Ambivalence

His saliva felt thick in his mouth, as though concrete had been mixed with it and he tried to swallow, working the too tight muscles in his throat as he stared on in horrified fascination. His skin crawled, goose flesh making his arms itchy as his emotions came crashing into him with a vengeance. They didn't stand for being ignored when they finally decided to show themselves.

The blood clung to his skin - dried and flaking - and he turned his hands this way and that, noticing how it tapered off mid forearm, how the pristine white of his flesh clashed with the dirty red of someone else's blood. The sight captivated him for a few moments, reveling in the feel of the sticky substance drying on his skin, leaving a permanent stain on his hands that no amount of soap will ever be able to wash away now.

He'd slid the knife into the man just as he'd worked his dick into him less than an hour ago. Slowly, as if he hadn't a care in the world. And really, he didn't, this man meant nothing to him. Nothing really meant anything to him aside from the feelings washing over and blanketing him now, swaddling him in their frozen warmth.

His stomach was heavy with bile, the stuff waging war with the concrete still working it's way down as it tried to come up. He couldn't hold himself up any longer, gingerly folding his limbs that he'd always found way too long for his body in towards himself. Down on the floor, closer to the cooling blood, the smell was stronger, a sickening metallic weight that clung to the insides of his nostrils and made him deliriously giddy.

And he really didn't know how to feel about those feelings.

The man, he'd had a family. He'd had a crooked sort of grin that he'd flashed around without thinking, giving it away without knowing what it did to people, what it had done to him. He'd had thick fingers on thick hands, well-earned calluses and rough edges, but they had been gentle with him, gentle with everything.

He couldn't help the laugh that escaped, his thin lips pulling back over teeth as he threw his head back. He couldn't figure out if it had a slightly hysterical edge to it, though, truthfully, it was an insignificant detail in the whole scheme of murder. He had the right to be hysterical, he'd earned that with the first plunge of the blade. The first trickle of blood that poured out. The first bit of freedom he'd ever tasted.

And it tasted disgustingly sweet.

The bile won the war then, and he felt himself lurch in the general direction of the bathroom in a sad attempt to make it, only to end up puking over the new rug he'd put down last week. He'd rather liked that rug, how understated it was and he watched the soft browns blend together are he hurled over it, his eyes clouding over with tears that had more to do with the pain in his throat then the life he'd taken.

And he had, hadn't he? Taken the life, not asking or wondering if it was even allowed, if it was his place to take what he'd wanted. He would wonder if the man was mad at him, but he can't feel much of anything anymore, could he? He remembered how his face would become red and more angry as his voice got quieter and soft, like the only way he could control his temper is if he control his tone, as if his face wasn't becoming blotchy with his fury.

He pressed his face down into his rug, and he could help but hold a small funeral for the ruined thing. He rather liked it. It complimented his furniture and it played off the greens' and yellows' in the room, making the small pops of color look even more intense than they had with this rug's predecessor. He couldn't help but hope the store still carried them.

He let out a long-suffering sigh as he looked back at the man - the life he'd taken without asking - and couldn't help but admire the glassy eyes. There was something about them that made death look worth it, worth suffering life to finally glaze over and just accept the inevitable. We all die in the end.

The tidal waves of feelings - the joy and sickening despair and hatred and ecstasy - were beginning to ebb, beginning to realise from him once more. He could feel the numb resignation that he'd always felt settle back into his core, snuggling into there like it belong, in it kind of did, in a wrong kind of way. He'd always known that he wasn't meant to feel, wasn't meant to experience life with his emotions intact. It had become a moot point, the discussion he had with his walls about the unfairness of it all.

But, that's life, or at least, life for him. A big unfeeling, uncaring life, unless he was taking someone else's. And that wasn't something he could let happen too much, it wouldn't be fair to subject these people to an eternity of nothingness with him just so he could feel for a minute or two. Or maybe it was fair, maybe that was the whole point of this world. To find a little joy where you could.

The man still laid there, and he couldn't hold back the scowl before pulling a face at him, laughing at his own stupidity even as he sobered quickly. He needed to clean the floor. He really hoped to get his new rug down by the end of the week. Maybe he could find an even better one, even more subdued. But he really had like this one.

He really didn't feel like dealing with this. But, that had been the problem in the first place, hadn't it? He never felt anything.

Tomorrow. He could do it tomorrow.