and it was death itself who stood behind me, with his arms wrapped around me as tight as iron bands, and his lipless mouth kissing my neck as if in love. but as well as the horror, i felt a strange longing.
No one can remember the weather, can remember what happened in their own lives that day, but they remember the sight of a child killing another child. They remember the exact swing of the weapon, remember how the blood looked as it seeped into the Earth at the victor's feet.
I was three weeks early, and my mom went through twenty-seven hours of labor. She forced new life into the world, but all they remember is Death.
I think if there's only one thing you need to know about me, it's this.
When I was nine, dad got his hands on this contraband game. Don't know where he got it, but I remember playing around our coffee table. I remember being the one with all the money, remember thinking even back then that I couldn't be trusted with it.
I remember wanting to run.
"Three dollars," the barista says, and Ash cracks a huge smile that I don't understand when I hand over the money. I look at the barista laugh, and I stare dead-eyed. "That's a new one," she says.
I look down, and I see crumbled pink bills.
Last Edit: Sept 13, 2019 13:40:39 GMT -5 by kaitlin
I'm honestly not sure, but either way, we'll both end up ruined for what we have done to each other, and I can't even bring myself to care. I swallow his words just like I swallowed the pills I used to steal from my mother's closet, and they don't taste half as bitter, so for now I can't stop.
"I hate everyone," I say to him one night when we are tangled together. "I hate everyone," I say again as he runs his pointer finger down my spine.
"One, two, three four," I say out loud, counting every single one of my steps. "Five, six, seven, eight."
I have to count them. I don't think about whether or not it's optional, don't think about whether or not it's optional, it's just something that I have to do right now, something that feels like it matters more than maybe anything else I have ever done.
"Thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine," count out loud as I cross the street, walk from side to side in a big zig-zag so there's more of them.
More is better.
More is always better.
Last Edit: Sept 24, 2019 0:39:06 GMT -5 by kaitlin
Sometimes I wonder if that makes me a bad person, but usually when I start to feel like that tumble down a rabbit hole that I'm never ever ever prepared for, so I try and avoid thoughts about my personhood too much and concentrate on how I can get out of here.
Because that's the thing, right? In all the best stories, the hero is hyper-focused. The hero sees the big fucking picture.