White
funf
"How are you today?" Reed asks.
I answer the same as always. I shrug my shoulders.
"Tell me in words." He demands.
I sigh.
"I'm drowning." I mutter into my knees, wriggling my bare toes.
"Drowning?" he questions.
I nod. He gives me a look like he want's more. I shrug.
How am I?
Honestly I am lost. I look at my reflection and someone else stares back. I'm not sick like they think. I'm broken.
I'm a broken mirror on the bathroom floor.
I'm an empty bottle of pills.
I'm a razor across my neck.
I'm the white I hate.
My hands are itching. "I did what you asked."
Doctor Reed nods. "You did."
"Can I have the brush?"
Come on Doc. Give us a treat.
We wanna see your blood. they laugh.
Reed can't here them. No one can but me.
"Er I don't have it."
I frown. I can see it on the desk behind him. A pack of brand new brushes. Not even expensive ones.
I growl.
Just kill him Biely.
Take them.
We don't need his permission.
The white is scaring you.
It makes you sad.
It makes us sad.
Kill him.
We'll turn you all pretty red.
I grab the pencil from his hand and jab it into his jugular. He looks shocked. It breaks off in my hand.
He isn't dead. He screams.
Oh shut up! The voices scream. I say the same words as they do.
This is the only time we ever agree.
I take the scissors off his desk and stab them into his eye socket, and then stab into the sweet spot.
Just to the left of the spine, fourth lumbar down. The abdominal aorta. It's got a real name, probably. But It's just the sweet spot to us.
What a gusher.
I don't take chances. I crudely rip open his chest after flipping him over. I bite into his heart with my teeth.
The voices are silent now.
Peaceful.
Stated.
I open the cheap brushes and dip them into the puddle of blood, trailing foot prints as I walk to the walls. The red glides smoothly, and I lick it off my fingers as I paint.
I run blood soaked hands through my hair, across my face, down my arms. It's all over my clothes.
I'm done streaking the walls and I sit back down into the plain brown leather chair and pull my bare feet up onto the seat with me.
It is beautiful.
It is red.
The white is gone.
I am free.
I am safe.
I am cold.
Silent as the grave.
Silent as the snow.
I answer the same as always. I shrug my shoulders.
"Tell me in words." He demands.
I sigh.
"I'm drowning." I mutter into my knees, wriggling my bare toes.
"Drowning?" he questions.
I nod. He gives me a look like he want's more. I shrug.
How am I?
Honestly I am lost. I look at my reflection and someone else stares back. I'm not sick like they think. I'm broken.
I'm a broken mirror on the bathroom floor.
I'm an empty bottle of pills.
I'm a razor across my neck.
I'm the white I hate.
My hands are itching. "I did what you asked."
Doctor Reed nods. "You did."
"Can I have the brush?"
Come on Doc. Give us a treat.
We wanna see your blood. they laugh.
Reed can't here them. No one can but me.
"Er I don't have it."
I frown. I can see it on the desk behind him. A pack of brand new brushes. Not even expensive ones.
I growl.
Just kill him Biely.
Take them.
We don't need his permission.
The white is scaring you.
It makes you sad.
It makes us sad.
Kill him.
We'll turn you all pretty red.
I grab the pencil from his hand and jab it into his jugular. He looks shocked. It breaks off in my hand.
He isn't dead. He screams.
Oh shut up! The voices scream. I say the same words as they do.
This is the only time we ever agree.
I take the scissors off his desk and stab them into his eye socket, and then stab into the sweet spot.
Just to the left of the spine, fourth lumbar down. The abdominal aorta. It's got a real name, probably. But It's just the sweet spot to us.
What a gusher.
I don't take chances. I crudely rip open his chest after flipping him over. I bite into his heart with my teeth.
The voices are silent now.
Peaceful.
Stated.
I open the cheap brushes and dip them into the puddle of blood, trailing foot prints as I walk to the walls. The red glides smoothly, and I lick it off my fingers as I paint.
I run blood soaked hands through my hair, across my face, down my arms. It's all over my clothes.
I'm done streaking the walls and I sit back down into the plain brown leather chair and pull my bare feet up onto the seat with me.
It is beautiful.
It is red.
The white is gone.
I am free.
I am safe.
I am cold.
Silent as the grave.
Silent as the snow.