Chapter Text
Moving out west, things got lonely
Trying my best, nobody showed me
Which way to go, I didn’t know
“I’m sick of people trying to save me.”
he says aloud to the empty apartment, a glass of whiskey clutched tightly in his hand and there’s an air of tension from the unseen hands that try to guide. try to pull. pull him away.
he’s tired.
path of destruction? maybe. the ground burns under his feet as he blazes forward into the unseen. the dark. the creeping shadows that lull around his feat. beastly. their smiles pearly in the black and he has no choice but to trust them. sometimes they bite. sometimes they yield.
since when do you know best?
you don’t,
but neither does he.
but he doesn’t need saving, he needs understanding. how could you have been so blind? the hand that guides had clawed into his back, tore the flesh and exposed the faux spine to the corrosion and he had fought off the rust the ridicule the rancor. you tried to pull him back
and succeeded in pulling skin.
destruction isn’t always inherently negative - in conjunction with the phoenix that crawls from the ruined ashes of its body. who’s to say that he won’t be as majestic? let it burn - let it bury in his skin and seed into his suffering. sewn. ripe with leather and liquor.
saving is inaccurate. a hand to hold is better. he’s rarely had the thought, the notion. the lacing of fingers in the bitterness he’s felt. you get sick of holding your own - so how are you fairing?
curled like an animal and tired, hunched over in the back and he’s burning. shoulders crumpling under the ache of a job well done and there’s a suicidal tendency in people like me - pulling at the muscle until it loosens. stringing and bloodied, caught in the teeth of helping hands.
helping hands.
read that again - have you bloodied your fingers with me?
“Stop,” he begs again, quietly this time as he remains fixated on the trembling television, “please.”
the noise, the cacophony.
the silence.
where have you gone?
he looks over his shoulder and back into the darkness, eyes fixated on the fizzle of static in the void. the blank space where you promised to be. thick or thin. rivets of blood. of fire. of feathers. fur. fangs.
he exists in a space of self-indulgence, self-destruction. a murdering of the self upon a path set of his own accord. it gave me wings,
so i ate those too. icarus fell into the sea and drowned. i fell into the sea and lived - inhaled the salt and the shore and saw myself further from where i wanted to be. i had resigned to die.
that was my choice.
i just wanted you to hold my hand.
but he burned, he lived again. brighter, sharper than before. eyes fluid and screaming, halted with a predator’s screech. who are you? i’m not Adam, but i’m not sure i ever wanted him to come back.
“I’m sick of people trying to save me,” he says into the whiskey as he pours it into the glass, unsure of why he’s even bothering with the transfer. so mundane. he loses more that way.
so he drinks it straight from the bottle.
drops back onto the couch.
tilts his head back and swallows. sighs. says his prayers and commiserates with himself. stop trying to solve my problems. i’m working on it. i just want you to acknowledge the fire i've set to forge new skin.
you can’t save anyone.
you can only suggest.