But I'm a creep,
I'm a weirdo,
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here…
He sees her, and he smiles, a rare thing under his skin…another weakness, another descent into something he swore never to get involved in. He speaks to her—or her shadow—and suddenly he's fire red under the sun, arms sweating. The wind smiles…laughs. She's singing, and her shadow turns in hesitation. She frowns. "…Hello?"
But it's for nothing. He hides under the jade of grass and evergreen. He's crying and, he might be dying—'Oh God, you kill me…' He's the white. (Blank, so dense, so, so dense…) she's the black. And when she spins in a circle while he watches, they've never been more different.
I don't care if it hurts,
I want to have control,
I want a perfect body,
I want a perfect soul;
The shadows speak to him sometimes. They mutter, they whisper her name. Sometimes it's with hate. 'You can't see me, you'd hate me, you bitch…' Sometimes, it's love. More than he can bear, really. It draws him in, drowns him in her laughter and the way her hair reflects the sun, but isn't that comparable. The way her cheeks naturally are lifted and how the dirt smudges slightly on the distinct edge of her jaw. He loves how she works, how she looks at the sky with a frown, and how when she discovers something she laughs and spins slightly, just so. He loves the gentle, barely there slope of her hips when she leans over to brush a rock and then how her fingers so delicate yet calloused unconsciously rub the corner of her eye. Her eyes are blue, lined with silver and a coal black sun for the center. She's muscles and flesh, and skin, tanned sun kissed skin, proof of her love of those cinnamon afternoons. She's strength and stability. She is the women he loves and the women he hates.
And she is the one he wants to die more than anything.
'I love you…more than I can bear…' He says this during the day when he watches her, when she stares at herself in the water like she doesn't know the girl staring back. It's when she sings in the awful voice, quaking and nervous with anxiety as she scribbles pictures in a little black book, that he loves her the most.
But she would never write about him—or him.
'And I hate you…I want you to die…' He says this at night, in the medicated sterile cleanliness of his home, among his vials and charts. It's when he comes out in all shadows and grins. It's when he looks under the stack of papers and remembers that it's loaded.
It's not him, but it is. It's him.
There is a scientific term. Maybe even a cure.
He doesn't care. Ignorance in its worst…
I want you to notice,
When I'm not around,
You're so very special,
I wish I was special;
He watches her now, invisible, but not so much. It's almost six—almost time for him to come out—but not quite. He thinks, rubbing knobby fingers through snarled and greasy hair; that she should run.
And the metal is cool under the pads of his fingertips.
No, no, no, no…
He whispers harshly under his breath, gritting his teeth. He can feel them grinding together like a fork and a glass plate. Smooth and surfaced.
She looks, and she is frightened. Her arms clutch to her chest, they stay there. And it's not him it's him. He comes closer.
She tries to ignore him, but she can't. He's white and he smells. And god, has he bathed?
But he doesn't notice.
All he sees is her, that girl, that blossom in the snow. She is beautiful. He gains confidence, and the safety is off under his coat (but only he would use it…)
"You are beautiful…" He whispers desperately as she stares uncomfortably into the water. There are three people she doesn't know.
Him, him, and her…
His left hand is useless at his side. The other still wrapped into his jacket, cool and consoled with the soft kiss of charcoal metal. He coughs.
She looks towards him—and she wants to reach out, he knows she does, but she doesn't know how—know how to love a freak. 'But you're a fucking freak too…'
"I love you…"
And she stares as he pulls the gun out, letting it sift in-between the breeze and the dancing tips of his colorless coat. Her voice breaks. "I-I'm afraid I don't know you…"
He raises his arm, finger loose on the trigger. 'And I'd pull it too, if it protected you…'
He can barely whisper, but he does. No, no, no, no…don't leave, please. But, he's coming.
She can't move, like a statue—so beautiful…he wants to say…so damn beautiful and so goddamn ugly—
And now it's up and pointed, loaded, and cold. He breathes, smiles, grins.
Five minutes. Five minutes and it's his turn.
He doesn't want to give up…but…he'd do it. He'll do it.
He smiles, laughs.
"I love you…" it comes easier now, like growing up…like getting younger…
"It's the o-opposite of hate…"
She only runs when he laughs, laughs and laughs and laughs in breaking hacking sobs that shatter the calm afternoon. She only runs when he pulls the trigger and when he falls, wheezing and tasting the copper and salt of beautiful blood…
"I H-hate you so much…"
She only runs when his chest blooms in a growing scarlet red. He still laughs, remembering the bold print on the rejected reports in his room. Schizo…Phrenia…
But for him, it was always too late for help.
She's running out again,
She runs, runs, runs, runs...
'I'm a freak.
And she's the angel.'
This is what happens when TMoh writes last minute. Though I've had this idea blooming in my head for quite some time now… the prompt for the Contest was 'Opposites' and what better way to portray that unless it's through some kind of mental disease ?(Because that's the way I rule, baby)
And I love odd pairings. Daryl and Flora are too good to pass up, and well, I had to explain Daryl somehow, and he seemed to be the perfect schizophrenic.
It's short… sometimes I think it's too short.
I might do a sequel after the contest, who knows. Oh the lyrics are by Radiohead and the song is called 'Creep'. Love that song.
I'm out people, enjoy.