I sat bent over my desk, my back protesting to the movement I made from the position that I had been in for so many hours. But I ignored it. The permanent ink smell was getting to me, giving me a bitter taste on my tongue and a heady feeling in my body. But I ignored it. The paper was crinkling under my fist as I held it down so that it wouldn't move under my delicately fast motions. But I ignored it. The color from the red ink smeared into smaller spaces, bleeding into the paper below and into all the right places. It was turning out so beautiful. I sat back a little, my spine popping and snapping and I moaned under my breath. Jesus Christ that hurt sometimes. But it was all worth it. When it came out as beautiful as this... Oh. The colors. And the shapes. I just wanted to reach into the paper and stroke the lines, hold them in my fingers. I sighed. So pretty. I lifted the paper, it was done. I reached into my pocket, pricking my fingers on the numerous amount of thumbtacks I had in it as I pulled a few out. I put three in my mouth and eyed my wall of art. The Wall. Where everything I worked on went. I placed the paper strategically on the wall in my mind, pinning it there with the one thumbtack as I took the rest from my mouth, the ends wet from my tongue. How pretty. I walked back a few steps, the backs of my knees bumping against my mattress. The same image. The same person. So many times over and over. I gasped. Over. And over. And over. Oh... The same sad eyes, the same mean mouth...oh how could I have done such a thing. The need to tear all of the papers off the wall grew in me, and I clenched my fists. So ugly. SO UGLY. I felt the need to cry rise up within me. The need to scream followed. Accompanied with the need to tear out my own insides with my fingers. "Dammit." I had done it again. I had taken my obsession further. Always further. I couldn't be content with your good ol' stalker mannerisms. Oh nooo. I had to become insane and draw my victim of the week. "Fuckin' hell." I paced. Up and down my carpet, the chains on the headboard that leaked onto the floor like tiny rivers of liquid silver clanked. I sat on my chair, glaring at the wall while I picked at the flaking blood on the edges of the handcuffs latched to the bars. How to get rid of the obsession was easy. Step one, find your victim. Step two, kill your victim. Step three, clean. But I was too lazy today. Cleaning would be such a hassle. |
| The Story That Went Nowhere |