Blurb

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Not exactly a story. Doesn't mean much.

"Won't you miss me?" Ohhh... - click. I hung up. To stand there and be interrogated by such a disgusting person. It wasn't something I'd let myself put up with. I smiled to myself. I could see it now. She's walking. Calm. Down the hall, into her room. She was home alone. I knew. She told me. invited me over, even. I can see her, letting the question hang there. It would tear her to pieces. A grim happiness filled me, it made me smile, I could almost laugh. No, I couldn't though. My body wouldn't let me. Though, deep in my brain there was something rolling with laughter, uncontrollable glee. Though it stopped as soon as I caught it. It wasn't satisfied with a simple hanging up of a telephone reciever. It wanted more. It wanted to drag this out. Longer, longer, and longer still.

We had actually been playing this game for a while now. She'd call first. I destest the telephone, eveything always sounds so..muted, wrong. I tell her this, replaced my 'hello' with it. I hear her voice and say how much I hate the phone. She'd apologize and go on. Sometimes I'd hang up then, and make her call back.Not this time, however. I let her talk on and on. I was going somewhere and she was against it. I didn't care what she thought. I hated the girl. Hated her more than the telephone. For a few months we've been playing this game. Every other night. And still, she calls.

It's been getting tiring, actually.

I could still see her. My mind's eye tracing her steps, every twitch of an eye, a reaching arm, a grasping hand, I could see it all n...

..ehh Feeling lazy, not finished. will add later.

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I changed my mind, I'm not going to finish it.
A lack a lack a lack. Tchhpff.. Who cares anyway.

I feel like writing something else.


A flick and a whirl. It was gone, just like that. Leaving behind a trail of fine dust. Like that used to bury the Polyneices. Showered by a rain of stars, I stared witnessing my own demise brought upon myself by my own stubborn hand. I breathed softly, barely. Insinct is overrun by sheer will to die. A will to die.Will it die, leaving me alone? I curl up beside myself, my small corpse. It stunk with rot and waste. As it should, I breathed it in. At least it didn't hurt anymore. I think; Fleetingly;; it's a shame. I move on with padded feet. A soft scratching, clicks on hardwood. It had become a reality. I flicked an ear, to listen. Paranoid. Afraid my corpse may rise and turn against me. A foot slightly raised, I turn and look. I'm still dead on my front, head turned slightly for uneeded air. I sigh, not of sadness but relief. I'm still dead, I can smell it. It's a shame, I think again.

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How am I able to maintain the ability to think? I wonder. I thought I had died. I thought. Why am I thinking? I should've lost the ability. That must've meant I didn't kill the right part of me. Miscalculation. This was a dire one. I couldn't fix it now. I'd already done it. I walked back to myself, dead, on the floor. It was an odd sensation, seeing yourself like that. No matter how often you've committed a murder a murder of yourself could almost never be something you would get used to. I sniffed. I still smelled of the rot. I couldn't fix it. This wasn't a doll. Many aspect of myself I had made into dolls. I wanted to easily be able to differenciate myself from my aspects. With this, though. - I sniffed again - With this. It was still flesh. It was curious. I'd gotten attatched and gave it whatever it wanted. In the end I had killed it, however. It now lay, no longer breathing, no more thought, no instinct, no fuel. Bruised in the throat, blood gathered in the lungs. Defeated.

I sat on the floor, beside myself. To see perhaps, this wasn't myself at all. I pushed it, with an impatient wrist. A shove, it rolled easily. It was surprisingly light. I sniffed, just more rot. Everything seemed to rot faster here. I examined the face. I didn't recognize it at first. A knot formed in my chest. Then..who is this?

[paypuhrplates]

I've changed my mind. Again
I'm very fickle
but what do you care, you're a dead audience.

I'm sick of writing, actually.