Idiotic Wannabes. Staying indoors does turn people into
psychopath. Trust my word. (But if you want to be convinced, hand
me a handgun).
In her twenty years alive she stopped caring anymore about the misfortune of others, unless they were people really close to her, or people on the Internet which she knew a lot about their life. Maybe even sooner than that- could be she never actually cared but just pretended to herself and anybody else like she did, but only now she was pissed off enough to the world to be able to admit it outloud that "I don't care about the earthquakes and the tsunami and the mass killings and the starving kids wherever they are, okay? So save me the 'There are worst things out there' lecture and buy me something to eat, that won't aim on planing further burden in my mood and actually bring back happy. Yes, a chocolate, chips and coke would be awesome, thank you very much. You're paying for it, yes?"
Somewhere between shaving her eyebrows, balding her head and looking for job dressed like a bum she understood that whatever possibility there was of making peace at some point in her life with what was considered the sane profile for a human, well...,now it was flushed down the toilet with the hair and eyebrows and whole feminine beauty. The new person that she wanted to be was going to be bold and ugly and diseasezie, just like she had always been in her head, and for some reason she felt like in order to ever be able to act like her true side, her appearance must match with her real personality at some level.
She loathed just the thought of being one more average height, blondy dressed in tight ass jeans and swinging her whore fat ass on the sidewalk as she walked. That made her see her self as a smelly animal in heat. The thought of having male eyes look at her for that reason was maddening. Fuck never again! It was only one time that she officially dressed for a position for a yacht and she only agreed to that because she had poured half a freaking wine bottle down her throat before she got home.
It was one of the rare times where she ran in hiding to cry to dehydration point afterwards. Not because Mr.Benny never showed up to the interview but because she felt physically dead from that mixture of hangover and betrayal boiling in her bowels like...you know what like. She had run on that little room up the roof, unlock the door with shaking madness, closed it again easier now that she was hidden from the around roofs, and started bashing her eyes in with the base of her palm and beating the juice out of her eyes. That's how she cried, how she really cried. Not that silent tear crossing the cheek movie shit- that's a lie. It's only how those afraid to mess their make up do it. Because when she cried...man, it was brutal. Also absolutely disgusting. The whole scene kinda was like the soldier at war standing at the end of the line, that breaks from the rest secretly and falls under the rabble in fear, trembling and just starts crying like a wooshie.
She had always been that scared little soldier that much prefers to kneel and place his forehead on the enemies gunpoint, pretending (underline pretending) to be example to god's work, because he was actually too shaky to lift up his own weapon, and say "Just wanna doin' my duty right mate." or "That's what life is like bro, nothing personal."
If only she had joined the army after school. She would make an awesome fanatic. All these grenades and long guns and bullets to run her evil-led fingers on. All these soldier trainers and commanders and whatever to tell her what to do like many momies on steroids. She'd like to be ordered for the rest of her life- just as long as she got to be around killing tools. That way, in a moment of emotional breakdown, she could grab one and blast the whole camp to the ground. Is there a better mood lifter than revenge after all?
But instead she picked the cowards way to crawl into her home and live on papers, keyboard tap-taps and graffiti. There came times when she felt tempted to leave her cigar in all that pile of useless paper lying around and let it catch on a rejuvenating fire killing mentally all those lost years she spend crouched over them. The years of joking herself that she had some sort of tallent. Bullshit.
Twenty years, they kept telling her, are still young. Twenty years and she felt like she had already seen enough trash for twenty hundred. What would she be like then when she was fifty? And, god forbid, if she ever became an old hag. No, no, no, no, she must die young. That was a promise to herself.
Like she promised to never give importance to her appearance but only her comfort. That promise so far was kept. People would call her young man, not miss. She'd just love to get the guts to say at them one day:
Nosy, smartass loser (sitting in a bench): "Hey, like, what are you, boy or girl?"
Snobbish, smartass loser2 (towards loser1): " I am a human being. The rest in not important."
A part of her, the sick part, liked being misunderstood because she always wished she'd be a male instead just so wearing buggy clothes would not be weird to their settled minds. But there was still a little remain from what they planned in her head long time ago. It was seriously too hard to heal from that. To rise her true form in all it's raw, unaltered ego- coz she was honestly a big fat ego monster.
She interrupted her thoughts for a second to take a swig from the cheap red wine- which she recently learned it yellows teeth like coffee and cigar smoking, damn!- and kept walking to stand in the cold under the red light buddy. That thing with a cane would look like the trademark from Johnnie Walker. Or no?
Her bag was a black old of medium size, big enough to take in the notebooks that she needed. It was one of the things that grew in her eventually as she grew up, even though she swore as a child she'd never be one of those who couldn't find what to get entertained with without the trinkets hanging around their shoulders.
Most importantly, for today, there was the notebook in there. Plannin' to do some writing therapy a long time since her decision to kill someone was made. There were just too many original thoughts she could not let go unrecorded.
With it there was her blue pen, mechanic pencil, rubber and rest of writing junk. That bic pen however was the most important among them all. Bitten in the end by those thoughts in the struggle to think and translate them into words. Thanks to the pen she saved both her thoughts and nails from bleeding out.
Another thing in there was the phone and mp3 (in case she found the chance to steal control batteries for that). Music. The best relationship she ever had. Probably it was the fault of music that she never loved real life men, instead she loved countless of crying men and women and stand night after night in her back and gritting her teeth and digging her nails in deep in her palms along with them trying to choke the chaotic rage that run in her blood every time one of them screamed. She needed both machines because one could not remember alone the vast list of music stored in her PC hard drive.
And last was the alcohol. How else would she survive spending with herself? That chick wanted to see her tear in million pieces on the rocks or she'd never be satisfied. Kind wine at least shut her piehole in that sea of quick and unrelated thoughts for a while and kept her tempting nudging away at carefree moments were she could fearlessly found herself gliding off the mountain to the taxi lines. It made her increasingly unmoved, bored adult soul suddenly touched by all this small things like a child again, this way making her want to avoid suicide just for a while more in order to admire the beauty of the world around her.
Alcohol has two so different sides though. Sometimes she would turn her nose on it just because she was terrified to battle with the sheer depression that followed once the world began losing its colors again back to normal. Happiness began spiraling out of control like a kite that went down on circles. Her head kept swirling even after she hit on the bushes and people's voices from far came on her head like voices from beyond. "It' tangled in the dry weed! It's up there, go get it! Can you climb up there? Can you knock it off the tree with a rock?". The headaches would stuck her on the floor and made it impossible to move just so she can spill her worn out body from the edge to put an end to the ugly self pity, jealousy and misery. As for her family...those moments were really all about her, nobody else. They could mourn or laugh all they wanted to the sight of a pie relative in front of their door for all she cared.
She was heading to the thinking spot, up on her mountain. She called it mountain but it was only a small cliff around the school faculty and park and nothing impressive. From it she could see down at the park and with a little too much drinking she could convince herself for seconds that she was a ghost. It was one of the rocky muddy burned down like terrains on her mountain with those dead bushes. Which though even you were definite they were dead, months later in winter she would come back and find them resurrected again. So, not dead. They were asleep. You can't say that about people, can you. A skeleton will remain just that forever. Plants are amazing compared to that with humans.
She was dressed as always as a homeless guy- in fact hadn't showered for a week and half. She was asked and laughed at and avoided like a monster in the street almost her entire life because of her clothing choises but now, twenty years later, she finally got the behaving from them that she wanted. Almost everyone looked down on her but not like a weak little girl. Much more like a dangerous dwarf with knives. Maybe crazy rumors got around about her and that's why they finally stopped teasing her, who knows, could be she really changed a lot facially since then. The mirror showed the same geak almost, except the angry lines between her eyebrows and unhealthy diet circles around her eyes. If growing old was the reason then god bless the signs of aging. People's fear just gave her confidence and power. It was like a needle of aggressiveness stabbed right into her brains.
She snickered a lot, that intentional sideways wolfish grin, knowing that nobody would be able to notice it under her hood but it was enough to know it only herself. In fact she imagined it shined in a rainy day from inside the hood.
She always imagined a soul to be the same with the day of her death. Example, if the human died old, the other dead would see the soul old. If it died young, young. Clothes were one of those things that would travel with the dead in afterlife. Indeed it was stupid to think like this but she didn't bother going into philosophy about this. Just believed. Whatever the case was, she planned to die with her body fully covered so she would never feel awkward afterlife.
The clothes paying for her little dumb afterlife belief today was some old gray jeans almost bleached to white from the many times they had been washed, high top shoes with white paint sprinkled on one which always reminded her of man cum when she looked at it, an also old as hell hoodie that had started dissolving and falling to pieces on her sleeves and some of her brother's skeleton T'shirts under that. Hat and cap was not always on but almost always.
One hand, her left, had gloves up to her knuckles and there was a cool print of skeleton claw on the top side that she liked to scrape with the nails of her fully gloved hand. Right hand was the chosen one- hence the name right (correct. That's how she learned to tell apart right from left. Right hand and left- as in the abandoned- hand). Since it was the one she used she kept it double protected. A first layer of gray glove, then a black layer on top of it up to her knuckles again. The much use had got it with tiny dirt balls on it, and her pointing finger had tare up a whole on the glove with the sharp nails which she lied that she needed in order to play guitar. Yeah right. The guitar was long rotting in its case since she stopped going to her music teacher.
Her sister showed her that pair she bought which had those horse looking socks on top of it and had a little hole at the side in order to hook it on your thump and she gathered money to buy it. It seems that she would die with that wish in the shelve. Who the fuck cares. There were more important times waiting ahead. Like her new life, for example.
She had wished more than anything to hit a man (woman would do too) so hard until they beg from her to stop it, and then she would eat a kid in front of them alive, slowly bite by bite, while saying calmly that this is the world she prefers to live into. Where humans eat each other to their own extinction. Eeeeeh, patience. She'd get all that very soon. Okay, extinction was a little too far fetched but eating wasn't so hard. Including it on her wish list was one thing. A good start.
Now she was closer to her mountain. The road started going up and her pase would slow down, she would feal her stamina draining normally, if she didn't have the 'holy' bottle with her. She paused and stepped at the side between an old looking house and a big tree to pull and suck on the alcohol tit out of site. Then continued.
Once she wrote a message on that house's bars with a chalk. It said "Let the cat go", or something like that. Because someone would have a fat cat tied on it whenever she'd get back home from school and she felt pity for the innocent animal. Eventually the cat disappeared and suddenly she felt more lonelier that ever knowing that the one thing that felt happy to see her had suddenly gone. Honest truth? She wished that day for the cat to be tied in there again just for her. Ungrateful, ungrateful human nature!
Now there were only the stairs and she was there. The bitter loner climbed skillfully the first rocks and she was up on her mountain, her solitude temple, her hideout. No other shit faced teens were up on it that day so she felt free to drop her hood and let the cold air surround her naked scull for a while. It smell like rain. Clouds were piling up. She shut those anemic blue eyes that came in perfect set with the afternoon weather and felt invincible on the top of her cliff. It was HERS!
She opened them again. Stuff were waiting to be written. Scattered thoughts needed to be set in some order. There was this rock on the ending of the first part of her mountain, at the beginning of the narrow passage way which she didn't cross too often, sticking out of the ground frictionless and just like the back of a coach. Her spoiled sorry ass was accustomed to home comfort not bumpy rocks, so she would always find her place there to write. It was the closest to home she could find.
She browse on her music stored in the mp3 for a while trying to decide among three bands. Nightwish, Muse and Tool. In the end she put muse on that song "Creep", instantly nodding in approval for choosing on them. She opened her notebook and scribbled on those spiky 'I'm excited and in a hurry' kinda letters: Tuesday. 2012. Finally I know where I can get a gun.
She stopped confused to see the page next to the day's events sogging on different spots realizing quickly that it began raining. Even the skies gave her the sign to rethink of it. Oh no, she wouldn't. The sky was being an idiot, because the killer to be gain actually massive inspiration from rain.
Now more convinced than ever, more determined about it than anything else before in her life she smiled widely feeling already like a killer. All that was left to do was get high on drinking and celebrate her new life, and at the same time her death. Something like the weed that sprouts from a corpse.
She'd was going to do her best to punish the human kind. Wait until that gun get in her hands.
But in the way back, God (he's usually the troll) made sure to show her who was in charge of who stays/who's fired in life by giving her a good bus 843 smack, a good scull melting and a kind soul removal to end it. The end.
Idiotic Wannabes. Staying indoors does turn people into
psychopath. Trust my word. (But if you want to be convinced, hand
me a handgun).