I. She's praying to Jesus, she's pulling the trigger.
The lies surround her like a warmth she's never known before, and she likes it almost as much as she liked seeing his begging eyes. Almost as if she was there to kill him.
Of course, love can be misleading. Just like cliches and foreign phrases, she knows that love is overused and thrown out without a thought. It's her own fault for thinking that a love could be anything but yesterday's big news, but it's his fault that the story made the front page in the first place.
Although, as she runs her fingers through tangled yellow curls, she can't help but imagine how right love had seemed at first. Trash disguised as an aqua-eyed raven.
II. Following me in my desperate endeavor to find my "whoever."
He scowls at his steady hands as though angry at them for not shaking. He forces himself into a state of poetic loss, thinking that the sun should not shine on a day where smirks were traded for more than fowl words.
His mind strays to beauty, and the word had never puzzled together with anything more than classic paintings and operas, or the flawless execution of his own thought out displays. It fits with her, though, and he wraps his thoughts around that, his dilapidated mental stability thinking about what he's given up.
But in the end his mind snaps back like a rubber band, and he knows that love that never was can't very well be mourned.
III. Just a sad song with nothing to say.
Her life is contented smiles to the outside, but they're devious when she thinks about the motivation.
But she doesn't like to think about it like that, especially not with that word. Motivation. That makes it sound like a crime. What was the motivation? I don't see how anyone would be motivated to kill him. It was her job, of course, but it had become her life.
And she had only done what she had because he wouldn't listen to her. She'd never wanted to set foot on the legal side of things, but he was all about that. His eyes had been crazy, set on revenge; she'll later account that they had seemed to grow darker. She'll say that she had been afraid of him. But that's not true at all.
Suddenly, the food tastes rancid and narcotic in her mouth.
IV. Walked away, heard them say, "Poison hearts will never change."
She's so surprised, like a poor, naive captive, and for some reason he finds this funny.
She was such an easy tool, such a wonderfully simple accomplice. Perhaps it was because she thought that she was so clever. He'd learned from early on that IQ wasn't the key. Lying was, in the end. No matter how well off your plan is, deceit is the funeral music that constantly reminds you who has the upper hand.
The problem with humans, he muses while biding his time, is that they all think they're irreplaceable. In their defenseless confidence, they let their fatal flaw move forth and take control. It's everyone's fatal flaw, of course. Everyone's expendable.
Too late, she realizes that she's not quite cunning enough to be an exception.
V. Kiss me; it'll heal, but it won't forget.
His entire body aches with desire for her as he recalls everything that has happened to him. Even with reality passing through the corners of his mismatched eyes, he still pictures something else. It was hardly romantic, hardly beautiful, and he's upset to think that it had been exactly what he had wanted.
He knows how he had made her feel, even though the extent is not familiar to him. His whispers hissed through her mind like snakes, piercing poison into innocence. Venomous snakes. Traitorous snakes. The list went on.
And the fact that he could taste the alcohol on her breath undermined his courteous inquiry as to whether she was willing to face the consequences, but that's not how he thought of it.
VI. That's man devouring man, my dear, and who are we to deny it in here?
If it starts with two bullets it'll end with one, and if it starts with one bullet it'll end with two. Either way he turns it, the situation will end badly. He twists the sane threads of his mind into a make-shift consolation, breakable and unreliable. Everything she's done for you has only been for her own benefit, he fights. You owe her nothing.
And he doesn't, of course, but perhaps he owes him something. The boy who had sent his love home with swollen lips, confused but none too regretful. Because maybe . . . maybe they never had anything in the first place. He owes her nothing, but he'll only testify for one bullet.
He doesn't want to die alone.
VII. Murder, oh murder, oh where have you been?
She watches, emotionless, and everyone pretends that she's just another face. She's not testifying, because that's really just another word for appeal in her situation, and she refuses to stoop that low. Even now, she won't go there.
It should be humiliating, being portrayed as helpless and weak in the third person, almost as if she were dead. It's not, though, probably because she's begun to wake up every morning and check her vital signs for confirmation.
She's trying not to make any incriminating moves, just listening to well-deserved treason. The genius is confident, as always, but his interrogator looks professional, even though he is just a reconnaissance idol. He sneers like he's got something good, even though all he does is abolish the character that doesn't need much more tarnishing.
"One more question?" He phrases the statement itself like a query, and she's sure that it's some kind of strategy that she's made no attempt to observe or understand. She's trying to keep a steady composition, still and innocent.
"Would you do it again?"
"In a heartbeat."
VIII. This lust to my brain almost feels like a gun.
It's as if he hadn't walked into the room convicted, even though he really had no chance.
That doesn't change her sulking, her depression, the way that she looks at him as though he has taken something pleasant away. He doesn't bother trying to reason with her, because she won't see the light. She's bedridden and uncaring, all the happiness that once illuminated her eyes locked away.
Everything that was keeping him alive has been locked away, and it doesn't really matter how he turns it. No matter how many times he rearranges things, he meets the same ironic fate that they have.
He didn't want to die alone.
A/N: Don't lie, that probably made no sense whatsoever. Or, maybe it did, and you have the same slightly twisted mind as I do . . . Anyway, here are the songs that the lyrics were taken from, in order:
Me and the Moon, Remembering Sunday, Disenchanted, Leaving Song, Heart-Shaped Glasses, A Little Priest (XD), Error: Operator, Cut Up Angels.
And now the bands that perform them, in order: Something Corporate, All Time Low, My Chemical Romance, AFI, Marilyn Manson, Stephen Sondheim (Johnny Depp?), Taking Back Sunday, and The Used.
So that's who the various lyrics belong to, while the characters and all that other useful stuff belongs to Eoin Colfer.
Reviews make me smile. Just sayin'.