Work Text:
something feral grows inside my veins every time i see his stupid fucking face. his hideous traits and deep, mesmerizing voice have been stuck unwantedly in my mind the wholeness of days. i apparently will never forget, can never get these grisly details and frames of reality out of my circle of obsessive memories. yasuho’s beautiful fingers crossing aside her ear, curling displaced locks of hair behind it when she saw him; making that cute little tic girls do when a smooth wave of air tickles the side of their faces, and that is precisely the same act they repeat when encountering with a guy they like. it is disgusting. it's been a while, really… i naturally first thought my impressions would be less intense at this point… but how fucking wrong i was. the situation appears to be even more personal and unbearable right now, as it has been since the accident. at first, anger poses my whole body; impulsive thoughts of violence all around. but that neural state doesn’t last long, no, and soon enough, i am eventually able to sense the dark shadow of sadness, the one and only, so present, so familiar, yet so corrosive.
yesterday i came home after college and cried. it was one of those confusing evenings, although nothing specific happened. i merely felt like a bullied fat kid, so hollowly babbling around the corners of the campus with few casual colleagues - never friends, never mates and never, at least, even the slightly intrigued by my presence. so i got home and cried. inside my room, it was dark and gelid, as always. tremors affected me when, suddenly, the door opened. josuke entered. i have no fucking clue how he heard the sounds and no idea of why he cared enough to enter my room and sit beside me on the floor. whatever: it has no locks, anyways, this place. and it is actually so messy, you know... this fetid claustrophobic garage i am forced to live in since josuke himself took the good quarters away from me. it is not like the rest of our house: by the night, the cold wind always sneaks between the door’s cracks. well. he tried to dialogue with me. puppy eyes, calm tone, that pure and classic bullshit… usual girly nonsense and more. too much eye contact was never really my thing. but fuck him and his clerical discourse; my sobs were not to soften.
then he stole my tears, that dumb whore. i became unable to physically cry, but it was useless, because i was still feeling like less than shit, and my urges to vomit were too grievously strong to ignore. so yes, i did it: i threw up. what kind of advantage could i acquire from lying here? i am not slightly embarrassed. what’s new? everyone knows who i am, how decadent i am. my lack of self-hope comforts any flame of ego that could have survived inside of me. not only did i throw up, but told josuke to fuck off soon after. he left at once, going upstairs. it dizzied me. besides any logic, besides the nostalgic great times i once spent there, my old room is now his. he stole my room, my family, my only and true love… now, not yet satisfied, he is flirting with the crumbs of my fragile sanity. fuck, he stole too much already, and i want to steal something from him too.
i’m an atheist. i think, long ago, society's most powerful men decided to establish control by designing made-up myths and taking the fortune of the most desperate, poor, vulnerable, and ignorant people. that’s all religion is to me: it has always been a media of manipulation. so yes, there is no god, but i believe there are answers somewhere around. there have to be. i keep wondering … am i that unsavory and sick? why am i acting like a fucking coward? what the hell made you fall so deeply in love with an evasive stranger, a confessed thief, yasuho? i understand that these are nothing but circular and useless questions with sequestrated answers. but months had passed. years of lost efforts and unregulated cardiac beats. and what did i get out of it all, in the end? this. the phantom presence of my right arm echoing along with yasuho’s coordination. i wish i were exaggerating. i know it was not like a regular donation or transplant... there is something intrinsically weird about the method of the exchange, i’m so very sure of it. and i’m also sure we are capable of feeling it, both me and yasuho. apart from everything, i have always had a strong sense of intuition. since that one day, we have not been quite the same.
fuck this. in the last economics class, everything evolved into an even more critical plight. the clock struck the middle of the period when i felt josuke’s hands grabbing hers and wanted to throw up again. the dead cells of my arm were squirming somewhere else, and i was participating in the totality of it. sweat dripping from my jaw. but the acknowledgment of my heart pumping faster and faster, lined up with hers and his, was the epiphany of disgrace to me. one paragraph per day, she said. however, I suppose I barely can't formulate this undermost quantity of sentences. it doesn't matter, because i could not describe this anxiety even with the length of a bible available. it just vibrates on my nerves… the pain, the crooked bruises that were also taken from yasuho’s body that time. he is such a freak… how is the volume on his crotch this abnormal and irregular? it is ineluctable to despise every inch of my goose-pimply body.
josuke visited my room again today. i was not crying nor gurgling on the floor, but there were lingering elements of nausea plaguing me. i cannot forget the touch of his restless ankle hitting the front leg of my bed. with his words and presence, the garage became ten times smaller; and yet, it got as well so warm, convenient. as it has been said, i hate myself deeply. we talked about yasuho, to describe it in short. oh, and he told me she has not been feeling cheerful lately, despite her impeccable superficial appearances. my sweet yasuho, too strong and too brave, covering her aches way better than me. what doesn’t she do better than me, i wonder. what do i know how to do, really? there has to be something. the dialogue was vague and quite concise, but it connected missing points of my personal puzzle: after all, the strange, illogical thrills and daydreams were crossing her conscience as frequently as mine. it made stuff clearer and proved that the kinesthesia was not just a theory created in the periphery of my lunatic brain. what i do not understand yet, nonetheless, is what was with the occasional sighs? there is some kind of occult objective captivating enough to make him bare his monster-like spaced teeth? staring too long, with too-long lashes flashing his bright intersected pupils. i am stuck in an insane curse and grossed out by it. there’s no cure: something feral grows inside my veins every time i see his stupid fucking face, and i want to steal something from him too.