Schizophrenia

Sharp steel and sticky liquid littered his bathroom sink, yet not a single scream could be heard. Not an ambulance, or even a loving hand, just a broken whimper lost in the darkness of the night. Such a sad, sad but oh so familiar sight for the young man, since it occurred so very often. Those funny little silver lines imbedded into skin like ink, yet these cant be washed away with optimistic futures, but only with the guilt of constant suffering.

It wasn't unusual, more like beautiful. The contrast of red on white, peppered with greying metal. Much like memories, body like a broken lamp. So beautiful, but nothing but a flickering light that never quite stays alight for as long as one may like. Broken, but never even attempted to fix.

Chunks of flesh and pale lips, bitten beyond the cracks before. Screaming out internally, though those words so desperate to break free never dare slip. Clutching dangerously to skin, not aware of the damage. 'Words! All they are are words! Nothing will change, just a vibration, just words' He needs something, unaware of what. Just something to stop the screaming, the itching. Nothing, soulless eyes and shaking. Never once awaking from this, this is all it is. All it will ever be. No one can help because no one can tell. Such a beautiful smile,, a smile to light up the world twice over. Never once suspecting, never once understanding. It's all dead skin, dried on the back on his heels. Secrets, but not really. He'd never lied about anything, there's just never asking asked.

Surprising how much weight a single person can hold. So many untold stories, many of which dangerous. Unclean. Many thoughts dismissed and mindless head games. He's not sorry, he'll never be. He bought it on himself if he's honest. If he ever told anyone he'd be called brave. No, he's not brave. Anyone brave would have left, would have gotten out. Wouldn't tattoo themselves with wicked words and tally charts.

They gave him medication for something he doesn't need. Bought it off a corner of a street, so lovely. Never once stopping to look back or even consider. He loves the torture more than he loves the person. Brown eyes, he calls him, his reason. The reason he's this fucked up. Not that he knows, of course, why you he worry such a perfect specimen?

He's asphyxiated, love is what he's heard it called. How ironic? It sounds so pretty. The idea filled with flowers and gentle kisses, his own much more horrific. What drove him to this? He knows, of course he does. His mind is always racing, constantly thinking, always screaming. Never resting. He's not oblivious though, he's clever. Oh so clever. If he ever told anyone, he knows the reaction.

'I promise it get's better. Just be patient, things will work out..' does it really? When does anything truly fix itself? Even your body isn't capable of doing that. Mentally and physically, scars never fade. Ever. That's the problem. Some can overlook it but for others, it's too intense. Too evident to ignore and that drives insanity, starts voices and sneaky little lies.

He'll be with him soon, but in a different way. He'd never own something so perfect, who was he kidding? He was the living dead, and the dead can't feel any pain. Therefore, they cannot love. Or can they? He doesn't even know how, but he knows he'd mess it up. That's certain. He's not willing to risk reality, so he's not. Dreams though, illusions. Perfect lies, he calls them. Much better, more loving. He can be perfect then, more than he's ever been. In his eyes, an angel of perfect love and salvation. Paradise forever, sounds like a plan.

But he owns him, the brown eyed boy with the devilish grin. Oh so lovely, brilliant. Not a inflicted divider between them. But he was awful. Look at his legs, baggy fabric, he swam inside. But he was his, and his alone. He didn't want him, and a puppy without a master may as well be dead. No reason, no reason.

And anger. Red was all he could see. Everywhere, rage. 'I never loved you' YOU NEVER LOVED HIM! No, wasn't fair. Flick after slice. Decorating with red paint, canvas so white. Shaking, completely lost and no. No. Never again.

And gone.
And gone.
And gone

And the night turned to day. 3 days, and not a lick. Shattered glass around, names sprawled on walls. Never again to see the razored light beyond. Stomach empty, long lost eyes. Dreaming, unaware anymore. Numb. And now? Gone completely.

Oh, how wonderful to watch such strength fall. To let down out hopes of humanity and perfection, whatever that may be. But the screams of one now passed to another, all the pain transferred to forgetting souls. No matter how old, or scared. It's gone. All hope of ever learning that broken things can be renewed and perfect. Throw away old 'trash' and smile at the new toy you posses. But not this one. The old rag was wanted too much this time but stroppy times make words slip.

And the last word uttered towards rigor mortis;

Kellin..?