there was a time that i knew who i was
there was a time... that i felt secure. like i had a hold of something solid. real. that i knew where i stood. where i had been. where i was going. i could see it all so clear. all i had to do is close my eyes. just close my eyes and PICTURE it. let the scenes play out like a movie in my head
but now the movies are all wrong
skewed and skipping and flickering and meshed into each other
most are lies
it hurts trying to tear them apart from each other... to unglue the solid mass of images and faces and voices that may never have said that which i hear or maybe said in another context or perhaps could be complete truth. ..
or maybe its all a complete lie
sometimes though... i feel something that seems... right. or at least somewhat right.
i think.... i remember who Victor was. Redlight laced that name through many lies... but he was always someone i killed. in the... version. on here. it was someone i used to know. college friends or something. i don't entirely remember. i don't... like... rereading on here. most of it i don't even recall writing...
but Victor.... his eyes. its in his EYES that i think i remember. deep and desperate and just.... wide. so very wide. too wide like someone else's grin? and they reached deep into my soul and screamed why in frantic unvoiced cries because he can't... can't breathe. he was smart. tailored suit and successful. even though he was on the Run. Run from the Slender Man. like so many others. but he still couldn't breath no matter how he thrashed in the ropes no matter how he twisted in panic and horror and just... stared at me... unreal eyes begging...
to remove the duct tape i'd plaaced over his mouth and nose
he could still... get some air.
could hear it leak through his straining
and it onlyy drew the suffering out more
until i couldn't take it anymore
until i couldn't... watch anymore
even with Dimme breathing down my neck
even with her work freshly stitched across my middle
i ran and grabbed the tape. ripping it off. earning thanks even as he was gasping for breath but i just couldn't take seeing those eyes buldge anymore i... i couldn't...
and then i was on the floor
i didn't know what hit me
but you never did when it was Dimme
i scrambled back. remember the... splinters from the wood eating my hands. until i hit the wall. her further advance towards me only shrinking me further down as i promised to kill him. i swore i would. i'd kill him. but i didn't want to torture him. it wasn't needed. it wasn't... it didn't have to be like that.... i didn't like seeing the eyes like that... the muscles strain like that.... that the Whispers were quiet... that this was just for THEM. Not Him. that we could... make it quick...
i was new
Dimme had yet to break me in
that night, the prey got to see... what happens when a proxy stepped out of line.
i was put on display
a sight of blood and voiceless screams that only came to life as quivering muscles and agonized nerves. paralyzed by the drugs but oh so aware of everything...
like when Redlight had you in your mind, locked up tight? Like that, Sammy?
i could barely crawl
but when Dimme ordered me to stand, i somehow managed.
she put the duck tape in my hands for the second time that night
i hadn't saved him from anything
i'd only... prolonged the suffering
but i didn't rip it off that time
i watched the whole show
trying to keep back the bile
and he never... stopped staring at me
even after his heart stopped
those eyes stayed with me
even... after the corpse was long disposed of.
after Dimme.... was long disposed of....
still. they stared out at me.
dead eyes in the dark
sometimes.... i lay in bed awake.
fully aware that David is as well. since he doesn't sleep until i am. and i know he'll come to say something. anything. just in hopes that i'll open the door just a little wider for him. that i'll volunteer a detail or two. a thought or two. of whatever is keeping me awake this time. whatever is bothering me. eating at me. chewing and gnawing until i wonder if insanity itself is a disease that you can hear munching away inside your skull...
maybe that's why schizophrenics have such a hard time communicating. thinking. piecing just the simplest sentences together...
the munching is just too loud.
and when i don't respond, he'll pull me in closer. arms wrapping around like a barrier. a shield a straightjacket maybe? until i can feel his chest rise and fall with each breath against my back. until i can hear his heart, even feel it. beating steady. strong. alive. until his breath is on my neck and then so are his lips. gentle and brief. trying to get my attention. reassuring me he was there. that i wasn't alone. that i didn't have to face anything alone. not anymore.
i know he wants to talk
he always wants to talk
so i know he's hurt... when i just nod. just nod. and let the silence stretch.
there's nothing to talk about
nothing that hasn't already been gone over.
what good would talking do?
what good has talking EVER done any of us?
have you wondered that? these stupid blogs we set for ourselves. virtual gravestones once we're gone. we talk to each other. discuss theories and ideas and mock and humor and share the living nightmare...
but what fucking GOOD has it EVER done??
that's your answer.
absolutely none. the suffering is only prolonged. we open doors that we wouldn't have otherwise known Joseph would be alive existed. we dig our holes deeper. deeper and deeper and deeper until we're certain we're going to come out the other side. certain we're going to find something, if only Wonderland.
we wake up
and realize that we hadn't been digging at all
dead eyes in the dark
there was a time that i lectured on here. i discussed one piece of trash after another. shifting through it all as if there was some secret truth behind it. mysterious and forbidden and so jaw-dropping that knowing it would drive you insane. the game. the GLORIOUS game that turns winners into losers and losers into something not even human anymore. barely alive anymore. barely functioning beyond flight or fight, and always choosing flight.
unless there is no flight
unless everything is in our heads
what do we do then...?
what do we do when we can't even be sure if the people around us are anything more than delusions mixed with hope? the straggled, ragged, tortured last remains of hope. hard for breath and barely a thought, but there. clinging. helpless and hopeless and miserable and just wanting to be so damn NAIVE...
it would be too easy to trust David
trust someone had given enough of a shit to bother
trust this reality
this.... whisper of a family
a place to just.... belong
iit's just too easy
i don't even know
i don't know
i just know that it hurts
it hurts so much
and i'm so tired of hurting