An Outlaw's Promise

     Clint had been bartending for the last uneventful half of his 65 years in this world. He smiled just enough at work so that anyone who happened to pick his brain would feel that he was interested even if he really wasn’t. On his face and hands were obvious wear and tear marks from the countless days of being a nomadic ruffian throughout the early rising sun of Nevada desserts. He found it a lot less stressful to pour drinks and pretend to be interested in the gossip of the locals. The townsfolk considered a Clint a local at this point but he would always say his home was somewhere else, lost to him in his old age.

            Just after all the clocks struck noon a new customer found his way walking through the double waist doors that continued to swing behind him. He was the first man in a long time that Clint had seen that just might be older than he was. The normal rustle of human life in the bar came to a stop for all but 2 seconds until he tipped his hat and let out a soft but audible “Howdy” as he walks up and sits down at the center barstool. Having such a visible pistol when walking from place to place had gone out of style. Margaret, the owner had almost dropped her entire tray of glasses to the ground after being startled by the newcomer.

“Hey there stranger, what can I get ya? The name’s Clint. Don’t see much of old folk out here these days”. Despite the skin slowly losing grip on the new customer’s body the way his jaw moved as his spoke made Clint’s stomach sink through the floor.

“Name’s Anton. I’ll take a Number nine, thank you. Y’know I could say the same thing about you ya wrinkly bastard.” He chuckled to himself as he spoke. “Haven’t seen an old soul in all 3 days I’ve been travelin’”.

Clint seemed even more shocked surely someone older than him would end up gunned down or dried to death out of thirst in this hot dust pocket.  “At your age?” he chuckled. “The hell could you be searchin’ for out here in the middle of nowhere?”

Anton’s smile started to fade as he glanced at his drink then at the counter before picking his head back up. “I haven’t seen my son in over 50 years. He ran out on me back when he was just a scruffy little shit. But I loved him I did… I still do. I don’t even know why he ran. But I know he went out this way. He’s probably dead anyways. But I still want to know what happened to him before nature catches up to me and realizes I’ve been living for too long.”

“Well fuck, I’m sorry I prodded. I’ve been out across this whole cursed desert, if he was out here I’ve surely seen him at some point. What was his name?”

“Wilbur Jakobs”.

Clint nearly collapsed to the floor as he heard this name. It had been so long since he had heard it out of anyone other than himself.  Maybe it wasn’t the same boy. It couldn’t have been. “Did your son have a scar right under the curve of his left calf?”

This sparked a sharp breath in Anton as his eyes opened wider as memories flooded his brain. “He did! He really did. He got it from messin’ with- ”

Clint’s own excitement cut him off. “Messin’ with a wolf cub… right?”

“So you really met him then huh? Is he alive? Do you know where he is? C’mon just tell me where to go. ”

“Sir your son was one of the greatest men I’ve ever met in my life and I truly mean that. Unfortunately about thirty years ago he disappeared in the dead of night. Probably had a bounty on his head none of us knew about”.

The sadness returned to the forefront of Anton’s countenance. “Oh. I see… Well you were close with him right?’ Could you tell me what he was like? I suppose it’s all there is left I’ll be able to find until the reaper and I have our final shoot out.”

“I’m sorry I can’t do more for ya but tell our story, take a Pain Killer on the house. You’ve earned it.”

“I should be glad I get any answers at all. I appreciate the free drink partner.”

Clint pulled up his own stool and poured himself a drink before he began his own narration. “Let’s just start from the beginning. I myself was orphaned when a group of banditos killed both my ma and pa before I could even have my fifteenth birthday. We were just traveling to go see the real mountains that I had dreamed of at the time. I didn’t leave the wagon for 5 days. I fed off the rations we had packed and did my best to give ma and pa the respect their burials deserved, ain’t much I could dig by myself though.

Just as I hooked my father’s Big Iron onto my own waist— it didn’t have a single notch in it. Pa was never a man for violence, just for emergencies. Anyways, just as I hooked it to my own body a new round of outlaws had stumbled upon our bloodied wagon. I saw about 7 of them all still youthful with the oldest being about 26 years. The youngest looked about 19 at the time. That’s when I met him. Wilbur Jakobs looked at me with a certain kind of optimism in his eyes and a confidence in his jaw that I was in awe. My hands trembled and my knees were weak as I attempted to stand up. He reached out his hand to me and said ‘Ya didn’t kill these folk did ya? You look a bit too soft to do somethin’ like that.’

Shaking, I grabbed his hand and looked into his eyes. He was actually an inch or so shorter than me but his personality was seven foot four. I struggled to get out a response. ‘These are my parents actually. Couple of mule riders must’ve thought we was merchants by the way they gunned us down.’

            Jakobs looked back at the oldest of the outlaws and he nodded with a smile. Then he spoke again. “Yer gonna get yourself killed next if you stay out here much longer. Just come with us for a little while. If ya like it enough we might even just recruit you, pipsqueak.”

            They helped me bury my ma and pa properly and then we were off. A week turned into a few months. Then it turned into a year. Next thing I knew I was an outlaw for over 20 years alongside your son. We mostly tried to steal from rival outlaws but a proper train heist every now and then was always invigorating. Over the next couple years I got to know your son more than any other man may have before me. His stare was hypnotizing. In a time where I was left with nothing your son took me in and taught me how to love even without my parents. The way he carried himself was my life’s breath. He truly was a good man at heart”.

 Clint took a short breath and looked at Anton to notice he was gripping his glass rather hard and no longer looking directly at him. He didn’t continue his story. He just watched and waited.

            “So that’s why he ran away” Anton said to himself. Clint seemed oblivious to what he even meant by that. Then it struck him.

“You didn’t know did you, Anton?”

“That he was… different? No. I had no idea. He must’ve been too afraid to tell me. Scared that I’d have him shipped to Siberia or somethin’ huh? Did he ever talk about me?”

“Only on very rare occasions, I may have loved him but that doesn’t mean I paid attention to every word he said. He did talk quite a bit.” The silence of the last three decades was started to weigh on Clint’s mind.  “Maybe he just didn’t want to embarrass you.”

“Did you know you were different too before your parents died?”

“Not exactly. We were pretty isolated for most of my kid years. It wasn’t until I was looking up at the scruffy grin and saw the light behind Jakobs eyes that I knew who I was. We taught ourselves how to be comfortable in our own skin. The man was convinced you would have hated him. I don’t even know why he believed it but he thought you wouldn’t love a son like him.” The grip on Anton’s glass grew stronger as he started to weep.

“I would have loved him just the same. He still would’ve been my boy. He still is…”

“Jakobs would have loved to hear you say that, truly. After our gun running days were over, most of our time together was actually here in this very saloon back when it was a dustier place. He loved the atmosphere. Especially Margaret over there, she was one of the first to support us despite being criminals. She knew we were virtually harmless.

            When he disappeared I decided to work here for the rest of my life in hopes that he’ll turn up one day. Death’ll catch up to us both soon enough, Anton. Should we just move on?”

A new voice chimed in “Death won’t be catching up to anyone until I get my hands on you again Pipsqueak.” Neither Anton nor Clint had noticed a third elderly man enter the saloon. Clint looked up from his glass of grief to find that very same jawline just a bit more wrinkled standing still an inch too short just as he used to right in front of him once again.

Breeding Aku

          Katagawa and Naoko were in their third year of boarding school. It was a private high school for those with an abnormal intelligence. An intelligence that can easily come off as abrasive or intimidating.  Naoko was a gentle soul. Her academics were her focus, they became her coping method as a distraction when their grandfather was found dead with “悪” carved into his chest. Her brother Katagawa got the word tattooed on his chest last year. Naoko never bothered to learn Japanese Kanji since they were adopted into an American family when she was four.

Her brother was forced to restart his academics when they moved to the states which is why he’s stuck in the same grades as her even though he understood more than she did. He always hated being in comparison to her. He believed it made him look like an ignorant fool with delays. He was six years old when his grandfather was murdered. Both of their parents were deemed unfit by the Tokyo Family Court granting his paternal grandfather custody by default.

Their adoptive parents were just lucky to get the chance at adopting any kids at all. The last eleven years of their life has been fairly easy living with Katagawa being taught how to hunt and clean his kill properly. He would often get scolded for leaving corpses unskinned, wasting the meat. Katagawa simply found it fun watching the slow rhythm of a deer’s breath as it stops. His new father was actually never the type to hunt. He only learned because Katagawa asked to be taken after he had killed a bird in the backyard by himself.

Both siblings received psychotherapy as soon as they were adopted in order to help them adjust and learn to deal with the trauma. They eventually stopped once they started middle school. Naoko had learned how to put all her energy into school while Katagawa learned to keep to himself and his sister. When they first moved she was the only one he would talk to and he was the only person she could trust for a long time— Katagawa wonders if that’s still the case.  Any time that the two of them were apart for long Naoko would panic. The night their grandfather died, Katagawa stayed awake with her in the cell keeping her company. He couldn’t sleep with the adrenaline. Since then, the two of them cannot be separated. Usually, their boarding school keeps genders segregated but they were the only exception, allowed to share a small apartment together.  

They were two weeks into the semester. Katagawa had finished preparing dinner for the night.

“What’re we having tonight Kata?” She was so soft spoken he barely heard her.

“You said you didn’t care, so just made Mac ‘n Cheese for the both of us.”

“You usually love to cook. Is everything okay?” When she spoke Katagawa didn’t even bother looking up from his plate. Nothing she ever says was worth the time.

“Hey” Naoko spoke more clearly this time. Reaching her hand out to touch his. “We are in this together. I know it’s stressful keeping a secret but I lov—“

“Don’t say it. I’m not going to say it back.” Something about the way she sulked made him hyper.

“I understand Kata. I forgot you were in charge” A smirk traveled across Katagawa’s face.

“That’s right Naoko. And what does that make you?”

“Your sister and therefore your property. I’m in love with you regardless”

“As I taught you to be. We may be stuck in this same place together but I am your superior”

“Yes Sir.” Naoko excused herself to wash the dishes. Then Katagawa snapped his fingers and she turned into his bedroom and vanished behind the darkness that loomed in the door frame.

After he cleaned his mess from dinner he entered his room to find his bed already made with Naoko quietly sitting at the edge of it.

This was the only excitement Katagawa felt all day. Watching her genuinely follow his ever command brought a sense of fetishized pride within him. Knowing that she loves him, and her believing that he cared at all was almost enough to make him laugh. If he was capable of such a thing. The way she squirmed and waited for commands as he dominated her was the only force able to pull his mind out of the past. But not with passion. He felt pure entertainment and love for what he accomplished.

When she orgasmed for only the second time in her life, the first being the night before, Katagawa imagined  it was almost like the same liberation he felt when his first bird died in his hand with its last breaths bursting out in a violent mess the same way his grandfather’s genitals used to before he was killed. It was his first step of letting go. He felt no shame for what he did, not to the bird, not to his grandfather, and definitely not to Naoko. She would remain his puppet until the day he dies himself.

The taboo was part of the adrenaline he felt. He’s been trying for the last twelve years to recreate the rush he felt as his grandfather’s dying breaths were siphoned out of his body by the Kami of death that seemed to possess Katagawa’s hands. Nothing has ever been as exciting since. As the night draws to an end, Naoko curiously runs her fingers across his tattoo. She thought it was masculine and attractive.

-“Kata... May I ask you something?”

He stared blankly into the ceiling as he barked “What is it?”

“What does the Kanji in your tattoo say?”

“It’s more like a brand. It’s pronounced ‘Aku’.”

“What does it mean?”

“Evil”

            “Evil? Wait why would that be carved into Grandfather, his death ruined our lives in Japan”

            “You don’t know what you’re talking about. It was beautiful and liberating. The man got what he earned”

            “Kata… what are you—”

“Shut the fuck up Naoko before you ask something you’ll regret. Nothing in our existence is more contagious than ‘Aku’. You’re just too naïve to know it.”

            She sat back in what Katagawa could only guess was shock. She stayed silent for the rest of the night. And never asked him for an answer. Katagawa no longer knew what she felt. But he didn’t care because she still obeyed him; now even more so. He was entertained for the moment.

Gloves

         The sun was falling but it was just high enough to still find its way into your eye at the wrong angle. I got sunburned today. There will be no trace of it, living out here under a bus stop I never get to find much shade. When you have everything, time goes by the fastest. When you have nothing time barely has any meaning.
        “Hey, you got a lighter?”  I jumped at the sound of her voice as I wasn’t expecting company. I hadn’t even noticed when this woman sat down. Her eyes were blank. Not filled with disgust or any sense of joy. Only boredom.
    “Only if you’re willing to share”
“Deal” she said. “What bus are you waiting on?” As the menthol coats my throat in nostalgia I gesture to my small pack and convenience store vodka.
“I live here. I’m just waiting on life.” I can barely feel the sliver of Clover Black® between my fingers.
“How does a bum like you even get to live on city property?”
“If you behave yourself they just pretend you don’t exist all together.”
She nods with a sense of familiarity. “My phone is dead and I’ve got thirty minutes to kill. I assume you have stories if you’ve not gotta house. Name’s Marla by the way. Do you remember yours?”
“It was probably Joe or something like that.” Her name put a pit in my stomach for some reason.
“Alright then Joe, watcha got?”
“A Divorce, debt and scars the sun can’t burn away”
“Tragic, Go on.” She smirked                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     
|“Well, back in ’84 I got married right out college to a woman named Stacy. We met in an Architecture program. I was one of the least patronizing men there. Love was easy when all your needs are taken care of.  She and I had spent most of our marriage trying to have children. After five years of failure we weren’t exactly the most stable couple. Nothing like a night of running mascara and broken furniture. We decided to separate after the neighbors had us both arrested for dragging one of our fights outside. Once the divorce was finalized I kept the house and she kept everything else. All just so she could go wind up dead in the end”. My cigarette went out as I rambled
“Your wife was murdered?”
“No, cervical cancer. I don’t know why we didn’t catch it sooner.” Marla doesn’t look phased much. Just interested I suppose.
 “That’s rough. My grandma died of it a decade back. If you had a house what are you homeless for?”
“Gambling and drinking. I had nothing better to do. I vowed never to find love again after her funeral so I sold the house and downsized for an apartment that was in worse condition than my emotions were at the time. Eventually, I just stopped going to work. I stopped talking to her family and isolated myself. It was simply an easier way to live. When the bubble popped in 2008 all my debt caught up with me since I lost our savings in during the divorce. And so from my apartment was evicted and I was reduced to a beggar with a Bachelor’s Degree. Might as well be the road you kids are headed on at this rate”.
“I’ve been a bum and whore myself a few years ago” I saw no regret in her eyes as she said this. “It’s still pretty tough but at least I got a place to sleep, shit and eat”.
“Enjoy it while you can” I chuckle.
“So what’s with this crochet glove you got on? It’s the only part of you that doesn’t look homeless.”
“It’s not really mine. There used to be a little girl who would go across the street every week and get herself one of those cheap pre-made ice cream cones with dark chocolate at the bottom. She would wave sometimes. Occasionally she’d drop her change in my bag if she had any. All her gloves were hand made. You see, I got this glove from her the last time I saw her. She’d walk past with different patterns every month. Turns out she does them herself. Often to match the pink tips in her hair. It became one of those silent bonds which almost filled my desire to have a child. She was young enough to not be so self-concerned as to put my existence in the background as almost all citizens do.
As she got older I grew more ragged and recognized as the drunken mess that I was— that I am. She didn’t shop as often and when she did there was always men with her. On the last day I saw her she was with this Louie Viton of a person. Certainly not worth the price he thinks he is. I could smell the insecurities and disappointment from his presence. He was certainly going to taint her good soul. She didn’t even look in my direction that day.
After they left the store, wannabe Louie gave me a $20 bill. It was folded into four and wrinkled at the ends. A vending machine’s worst enemy. Clearly it was pocket change to him. I felt an uncomfortable tension between the two of them as I thanked them. When they got to the corner I could hear them arguing over something on one of those smartphone apps. She was starting to cry as she got louder and angrier with him, He tried dragging her across the street but she wouldn’t budge.
Suddenly the two teenagers disappeared and I saw my wife and me again. I began to approach my past-self trying to warn him of what would happen. Trying to tell him of how little time she has left. As I hit the ground I was jolted back into reality. With ‘Louie’ standing over me screaming.
“Go back and mind your own fucking business you crazy bum”.
In my hysteria, I didn’t back down like I should have. When I got back into his face she tried to break us up. I shoved her out of the way. Within seconds I felt ash fill my lungs. She slipped off the curb and fell right into the path of a Jeep Grand Cherokee going 50 in a 35. I remember the way Louie’s voice cracked with despair as she put a skull shaped dent into the hood of the car.”
“So it goes” Marla chimes in.
“So it did. I lost the second most important person I’ve met by my own hands. It was like watching your own appendix get removed without anesthesia. As the tires ceased to move her body hit the pavement like a pile of towels soaked in blood and bone fragments. At this moment, I felt mine burst. I could almost hear the faint whistle of her punctured lung before she even hit the ground.
Just like that the driver nor her boyfriend payed any more attention to me. Now I was not only a bum but a murderer. In a panic I picked up one of her gloves and stayed a few blocks away for a while. It went down as a lover’s quarrel last I heard. Haven’t ran into ‘Louie’ since.”
I look up just to see Marla staring at me with the same bewilderment an infant has the first time they see their own reflection. I can’t tell if she’s sickened yet by my actions. The sun was setting. Now fully in dusk.
“Well thanks for entertaining me. What an unlucky man you are Joe.” She was cut off by the engine of the bus whirring as it came to a halt. The screech of the tires still makes me flinch.
“Enjoy your five fingered Albatross.” she says as she steps up to the lowered entrance. The bus doors shut and there goes the last of Marla I will ever see.

Journal Entry: Need

I need you I want you
I have you I kiss you
I needed you, I didn't know
We hadn't met, Scars began to grow.
I needed love, yours was ruined
Left in ash. You had no clue
We lived in fear never known to one another
We lived without love, thankfully we survived
To exit the gates of hell, with me at your side
On the icy ninth floor we met
Unaware of the love that would soon be kept
It felt like fire, we were hesitant to step
I had hope for what was left in your lost eyes
You barely recognized the humanity locked in mine
On the 8th floor we got warmer.
Never giving up when you pulled away.
I'll hold your hand as I please. So what if I'm gay.
I was melting. You were only beginning to thaw
Underneath your sheet of ice, I saw your smile hidden from all.
From the 7th floor we grew hotter our flame becoming yellow.
Your eyes suddenly had more of that hope I saw before.
The first time I said I love you,we reached the 6th floor.
Hesitant, but accepting you take my hand once more.
Tighter, and with confidence, you think you love me more.
On the 5th floor we realize just how complete we seem to be.
Perhaps love is truly sustainable, between you and me.
You began to fully melt, your hidden colors all shined through.
This is everything we've dreamed of. On the 4th floor you admit you love me too.
I have never been happier. Not once spoiled before.
In such a way that makes me feel that I was everything you were looking for.
Count to 3 and we are chaos. Inseparable in passion and pain.
This floor is our first of many playgrounds
Our affection genuinely holds not a single bound.
From the 2nd floor we are on fire. Together trapped in a Cobalt blue.
This was the moment we first realized the truth "I always needed you"
To never let go, to never brush past.
With your hands in my hair and the firm grip on your ass.
I am yours. You are mine. You are everything. You are divine.
The first floor holds the gate. It's time for us to decide.
At last, not a single cold place remains on the inside.
We will rule this wretched world. One beautiful day at time.
So we exit the gate unable to leave each other's side.
Fingers sewn in place...
"I am yours."
"You are mine."

Journal Entry: Delta

1... 2... 3... Breathe. 1... 2... 3... Breathe.
"You're fine". "You'll be fine." NO! Don't you fucking lie to me; six fucking years and it's been the same old Bullshit. six fucking years and everything is the same.

Nothing ever gets better, No one ever gets better and she is No Where to be found.

Don't you fucking stand there with those beautiful green eyes, and that perfect long hair of yours. You're too beautiful to even begin to understand what this shit is like. Each time I say this it gets worse, Each time this happens the fission explosion becomes exponentially more destructive. You become nothing more to me than collateral damage, a casualty that's barely on my conscience. I have no intention to hurt you, only myself. Just be aware you're standing in the splash zone.

I don't know what to change anymore other than obliterating hope all together. Just another unfortunate being, an autistic basket case. That is such a fucking stupid Cop-Out; way too general, way too simple. I just want a proper fucking label at least. I simply want to announce a singular diagnosis and be understood. But no, it instead takes 3 years of misunderstandings for anyone to begin to comprehend me. Most people don't manage to even make it that long. Doesn't really matter how "unique" "quirky" "special" anyone else is. That guarantees nothing. Actually, y'know what, it guarantees I'd be intrigued but that's the worst case scenario.

"Try Online" they say, there's tons of broken down toys waiting to be railed there. Even so, unless they're directly in front of me, it doesn't matter how much we talk or how many pictures we send, these digital paper dolls are nothing more than ego boosters . I cannot manage to genuinely care about someone that I can't physically feel beside me. These online Sirens are expendable free to disappear as they please and I won't be upset that they're gone. I'll be upset that there's no longer someone begging for me to be there. Call it what you want I frankly Don't give a shit how you feel about it really.  Yet, the moment someone is in front of me, giving me their full attention, with their straight black hair and abrasive smile, I am hooked. At that point, I don't even care if I can't touch them. That's all it takes for me to fall face first and wind up full of Hope.

No amount of logic can manage to stop this tsunami of stupidity. I can't seem to listen to anyone either. I feel so individualistic that I must figure something out for myself for anything to work.

I JUST WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME. BUT OF COURSE, I CAN'T EVEN HAVE THAT LUXURY TO MYSELF, WHAT THE FUCK. I'VE GOT THIS GODDAMN PARANOIA ALL OF THE FUCKING SUDDEN MAYBE ITS MY OWN NEUROTICISM COMING TO THE SURFACE WHO THE HELL KNOWS. I NEED BIGGER TOYS, THAT'S IT! NEW EDGES- MAYBE THAT'S JUST WHAT I NEED, TO SCULPT THIS WEIGHTY SHELL DOWN TO A WORK OF ART. MAYBE THEN, FINALLY, THIS CAN ALL BE OVER.

This feels like a supervillain origin story. So intense, so angry, so damaging but I am only frustrated. Even that fact takes at least a year of knowing me to understand that no matter how much I bark I will never bite. So if anyone else reads this I'll get shipped off to Ryker's Island. I am Harmless, I'm no Elliot Rodger. I don't have Red Shoe Laces. I'm no leader of Project Mayhem. Just someone who's suffering who's ready for it to be over is all. Nothing that anyone else on this wretched planet doesn't want as well. Every end is a beginning perhaps, sometimes you have to stare death in the eyes to appreciate what it means to be alive. So it's not such a bad thing after all. Don't you go and tell me that there's other things than this. You have no fucking idea what this feels like you beautiful bitch.

Journal Entry #0

The blinds are closed; the air is dense with regret. Like the kind that rests on nightstands. A cloud of shame fills my lungs as I breathe. I failed, I regret not following through with it again. I hate that I'm still alive. Every molecule of air stings like swallowing a cigar. The more my abdomen expands, the pressure only becomes greater. More to hold us down into sleep paralysis.

My eyes are open but I can barely see.
I can't see the week old laundry stack on the floor.
I can't see every pound I put on.
I can't see the way her face drops Everytime I hurt her.
  I can't see at all.

I can't hear them reaching out.
I cannot hear their compliments.
I can't hear how much they care.
I can't hear their gasps when my shoulder shows.
I can't hear their apologies when I explain the blood stains.
I can't hear their affection.
  At least not anymore

I can't feel... Anything.
I can't feel her lips on mine.
I can't feel her arms around me when she can't fall asleep.
I can't feel her fingertips as I cry uncontrollably.
I can't feel her teeth on my neck.
I can't feel her nails along my back.
  I never could in the first place.
I can't feel the scratches anymore.
I can't feel the blood running down my arm.
I can't feel the scabs stick to my sleeves.
I can't feel the scraps each time I fall.
I can't feel the life draining from my body.
•••
I am Jack's Happiness.
  I can no longer breathe.
I am Jack's peace of mind.
  I CANNOT ESCAPE.
•••
My field of sight finally comes to the surface. I woke up to see him smiling, standing there in front of me. Eye to eye with my worst nightmare. I'm so terrified it's like I'm not even here. Constrained by the stress.

I am Jack's Fear, his favorite game to play.

That disgusting smirk, the hungry gaze. He sets to prove something. That of which I am unaware. His empty pupils scan me, looking for imperfections.

I am his presentation.

I will become his work of art with no defense of my own. I am nothing but a lifeless ball of clay ready to be sculpted and used.

I am Jack's Panic Attack, the reminder he's alive.

His Paracord, nylon hands wrap around my throat. I only feel the tension on my trichia. I only hear the knot tighten.

I am Jack's final moments, here to stay.

My eyes are fading out, a smile on my face, the mirror starts to fog as I fight for air. Regret sets back in. It's too late to turn back. This is my fate now, still better than before.

I am Jack's tombstone, here in his memory.

Types

The human form feels limiting at times. I find myself losing the innate feeling of physical attraction to others as time goes by. Finding someone cute is notably one of the worst cornerstones of conversation in my experience. I usually stay away from people that seem objectively attractive to everyone. Y'know, the stereotypical cunt that can only wear pink on Wednesdays.
But then there was Jayne. She defied my logic. I hated her. Not in the Romeo sense such as,"I hate thou which can loveth me not".
No. I genuinely hate her.
Her personality embodied everything I despise about this overpriced factory of pretentiousness. Even her name was just bitchy. "Jane with a Y". Like those empty shells who get named Porsche but somehow worse. She was the popular girl, nice to everyone, the talented artist, the empathetic med student. People like that aren't real in my eyes. Humans are not perfect, and if you're actively trying to be you only add to the problem while showcasing your insecurities at the same time.
That's not the only reason I loathe her. She looked exactly like my type. Glasses, short matte hair, outward body language of an introvert, the simple girl that feels different because they actually are. Every single bit is a Façade. She's accepted and worshiped by her peers to a disgusting degree. She held the same exact personage as those robotic skeletons with long straight blonde hair, that wear a full face of make up every day, that go to film school for a "usual summer vay cay". They lack any and all curves. No ridges or bumps. No useful conversation. Not a single fucking defining feature. Yet they think to themselves"I'm so interesting, and unique I should put a pink streak in my hair".
I hate her for ruining my type. Now my taste is entirely based off of personality. It makes libido quite meaningless really. I can't bring myself to fuck someone who I can't stand having a conversation with because at that point they aren't a someone to me. Just another copy of a copy. With all the gifts to climb the social ladder with a lack of genuineness.
•••
Do you have any clue as to how wonderful it is to realize someone truly appreciates you for who you are? Of course not, no one knows who you really are, Jayne. Not even you.
I hate your type and I hate everything about you. If it bothers you, blame the two of them for giving me standards.
In fact, I pity you even more than I hate you, really. Because you will never know what it's like to be unconditionally loved.

Sore

Wakey wakey,
your tendons are achey.
Out of bed you dive,
you'll have arthritis by 25.
Attempt to run,
You're behind everyone.
You fall short
Your body is sore
Always wanting more,
You Hungry, Hungry, Whore

Around the handle, you wrap your fist,
"Kill me" he cries
the public masochist.
What a pussy, you won't commit
You're just a narcissist, full of shit.
Arrogance can only go so far,
Especially with how ugly you are.
You'll be dead by thirty,
Why not hurry?

The search for affection,
Then Endless rejection
With Scar Impressions
And Therapy sessions
One more injection
Of bad intentions
And Bad connections
With no protection
Try not to mention—
Emotional compression.
One person, new obsession
Nothing learned— misdirection
My last confession,
The outer projection
My own infection
Right at home— Chemical depression.

Mood swings— you feel bi-polarized,
Schizophrenia lags behind.
Pretty soon, she won't be the only thing in your mind
The only thing you control.
The speed at which you die.

Ghosts

I feel as though I've figured out what I want. After injecting myself with different toxicins, all with different names, I know full and well the things that aren't good for me. And I've gotten to experience what someone truly caring about me is like, and it makes me feel so peaceful for once in my life and it has nothing to do with romance.
Anyways, I am at a point where I'm done with the idea. I do nothing but chase people that aren't there, figures that never cared in the first place, ghosts that already stuck a knife into my liver and all I do is walk forward because to me the pain is completely worth being able to be next to someone. I have never been in a relationship I genuinely wanted. I've done nothing but settle because the person I truly loved, or rather was emotionally attached to was not romantically inclined so I get distractions. I've only genuinely given a shit about 3 people, 4 if you count #8 but I think she just fucked good. Each and every time I would force myself into a relationship with some tool I would have to take care of only to distract myself from the fact that the only people important to me Will never want me. And it's not unreasonable hopelessness. It is literal fact that each one always gives, freshman year, she was my best friend at the time and I drove myself into an abusive hole for a year just because I'm incapable of moving on. Then I'm on a yo-yo for 2 and half years with those who still refer to me as their "best friend" to this day without realizing how detached I've become for my own good. And now I'm at the same crossroad. Where I would usually use someone in order to be distracted and get by.
I know that is not what I want. And I'm sick of settling. I accept that I'm chasing ghosts and I'm done with relationships as a whole. I don't care anymore, I really don't. I have what I need. It just a hopeless, pointless, never ending cesspool of of shit that I constantly ruin my own life with. Creating this piece I am digging my own grave but I can't stop it. I still feel satisfied writing this despite knowing the potential consequences. I just wish I could stop, all together. I'm really really tired from it all. I'm tired of settling. I'm always plagued with dissociation and self-constructed isolation. I am my own worst enemy and everyone knows it. I think I'm ready to just finally get rid of my enemy. Everything would be easier I think, if I've been chasing ghosts this whole time, at least when I'm done I'll finally be matching.

Company

Infants die without affection. It's a part of human nature that's more often than not frowned upon. The ability to properly live and rely on one's self is idolized and worshiped. Yet, humans complain when person's aren't "in tune with their emotions". People don't seem to understand what they want. I think they're just afraid of pressure. It's a product created in ones own mind about the stress of disappointing others. But you will disappoint them. You will upset them. It's just what life is.
As for this, codependency disorder or not, I'm willing to admit the sheer bliss that I feel when surrounded by others. I was told I was an introvert, I thought that I was. I'm not at all. I'm simply selective of who can make a difference with their existence and those whose existence is of no importance to me. Cruel, be as it may. It's the closest thing I can find to get across how I feel about this kind of thing. You never notice how detrimental loneliness is, or that you're even alone at all, until you aren't. You ever take your shirt off and realize it smells like someone else? It's addictive. Smells have the ability to trigger memories more so than any other sense except for taste. If you smell something, you'll never forget it. Whether it's the smell of burning flesh or the perfume you stole from your ex. Then you ask yourself why you wear it every day. It just tricks you into thinking that someone else is always around you.
There's no feeling in the world like a sigh of relief as you stare at the ceiling of someone else's room. It's either bliss or regret depending on the circumstance.
"Yeah..." I said. "This is the most okay I've been in a long time".
I still don't know what to call it, assigning titles to my emotions isn't my strong suit so I'm not going to call it anything. I can't understand why, but there's a degree of tranquility that I've never possessed before as a person knowing that when I open my eyes I won't wake up alone in my own room. It's like being in bed with both your parents as a kid, something I've never had before, after an 18 year long nightmare of loneliness that's been impossible for me to escape. It just feels like I've found what I've been seeking through the countless muses with none of the complications. No lust, no confusion, no misunderstandings. Simply the joy of sharing the air with someone other than yourself for once I have no other feeling to compare it to. It's one of those things in my mind where I truly believe that these people love and care about me. If I feel this way, I know there must be others that feel similarly in this world. I just don't know why I feel as if I'm the only one talking about it. Maybe it's one of those social constructs I need to be taught still. Maybe it's a sign of weakness. Maybe people are somehow afraid of admitting how nice it is just to be next to someone, especially more than one person. The shaking always brings back memories. Every significant other I've had always said the same thing. "Stop being nervous." "It's okay." "Are you sure? You're shaking."
Shaking is what I do. Even as I write this. It's what I'll always do. Maybe it's the realization that everything is going to end badly no matter what I do because I have no self control. I can't bottle anything up. It'd be so much easier if I could. From my perspective, y'know, it doesn't even come off as that big of a deal since I'm accustomed to my solitude, but I still don't enjoy it. I just wanna be able to express how happy the little things like this make me without ruining everything for once. People truly don't need to know how I feel. Why is it so hard for me to listen?