I stare into the eyes of death.
I recognize nothing, yet it feels familiar. I've been here before.
I dislike mirrors for all the obvious reasons. I avoid them for the most part but pain is addictive.
Hot water drops cover up my skin and burn . I shiver. I still feel cold but that's probably because I am being haunted.
I've always kept Secret a secret and I never really got why. I guess I just couldn't resist the irony.
I met her at the local pub where I used to come and write. The sight of lonely miserable people combined with alcohol was inspiring and entertaining to me.
I would write and observe and write. I knew most people were terrified of me. And I liked it that way. Scars covered up anything innocent or sweet about me and my eyes told no lies. It wasn't an act. I was bitter and time only made it worse. At least people would leave me alone.
But she was different. She brought change with her. And it stabbed me in the back eventually.
She worked there every day. And I watched her spill drinks, break glasses and stumble over her own feet. She wasn't exactly charming but she was an open book to me. It was perfectly clear what she was and I knew I wanted it. Nothing beautiful about her if you had to believe society, but to me she was gorgeous.
The truth is -
- I liked the idea of being able to take advantage of something like her. And I hated myself for it.
One day our eyes met and she made me feel something I didn't know I could feel. Curiosity took over and I knew my body language would give it away and for once... I did mind.
She smiled at me. I raised an eyebrow. For me, that was a big deal.
They analyzed me.
I was asked what I remember most about her. I've always been focused on her appearance.
Words have always come easy to me but I could never quite capture her eyes, her lips, her scent, her smile... I couldn't bring her back to life with words. 'Blue' wasn't the right name for her blue eyes and 'pale' didn't say how pale her lips really were. Her words were broken but wrapped into something I adored. I couldn't explain it and I loved it.
She was a mystery to me, as my love was to her. I could never figure out what it was that made me love her this much, but I did.
I couldn't capture her beauty but I could capture her death. It took no effort to describe the rope – tight around her neck. How I kissed her lips one last time, knowing she will never smile again.
I spend hours trying to understand what it must have been like for her to die.
Yeah, most of all I wonder what it was like for her to die.
They analyzed me. They got scared.
Some say her death was meant to be. It's all part of the 'greater good' and I should find peace in knowing she is better off. But I never was a selfless one.
I am cocky and selfish and bitter and arrogant and I fiercely believe there is no greater good in this. The church is plotting against me and feeding me lies about faith and love and savior and I want to destroy their beloved God. I want to hunt him down and cause him pain.
If this was meant to be, something decided to cause this to happen. I would rather die than remain living in a world that would find peace without her. I would rather die than remain living in a world where someone like her was meant to die.
I am dangerously insane and I am out for blood.