I want to wipe those prideful smirks off their faces. They think stuffing my locker with garbage is funny? They think they could get away with anything? Think again. I say it’s time to get even.
kami no komodo
I’m done with them embarrassing me. I’m done with their silly little games. I am so done. Ever since kindergarten its been like this. I don’t know what their problem is with me. They’re just one of those people who mess with you for no utter reason.
It’s going to end like this: grotesque.
How convenient it is that my family’s business involves guns. All I have to do is enter the door. They think they’re going to meet in the school’s basement because the Alpha said so. Alpha should be careful not to leave the password on the library computers. Tsk.
I made sure to turn the power off.
“What’s going on? This better be good or I’m going” one of them says.
I open the light, “Stay where you are or I’m going to blow your head in chunks”
“Oh my god”
“Come on I’m sure we can deal with this like normal pe—“
He was the first one to go. Should’ve kept his mouth shut. And also, silencers are pretty handy.
I aim the Uzi at them, and laugh at their pathetic faces.
Kami no Komodo
“You selfish prick! You don’t care about anyone but yourself!” she screams at me. She also punched me in the mouth and it hurt. Wow she has a lot in her.
“Whatever, who needs you?” well, I’m glad that’s over. She makes such a fuss over being dumped, what with all the “feelings” she keeps talking about. It makes me sick and it’s no fun actually. This place needs more fun.
Everyone within the halls clapped at the whole scene. She runs off in one direction while I receive pats on the back. They call me a player, and I admit I am. It’s no fun to be with one girl for the rest of your life, right?
Being handsome, well-known, and academically-gifted, I have it easy. I get anything I want, when I want it. But I have to admit I am truly insatiable. I still find myself wanting more, wanting the best and nothing but the best. There’s no time to regard other people’s feelings. When I hurt someone, it’s easy to let go and honestly, I don’t really care. People admire me for it.
People fail to recognize and find it believable. They fail to recognize my interest for unpredictability, always so caught up in their problems, always caring about others. I don’t know why they would even bother when they can have something better for themselves.
I keep up by indulging myself in drugs. Drugs are the only things on my mind lately. I take what I can get. It started when one of the teachers took me in as a dealer. I got hooked instantly.
I’m now detached from everything—my family, my friends, school. And here I am now, on a couch rubbing MDMA in my mouth. Some of it I snort through my nose. Ahh… euphoric.
I laugh. I feel it tingling in my nerves. I feel the serotonin. Sometimes it’s different, magic mushrooms, alcohol, Marijuana, and everything in between.
Some days are unbearable without them. I feel like I want to die. Everything hurts and all I have to do to make the pain go away is when I take them in, the drugs.
I’m not going to stop; I’ve never felt this alive ever since. I think I could fly the whole world. I think I could escape. I burst through the door and climb a flight of stairs. I head over the edge and feel the breeze and the sun on my face. Wow.
And then I jump.
I want to know how it felt like. I don’t blame him for being with her.
Just look at her. His entire world revolves around her.
It hurts to even look at her, knowing that every single day that face is what he’s looking forward to see. It also doesn’t help that she’s my best friend, a rather funny euphemism for “only friend” don’t you think?
I stopped eating ever since so I could be lovely like her. I used to be so strong; he’s the problem. He’s making me weak. But she’s my bigger problem.
It worked. He started to pay attention, but I’m afraid for all the wrong reasons. He keeps making me eat. He doesn’t understand. I have to be beautiful like her. I want to know how love feels like. I want to be loved like her. I want the love she has. I want him. I don’t know what I want.
I’m so hungry. But he’s worth it. I have to be like her. Her.
Then it will all be over.
I hate it when the sun seeps through the blinds, especially when I’m having a hangover. The party was sick and everything, but nothing compared to how I was.
I wake up; someone else’s feet beside me. Someone kicks at my side table, accidentally dropping the needle onto the record. Well Respected Man, The Kinks. Perfect.
I felt the sickening feeling. I rush to the bathroom, not really caring who I stepped on. All sorts of clothes and food and trash are strewn all over the place, evidence of a great night.
I open the john and my food makes a second appearance. I look at myself in the mirror. I’m in my boxers, foul and fecal-looking substance in my hair. I wash my face, wiping off the grime and the dried saliva. Still, I feel rather drowsy so I open the medicine cabinet and take in some aspirin and wash it down with water from the sink.
I make my way downstairs. Someone spray-painted something lewd on a wall. Broken glass on the floor. Slices of ham stuck on the ceiling. Someone’s bra in the coffee maker.
I head over the fridge. The memo says that finals are on March 14th. Today is March 13th. I open the fridge and drank the milk. Before throwing the carton, I realize that it’s been more than a week old.
The receiver beeps and my mother’s voice vibrate throughout the halls, “Hello sweetie, I’m coming home early, about an hour or so. See you soon!”
I go back upstairs and take a nap. Fatigue is my friend.
He’s so beautiful.
He’s so beautiful it hurts.
He doesn’t know I’m looking, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that we’re the only ones here, him in his own room, and me staring out the window of my room. He’s looking at himself in the mirror, deciding on which shirt to wear. I tell him, the green one. But he doesn’t pick that one because he couldn’t hear me.
I take my camera and take a shot of him. The camera makes a clicking sound, loud enough for him to hear. He looks around trying to find the source, fortunately, he doesn’t. I still can’t get my camera to stay quiet.
After printing the photo, I hang it along with the other photos of him. This whole wall, this mural, is dedicated to him.
I open my closet and at the very end of it is his shirt. I took it when he went on a vacation. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. I remove it gingerly from its place and wear it. It smells like him.
I know everything about him. I keep track of everything he does in my notebook. All his hobbies, his favourites, his schedule, his fetishes—everything.
I don’t care if he’s gay. He’s mine.
I love him.
“What about me? When can I ever get upset? When can I have my side of the story?”
It was the last thing that I told them.
I feel the rush of the wind in every part of me, but nothing felt reassuring about it. All I want to do is get away from everything as fast as I can. So I run.
I run until I felt like my feet are going to fall off and give up on me, just like everyone else. I’m not even ashamed to admit it anymore.
No one ever really listens and no one understands and would try to. When they already define you, that’s that. It sucks. It sucks how they already assume me as this ‘indifferent’ or ‘apathetic’ or ‘aloof’ kind of person.
I wish I could just scream it out. I try to make my way around it but I just can’t. I’m so mad at everyone. I’m so mad at the world. But mostly, I’m mad at myself. I’m mad because I don’t know how to say anything or tell people how I really feel. I’m always the ‘quiet girl’. And because I’m the quiet girl, it’s not like I have feelings, right? Why won’t they try to understand?
Sometimes I don’t even know if I’m making sense anymore. It just builds up, making me want to explode—no—implode. It just fucking hurts so much.
I take off my clothes and jump into the water, and stay there as long as my lungs would allow it. The anger inside me still wells up, inextinguishable.
There’s only so much I can take.
There’s only so much I can take (photo not mine)