Kill The Gerard
Ready, Set, Explode
He was envisioning everything. He would be dressed in his best suit, a quaint wake, an oak casket nearly identical to the one that his grandmother had been buried in, his family and friends standing before his grave in confusion, oblivious to what he had been putting himself through for so long. They would not be able to see the black pain and the red blood that spewed from various limbs like liquor from a tap. They would not be able to hear the sobs muffled forcefully by a pillow that had become the prequel to fit-filled slumbers. They would not be able to see the syringe that he had kept skillfully hidden for weeks; months even.
He was not going to face the world anymore. Not until he exploded.
The needle gleamed from in between his slightly trembling fingers as slivers of the streetlights that the bus would speedily pass every other second shone upon it. It would be his final hurrah; his last possible shriek of terror before he was discovered. They would think that he was a liar; a fraud; a ghost, and he didn’t necessarily agree with or debunk the latter.
He could visualize himself fading away with his killing method sticking out of his arm as if it were some brand new fashion statement. And the slashes spanning across his wrists; the knife had slit the flesh like it had been butter.
Oh, the blood that was dripping down his arms, creating new veins above his skin instead of below; birthing new poetry that described him as easily as one would to a dandelion. The gorgeous crimson death that accompanied the abysmal sensation that opened up and made him vulnerable mesmerized him. Hypnotized, he touched the nearest incision with the needle, letting it move back and forth, scraping and toying with the stinging cuts.
Hazel eyes twinkled with salty tears as he continued going up his arm, the practically clear liquid in the syringe swishing around a bit. He was done; finished with the unimaginable aching that kept his heart clenched in its claw without fail; the numbness that he woke up to; the rain he created every fucking day. He wasn’t him anymore, just a photocopy of the original playing with his own puppet strings.
And who was the puppeteer? Who was the conductor in this one-manned orchestra of the damned? God? No, the Almighty Lord would never busy himself in playing with such a broken doll.
The tears fell harder than ever before at the realization. Even God had given up on him. He was so disgusting, so horrific that even this so-called “Savior” had erased him from His view. A sob escaped his throat and he bit down on his bottom lip to cease any more unwanted noise, drawing a trickle of plasma.
Stupid, worthless, better-off-dead little ghost! he scorned himself silently, bringing the two trembling fingers gripping the nozzle up to his inner elbow, prepared to plunge it in deeper than he thought possible. If losing blood would not kill him, then he would make sure that his last breath would be these hushed cries that were violently racking his body, pin-balling back and forth, searching for an escape.
Closing his eyes tightly, he stabbed the hypodermic through the ivory skin that covered his arm, expertly maneuvering the pointed object and plummeting into the bloodstream. He pressed down and forced the liquid into his body, leaning back on the couch he was sat on, crying out quietly as the poison he had acquired months prior quickly and rabidly attacked him from the inside out. Tendrils of greasy, unwashed, black hair fell around his face as he seized slightly, feeling with an indistinct sense of satisfaction his heart begin to slow its beating. The dark long-sleeved shirt that adorned his torso was becoming stained from the taboo mixture of hemoglobin and tears, the rolled-up sleeves having served their purpose at permitting him to hurt himself again and again and again and again.
Each breath came in short bursts now as the toxin finally began to kick in. The organ pitifully beating in that cavern of a chest was stopping and he was exploding. Sprawled out, light-headed and woozy, he smiled only to have it melt away again. Shattered excuses for human beings like him didn’t deserve to smile.
They deserved to die.
And that was exactly what he was doing.
He opened his eyes slightly, half-lidded almost as if he was awakening from a deep sleep. Various colors clouded his vision and blinded him with delusions of the detonations that he desperately wished to experience first-hand.
Coldness crawled up his body, starting from his toes and ending at the top of his head, bathing him in the deadness that had plagued him relentlessly for so long. Yet, this time he greeted it; welcomed it with open arms. He wept more aggressively with his last pants, and it was impossible to deduct whether he was grateful or still miserable as the numbness had just reached his heart and was stopping all thought.
He shuddered involuntarily, ignoring the dull throbbing in his arm. His eyelids drooped over once more, a tiny gasp making itself known. No note would be found, only the syringe; only his body; only the gorgeous red death and the dried, crystalline tears.
And with his one, last gasping breath he whispered out to the otherwise untouched, small room he sat in.
“Kaboom.”
-
Blood. Glorious red death and horrible black pain. Each opposites and yet connected when given the correct situations. And yet, the “correct” situations are indeed the more terrifying of them.
He did not care.
He wanted to die. He wanted to explode.
He was not going to face the world anymore. Not until he exploded.
The needle gleamed from in between his slightly trembling fingers as slivers of the streetlights that the bus would speedily pass every other second shone upon it. It would be his final hurrah; his last possible shriek of terror before he was discovered. They would think that he was a liar; a fraud; a ghost, and he didn’t necessarily agree with or debunk the latter.
He could visualize himself fading away with his killing method sticking out of his arm as if it were some brand new fashion statement. And the slashes spanning across his wrists; the knife had slit the flesh like it had been butter.
Oh, the blood that was dripping down his arms, creating new veins above his skin instead of below; birthing new poetry that described him as easily as one would to a dandelion. The gorgeous crimson death that accompanied the abysmal sensation that opened up and made him vulnerable mesmerized him. Hypnotized, he touched the nearest incision with the needle, letting it move back and forth, scraping and toying with the stinging cuts.
Hazel eyes twinkled with salty tears as he continued going up his arm, the practically clear liquid in the syringe swishing around a bit. He was done; finished with the unimaginable aching that kept his heart clenched in its claw without fail; the numbness that he woke up to; the rain he created every fucking day. He wasn’t him anymore, just a photocopy of the original playing with his own puppet strings.
And who was the puppeteer? Who was the conductor in this one-manned orchestra of the damned? God? No, the Almighty Lord would never busy himself in playing with such a broken doll.
The tears fell harder than ever before at the realization. Even God had given up on him. He was so disgusting, so horrific that even this so-called “Savior” had erased him from His view. A sob escaped his throat and he bit down on his bottom lip to cease any more unwanted noise, drawing a trickle of plasma.
Stupid, worthless, better-off-dead little ghost! he scorned himself silently, bringing the two trembling fingers gripping the nozzle up to his inner elbow, prepared to plunge it in deeper than he thought possible. If losing blood would not kill him, then he would make sure that his last breath would be these hushed cries that were violently racking his body, pin-balling back and forth, searching for an escape.
Closing his eyes tightly, he stabbed the hypodermic through the ivory skin that covered his arm, expertly maneuvering the pointed object and plummeting into the bloodstream. He pressed down and forced the liquid into his body, leaning back on the couch he was sat on, crying out quietly as the poison he had acquired months prior quickly and rabidly attacked him from the inside out. Tendrils of greasy, unwashed, black hair fell around his face as he seized slightly, feeling with an indistinct sense of satisfaction his heart begin to slow its beating. The dark long-sleeved shirt that adorned his torso was becoming stained from the taboo mixture of hemoglobin and tears, the rolled-up sleeves having served their purpose at permitting him to hurt himself again and again and again and again.
Each breath came in short bursts now as the toxin finally began to kick in. The organ pitifully beating in that cavern of a chest was stopping and he was exploding. Sprawled out, light-headed and woozy, he smiled only to have it melt away again. Shattered excuses for human beings like him didn’t deserve to smile.
They deserved to die.
And that was exactly what he was doing.
He opened his eyes slightly, half-lidded almost as if he was awakening from a deep sleep. Various colors clouded his vision and blinded him with delusions of the detonations that he desperately wished to experience first-hand.
Coldness crawled up his body, starting from his toes and ending at the top of his head, bathing him in the deadness that had plagued him relentlessly for so long. Yet, this time he greeted it; welcomed it with open arms. He wept more aggressively with his last pants, and it was impossible to deduct whether he was grateful or still miserable as the numbness had just reached his heart and was stopping all thought.
He shuddered involuntarily, ignoring the dull throbbing in his arm. His eyelids drooped over once more, a tiny gasp making itself known. No note would be found, only the syringe; only his body; only the gorgeous red death and the dried, crystalline tears.
And with his one, last gasping breath he whispered out to the otherwise untouched, small room he sat in.
“Kaboom.”
-
Blood. Glorious red death and horrible black pain. Each opposites and yet connected when given the correct situations. And yet, the “correct” situations are indeed the more terrifying of them.
He did not care.
He wanted to die. He wanted to explode.
♠ ♠ ♠
By zodiac.