His reflection stared dully at him from across the room, tiles and cupboards matched, a soap swirling sent hit direct target, it kept him blinking, occupied. He was awake and trembling while cherry red lips whispered soft lullabies and an occasional curse. It made them seem spoiled, rotten, but he knew better and he loved their little whispers anyway. Some nights they kept him awake, between the tossing and turning they created peace and a humble wrench of comfort.
Paper clothes dimpled over his face, swiping away the filth, they stained and left the madness, but he wasn’t surprised, that never went away.
Little stings, tiny as sharp tips of needles spread from his forehead down to his cheekbone and trailing further north towards his chin. His reflection told the tale, caked and clotted blood decorate his features, one eye too thick to function, his world was shattered in an one dimensional blur of red lipstick and paper clothes.
He was a lucky one, being high although it started to wear off, he could feel it, the tiny needle pins outgrow their state, turning into sharp daggers, piercing through his skin and he whimpered.
“- Sorry, it’s the alcohol, I didn’t think you’d feel it,” in her eyes lay truthful spite, golden specks hastily eying down, “what did you do with your hands?”
Genially curious of her wonder he stared down too, realizing the blood trailed all the way north. Knuckles raw and skinned, shallow cuts and scabs hurt his fingertips.
“I fell?” He questioned his own words and voice, it didn’t seem right, it wasn’t the right explanation.
“Of a bridge?” Doubt and a sickly sense of humor dart through her words. “In all seriousness though, what happened to you?”
A world flashed by and he could read the wonder in her eyes, the swarms of sparks and glitter. Interested and curious, he was an optimist, there was something about her. He remembers her, sweeping the floors of an old community centre, he’d sit there in a corner as he had no better place to go. He’d grave for a cigarette and worse, but resist, twist the crave and longing into another angle. He’d make jokes and small talks and she listened, she’d fake a smile and a silly laugh. She knew better, because he was one of her study objects. A lab rat, a furry little guinea pig trained to take a pill and spill. Spill his entire life and lost, his hopes and dreams. He was a little monkey submitted for varies of tests.
He didn’t care and played along, spilled endless fairytales and tried to keep track on the lies that spread like flies. His head was damaged, his memory was crippled and half of his life was lost, used by something else. But he couldn’t tell her that, not if he wanted to spend an hour after class, watching her sweep the floor and clear the room. He liked to hear her talk and he liked the way her cherry red’s smiled.
“I got mugged,” and he chuckled soft, “I didn’t have any money, tough’ luck for ta guy.”
She didn’t even smile, failed to see the humor. Her eyes pierced and all the golden melted, inquisitive revolving into anger. But she held it back, firmly and professionally.
“Did you get a good look on the guy?”
Did he? For a moment his eyes rolled back and snarling little nasty flashed darkened his view. There was red, mostly crimson. He noticed wrinkly little things on a dirty floor, a belly popped open like microwaved corn. At least his other had taken a good look on the guy’s insides. For a moment his mouth twitched into a grin that wasn’t his own, the artist was proud on his work.
His vision cleared and he could track the lines of anguish on her face, eyebrows twitched into doubt. Had she seen it? The monster inside, had she seen any of it?
Deep down there was a need to brag, because an artist loved to be validate. Deep down something dark stirred up and he had to bit his tongue to keep all the nasty details inside. Bottle it up and keep it in, for the maggots to feed.
“No… I was too high.” He mumbled, sheepishly scratching over the back of his head.
Golden eyes dropped, “you were doing so well.”
No he wasn’t, he just played along.
“It’s ok,” she promised his sincere, “it’s normal to fall off the wagon once or twice.”
He smiled, head still feeling puffy and painful, she so sweetly naïve. His mindset had never been to quit. All the meetings, the talks and session, they where to fill the lurking holes inside his head. A few hours of social contact, free coffee and watching her sweep the floor in the aftermath. The walks and talks in and around the community centre where day-breakers, anti-routines. For a while there ain’t bugs in his head and it was comforting to hear others express their damage.
The centre was basically the only place he wasn’t unwanted. There he can disappear into the crowd and peacefully sit without any eyes lurking at his back. He doesn’t go out to wonder during daytime, there is too much light and too many normal people, he doesn’t belong in that realm of social etiquettes, he rather lived at the sideline, as a watcher, as a listener. An observer, a quiet one. Too bad his mouth always spoils his thoughts out in the open and his eyes always lingered the wrong way. Mothers pulling their beloved child out of his eyesight, like he’d been preying on them. Clerks occasionally kicked him out of their stores. Even if he had a few pennies left to buy cigarettes or sweets, every time he does a childhood memory cheers in the far back of his head.
She tapped him on the shoulder and rubbed her thumb over his cheek, an odd gesture but not an awkward one. Teeth bite down on the cherry red’s, nibbling the color off. It was like she’s getting back in the flesh, whipping the charade off. Maybe that could make them equal, she’d had a tiny eye-flash behind his mask, now he can see behind the makeup and perfectly manicured nails.
His eyes flash up and focus further on her face, she’d be pretty enough without make up. She looks special, wearing a dress for a special occasion and her hair is all prepped up.
“Were you going somewhere?” He asked promiscuous, oogling up and down the soft material tightly wrapped around her curves.
Mascara eyes made a little spin and huffing she shrugged her bare shoulders, “I was going on a date, our six months anniversary. Don’t worry, you’re a nice excuse to call it off, I’m not much of a fancy gal.”
“You should take a shower.” She told him and turned around to get some towels. “You can use my shampoo, clean up your hand and… Don’t do anything stupid, I’ll see if I have some clothes that’ll fit.”
Pretty thrilled that people are reading this, since it's not a mcr related fic, or youknow the basic gerard meets frank and fucks his brain out fic. Still clueless where this all is going but it's not going to be pretty. I'm still puzzling with either serial killer and totall druggy. STill ain't sure if this girl is going to make it through in one piece, teehee
please do share thoughts and sparks,