you really love me? The real me? You don't know just who I am. You would undoubtedly turn away from the sick, twisted creature that I've become, if only eyes could look upon the soul. Why love me? Even after all the misery I've already put you through? I see no redeemable traits in myself, and yet something exists that draws people in. And eventually burns them. I still see nothing that would endear me, yet something must exist.

The Way You Make Me Feel
A letter that will never be sent. Recepients; two rather different boys.

He wasn't the one. I'd known this all along, yet let myself get swept along in the current of overwhelming emotion. Surprisingly, when things spiraled downhill, I found myself inable to feel sorrow, guilt, or even a slight bit of sadness. He stilled loved me. I thought I loved him, but as things turned out, I don't believe, my dear, that what I felt was actual love. But thank you, my dear, for shattering that wall made of glass. You've made an optimist of me yet, perhapse I might fall for someone yet. But I'm not quite certain, dearest, if I believe in a thing called love. So in the meantime, would you cease to refer to me as 'Sweetheart'? There's nothing sweet about me. I'm sure if you bit into me, you would find I taste rather noxious. So don't bite. Don't try to figure me out. You'll fail, I garuntee it. Haven't you ever wondered, my 'love'; why the pause every time you told me you loved me? Was it really because I was choked up in the moment, or rather that I was thinking of how to respond? I would like to touch you again. To make you fall like a domino this time. And maybe things would become beautiful as they crumble down around us.

To the boy mentioned in a previous post here: (The 'Zuko-McCartney' one, I do believe)

I thought you had forgotten me, but it seems you hadn't. You promised not to forget me. There was no malice behind it when we made that pact. So why does part of me wish you could've found it within yourself to forget me completely? Am I greedy for wanting to be the only with our shared memories? Memories the two of us made together? And now you've come out and said it. You've become a pervert. And now you want me. Is it enough that I want to belong only to myself? How about you give yourself to me. That way I'll be the one in control. How about I make you mine? I don't particularly wish to become enslaved to you. Don't fall for me. Please.

Kissing the Enemy
I'm not the sort to kiss and tell. Partially because I'd never done it before. The 'kiss part'. But even if I had done it thousands of times, I probably wouldn't tell anyway. I'd never let a guy come within kissing distance of my face. I always figured I would break down eventually. But not with 'The Enemy'. The enemy is actually Lucifer himself disguised. Manifested in the body of a sixteen-year old boy. Not someone exactly I would have considered letting have this first, sacred kiss of mine. But we weren't strangers. But I kept that to myself. What if my 'friends' knew? My 'friends' who bristled at the sight of him. I myself had glared at him from a distance, when he had come towards our table to throw his trash away on a few occassions, and now find myself sincerely hoping that he hadn't seen that.

He pulled me from a gutter in my life, and for the first time since God knows when, I didn't feel like complete human garbage.

Today and Yesterday
I'm quite relieved at present. I had been offered to go do weed with my 'friend' and her boyfriend ((also, in a way, a 'friend' as well)), but my 'friend' got called away for a four day camping trip with her relatives. I don't wish to defile my lungs with marijuana chemicals nor that of any kind of smokeable object. Had a rather curious dream. A spike had impailed itsself through my forehead, yet I felt nearly nothing, accepting the fact that I was dying. I woke up in my own room, the spike gone, yet blood stained my hands. I reached out, opening the drawer across from me, knowing what I would find there. I withdrew both my lighter and my pocket knife, knowing I would not be able to die no matter what was done to my body. I burned there, the flames licking at my skin, yet died down when they came in contact with the offwhite carpet. I woke up again in the bed, becoming rather frustrated that death was evading me. I grabbed for the knife, the blade lengthening as it swung out from its resting place when compacted. The blade was not nearly thick enough to kill me, so I merely stuck it in my throat, bleeding out the remnants of my life on the carpet that did not stain. This scenario continued several more times, the weapon of choice varying with each pseudo-death. I have a secret death wish, but I will not be the one to cheat myself of life. The death I long for is not the one often thought of; a spiritual death. Of course it would be nice to reach heaven, or the purgatory I'm nearly positive I'll be sent to, but in the end an eternity is too long for me to continue my existance. I dislike the idea of waking up to the same mundane life for the rest of my 'existance', which will never cease. I want my soul to split apart. And afterwards, anything could happen. The pieces could fall to the sea, be swept away in a crash of white foam and salt-water, dissolving them, and erasing my existance. They could become sepparate beings, each with a mind of their own at last ((it IS getting rather overcrowded inside my head)), or they could be with someone back on earth ((given the Apocalypse hasn't already happened)), each a person needing aid from an outside source. I see no reason why I should remain as one. I have no reason to exist, even now, but I do hope I come to find one.

Laughing-gas fails to work its effects on me, as I discovered today. I still had a sharp clarity of thought, and asked the doctor legit questions before the world faded away. Even upon awaking, my mind still functioned at its best. I took advantage of the moment, though, angered at seeing Joseph before me. I'm not exactly sure which of US it was ((perhapse her, perhapse it could've been all me, or with a slight influence from her)) but I found myself kicking at my father, my motor skills still fully functional, and hurled a few profanities at him ((my idea most likely)). Then, another spur-of the moment idea presented itsself. What if I were to close my eyes and never open them again? The excuse was there. The opportunity was beautiful. The world could go to hell, but I would be safe within my own mind. No one would truly miss me. Only the side of my personality that showed itsself to them. They couldn't see my mind for what it really was. Sure they would pine for me, convinced that they had lost a precious friend, but it could be a stranger lying there for all they knew. I could fade; the world would continue to spin, and they with it. I closed my eyes, deciding to give my impulsize, idiotic idea at least a shot. It took them two minutes before I found myself being slapped awake, yet refused to open my eyes. The nurse grabbed me, forcing my body into an upright position; caring nothing of my current state.

The day progressed slowly afterwards, and my stomache growled, begging to be fed. The night before, Joseph had forbidden me from eating anything at all, claiming that I only 'deserved food' after I had completed some trivial task of his. I completed the same task at least three times, and he still wasn't satisfied. He pulled the exact same crap today, depriving me of a dinner ((even though all I could eat were liquids; the doctor explained that it was imperative that I do so)).


Wasn't allowed to speak to any of my 'friends'. One did call, but Joseph addressed them rather rudely, listening in on our conversation and forcing it to be broken up. The man even went so far as to yell over us so neither would be capable of hearing the other.

Got hit on by a ghetto guy ((lol)), but felt semi-bad, yet impressed at his boldness. I didn't return his flirty manner, trying to be as nice as possible in getting it across that I wasn't interested. It always bothers me; that certain people seem to hold strong feelings for me. I haven't discovered the cause of my numbness towards the emotion of love, but my theory is that I've never seen it work out. Dysfunctional people decieving themselves into thinking that they care for another. When really they know nothing at all.

Threw myself on the floor this morning, the hole grown bigger. Wanting to scream, but remembering the stitches in my mouth. Sort of lay there awkwardly, not moving, feeling it tighten. Need to fill it soon, lest get sucked away within it.

 I need to get outside myself for a while. Just sitting there, my back against the wall and my thoughts outside. My 'friend' prattles on about something now inaudible to me, and I offer the occasional nod and "I see" to decieve her into thinking I'm listening. My thoughts lie outside the school building. Eventually, the conversation drifts, becoming drug-related. It has been leaning towards the topic quite often, nowadays. The Rat sits on my 'friend' 's other side, and a boy I barely know across from me. I barely know anyone, I realize. At least for who they are. The real them. Very seldom do people speak what they're really thinking. You can go through an entire lifetime, taking pride in the fact that you 'know everything about someone', but when it comes down to it, you know absolutely nothing. I wished people spoke more what they actually thought. My 'friend' coments on how she'd like to try a cigarette, and I laugh and roll my eyes, commenting on how I'd like to see a straight-edge kid like her try stuff with my own eyes before I'd be inclined to believe it. Or something like that. I don't remember very well. But I have a secret thirst of my own. Acid. I need to let my world get more chaotic than it is a present. Only through chaous do things begin to take shape, becoming more of what they are. Realer. Surrelity in itsself holds realness also. In a way. I'd never tried Acid, but if offered, I most likely would accept. Nothing else. Just Acid. I lost my 'straight-edgedness' at the age of eight with my first beer. Ironically, given to me by Joseph. At Bush Gardens. With security guards. Since then, we'd become drinking buddies. I eventually get called away by a few other 'friends' to come play Volleyball with them, and I excuse myself, abandoning my 'friend' and leaving her with the Rat. 
   I call him the Rat because he resembles one. Both in appearance and personality. He doesn't like me. He finds my thoughts disturbing and strange. He interrupts my conversations with my 'friend', exclaiming his utter disgust at my ideas. I'd had the idea, as a seniors prank for when we graduated in a few years to break into the prison-school ((it's made out of concrete if that tells you anything)) and steal all the sodas from the vending machines. Leaving behind dead animals in their places. It would work out fairly well, since the vending machines are used often. the Rat, of course I wouldn't mind including as one of the dead animals. But I let it go and keep my eye on the ball.

I've always liked throwing up. Which is what I aim to make myself do now. I don't know why. Just for fun. Because I can. Because it feels nice. Given this is probably only my fourth time in the span of a year, but I have the sudden urge. I'd eaten more than usual for lunch, an ice cream bar and a few pieces of gum. School food has lost its appeal. My stomache tightens over the ice cream bar, and it hurts. I pick a stall in the bathroom, searching for a few aspects. It must be disgusting in state; enough to aid me in what I want. Yet nothing floating in the toilet itsself. I pick one with toilet paper strewn over the floor. I examine it carefully before stepping in. Unused. My finger finds that familiar place in the back of my throat, but nothing is coming up this time. I have to cough, but a raspy, choked noise comes up instead. Now I hear concerned voices form outside, wanting to know if I'm okay. I slide the lock open, wash my hands, then pop a new piece of gum from my pack. What the heck.

I don't think I'll go to Homecoming. No matter how many of my friends whine. They want me to be there. To make yet another high school memory with them. But I don't. Why are dances called 'dances' anymore? Hardly anyone does dance. There are no songs to do so to. Only rap. Not even the good kind. I smirk, picturing myself stealing away in the night to reprogram the DJ's equipment to play Bloodbath songs. Maybe a little Korn scattered through the tracks. Then some Romanii and J-rock. To give the kids some culture. And maybe if I'm feeling ironic, "We the Champions". Our principal gave a speach about 'no same-sex dates'. Not a problem with me. But I feel a pang of sympathy for the homos. I shouldn't. But I do. My heartbroken 'friend' isn't going. Maybe we'll spend the day together. 

M'kay, so I had these chars I haven't roleplayed with in a while. It makes me upset, as I've grown rather fond of them. So This is a story I'm kinda-sorta-writing involving them......

Heads turned. Eyes stared, wide and frightened as the woman made her way through the town. She could have easily avoided their critisizing eyes, but saw no reason as it did not irk her even slightly. The town in general was xenophobic, but the woman, in addition was a bit strange, so thus the resentment rang much more prominant. Her mouth twitched at the tips, so she wore an expression that was half a smile, half a frown. "Fools......" the voice in the back of her head growled.

He had been drawn to that spot, like the others. Others that sought the same object. Although their reason for obtaining it likely deviated from his own personal reasons. "Haretsu!" the angry young woman beside him scowled. "......" he turned, staring at her with a blank look in his features. "Hurry up!" she kicked his foot. He seemed to feel nothing, and even if he did, he had done an excellent job of surpressing his agony. They were thieves. And there was no honor among them. "....." he gave Azumi (for that was indeed the woman's name) a stare devoid of all feelings.

The girl lay in her bed, twitching and writhing. Her head was rolled back, and her long blue hair lay back on the pillow, almost like a pool beneath her. Silver droplets of blood leaked from her closed lip, but there was no sympathy to be had. The room in which she lay was entirely white, and the what little light was given to her was entirely artificial. She began to scream, both due to the immense pain she was in, and because she had little else to do.

"Is that... her?" he thought, staring after the woman who was making her way through the city. Although he was a stranger to the town himself, his status as an alchemist practically garunteed ((sp?)) that he would have a warm reception with the people, as it was a respectable trade. As if she had felt his stare, she turned and look at him, then averted her eyes. "So you don't remember me after all..." he thought, feeling somewhat relieved.

A woman and a fox sat lay under a tree, both looking nearly dead. The woman was asleep, in attempts to temporarily rid herself of the hunger that plagued her. Neither of the pair had eaten a proper meal in a while, and were both, by then too weak to even move, even if an edible creature were to present itsself. A blade sliced through the air, falling just short of the fox's tail. The sound was enough to make both of them fully awake, both caught offguard.  Cursing came from an unseen source, and the shape of a girl of about seventeen years materialized out of a pool of water that lay several yards in the distance. 

The wanderer halted, remaining perfectly still as if anticipating something. From beneath the earth, a tall, demonic creature rose. She walked past it, not even giving it a proper look. The torso sepparated itsself from the legs, and it keeled over dead; struck by an unseen force. The man that had been watching her sighed, knowing he had a lot cut out for him. 

Haretsu stared through a pair of binoculars, crouched down in the bracken with Azumi. They had been waiting for hours now, and were both thoroughly soaked from a heavy flow of rain that had gone on earlier. "Not yet." Azumi hissed out of the corner of her mouth. A caravan appeared on the road, about twenty minutes later, guarded with at least ten tough-looking men on each side. "Now!" both sprung from their hiding places, incapacitating the guards with a purple smog. Azumi's eyes grew round with greed as she drew a velvet pouch from within a concealed drawer in the caravan's interior. "This should fetch us a pretty penny on the black market." she told Haretsu without even bothering to look at him.

"What have I been called here for?" the woman asked, standing before the city's council-members. "Before we begin buisness won't you make yourself comfortable?" invited a woman who appeared to be around her mid-fifties. The outsider reluctantly took a seat, pushing away the banquet that had been placed before her on the table. "You know I have no real need for these things." she told them, her flat tone never waivering. She stared without blinking, her gaze intimidating the council before her, so there was a long, drawn-out pause before the silence was eventually broken. "Your skills are needed on a mission of the utmost importance."
 "Enlighten me, please. Just how important is it that I accept?" she gasped, upon recieving an answer.

 Didn't like this for a char I was making. Didn't want to waste this writing piece, so I thought I'd post it here.

I would graffiti your name across the skies if needed to remind you that someone still cared for you. Free my heart from its calcified cage and give it to you if yours was so broken that you had need for a new one. If you plunged into the darkess I would be there beside you in that void space to bring you the sun. Anything to remind you that someone still cares for you in this world. When everything else has fallen away, I swear I'll be your safe haven.

Don't know the feeling of love myself, though I imagine it would be nice =^_^=

Dangerous Intersection
It was a dangerous intersection. You and I. Our lives led parallel, yet one of us was unaware. You knew nothing of my existance, nor the task I had been sent to perform, living out what remained of your life in sweet obliviousness. I pity you, unaware that you're soon to meet a short, blissful death. I myself shall see to that. You lie on the bed, your arms crossed across your chest, hiding the array of puncture-wounds that decorate them. Your eyes closed, your breathing comes slower, but I think I'll let you live. Today. Perhapse tomorrow things will change. Or perhapse when the Authority dictates that it's time. I see tears forming in the corners of your eyes, yet I remain unmoved. Indifferent. I shift to the left only slightly, and find myself behind you. I never have quite gotten used to the feeling of weightlessness in this method of travel, and it frustrates me. Your mobile phone on the nightstand rings, but your movements are lethargic as you fumble for it, and it crashes to the floor in pieces. Your veins are full now, of the heroin you have injected into them, and your wrists pale. They scream, pleading for you to cease your abuse but you are merciless, and after you have finally saturated your cravings, they refuse to opperate((sp?)) correctly. I turn my back upon you, giving you the grace of sleep as I perch upon your sill and shut my eyes as I anticipate dawn.
     You wake, after a long bout with insomnia throughout the night, your bedsheets tangled around you legs, and your eyes bleary. You look incredibly pathetic in your oversized pajamas that hang off of your frail skeleton. I could take you now. Whisk you away to that other world far below. Watch you writhe in agony as those same tormented wrists sepparate themselves from you; as all your limbs are eventually torn away and nothing is left. No soul of which to speak of. No proof alive or dead that you had existed upon this earth at some point. No trace. Another wasted life; the people that knew of your existance, of course will experience the sensation of sorrow, but you will soon blur into the past, and no one will be able to recall your name.
              It pains me to dwell on the fact that I myself may have led a similar nothing-life, considering the position I now find myself in. I may have been created from scratch, or possibly been human at some point. I was, most likely not the most wholesome individual, if in fact I may have once been a man. My thoughts desert me as you make your entrance, your face flustered and eyes brimming over with tears. You hug your knees to your chest in an awkward position near the wall, but this is nothing new to me. Often before death, humans tend to behave in odd ways. I still do not pity you, even though you are gripping one of your old needles, trying to refill it with your detestable drug. As you are holding it, the needle's tip enters your hand, leaving behind a long gash within your flesh. I avert my sight from this scene, planning on how to bring about your demise. You seem hardly a worthy challenger, as most are in this game we are to play. A survival game. You against me. In my favor. Some of my kind have grown attached to pitiful creatures such as yourself, and that is how survivors are born. A child being the sole survivor of a tragic car crash. A report on the news of a teenager coming close to suicide, but not having life ripped form their grasp just then. And what happens to my kind, I shudder to think about it. We have little, if nothing at all to fear, and that is the Consequences. We will shatter into millions of pieces; our bodies, our souls. And disappear forever. What happens after no one truly knows; maybe there is an Elsewhere. perhapse nothing at all happens. We fear it just the same. But enough of that; time to decide upon your fate, little girl. Keep in mind, however that this was not my doing but yours, my dear. You don't see me. Therefore hatred for me should be impossible. Yet you feel it regardless, don't you. I plague your dreams, occupy the space behind your eyes until you obsess over me. Want to dance, little girl? I bring death. Want to dance with death? Look down at the knawed off stumps dripping sweet, crimson tears. You lack the propper appendages. Too bad. Game over. Set, match. It ends tomorrow. Sleep.
        I follow you to your school, where I refrain from filling the air with my pealing laughter. Trying to hide inside yourself? Shatter that reserve of yours, I demand it. When you eventually are dead, it will be only your facade that is missed, not the person lurking in the shadows of your existance. Spotted an interesting interaction. Another dangerous intersection. I hear those whispered words that make you detest him so. Yet you would never admit that, would you. 
    We arrive back home, and I await what you yet not know is coming. He bursts through the door, angry and drunken and makes a grab for you, interlocking your mouth with his. "Try some, baby." he croons, his tongue dripping acid lies. He brings more heroin and an assortment of other drugs. Drugs that have created the need for more entities such as myself. You could both be two more on the death-toll. But it is not his time, it is yours. "I quit that stuff, I already told you." you sound incredible desperate, and attempt to bolt for the door, but he presses his massive frame between you and the doorway, preventing you from taking flight. What a shame. Maybe my plan would have failed. Maybe you would have won. His voice retains his softness, but the words come angry. He makes a grab for your shirt, bunching it in a handful whilst throwing you down upon that bed. It seems fitting that it would eventually become your final coffin. That bed that you commited suicide upon long ago. With your drug-abuse. "Please.... don't do this to me!" you panic, but he is already sliding your shirt up, and sits atop you, restricting your movement. Not enough blood leaks to your lower torso to allow you to kick him. What a shame. Evil, am I? For readying the madness that resided within him? This had always been a fantasy of his, and I did no harm in reducing the time gap. 
   His face changes color as he falls, his neck twisted and broken. He hangs like a mannequin, then plummets to the earth with a vital piece missing. You breathe in relief. I deal with a bout of new sensations. I acted on impulse and have gotten myself killed. Hope you enjoy that life of yours. The one you do not deserve. My body crackles, coming off in pieces. It feels downright horrible, yet the worst I dwell on before I leave. You will never know any of this. That I existed. I gave you life. I did not wish to take it. It was the Authorities. You will not know what unseen force saved you that day, or hear my voice. I call out to you before my throat rips away, but you do not move. My tear falls to the earth as my eye, too fades, but it does not fall upon your mortal ground. I will never touch you. Goodbye, my brain says as it, too destructs. You will never know.

-***Note, this is a short story I wrote out of boredom. I don't think I did too well with the resolution, but critique would be appreciated******


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