Work Text:
Infected, I don't know who he is. I never knew him.
People say I have, but that's not true. Whoever I used to hang out with, that didn't let me drown in my misery, the shoulder I could cry on, was not Infected. That is not him. What happened to him.
I'm always looking at a stranger.
Everytime I talk to him I feel like I'm talking to a corpse. The dead body of someone that I used to know and isn't around me anymore.
I just cannot see him in the face anymore, because he's never there.
I wish I could say I hope he'll be back, but I don't want to stick to that hope. I'm not ready for disappointment. For loss. Again. To realize that I'm lying to myself, so I just won't do it. Again.
Rage. Never thought a lamp could feel that. Rage. So much rage. I can never be in control, I can't control this. Rage, things can never go how I want them to go. This is wrong.
Is not objective anymore. Nobody knows, makes me rage. Makes the metal articulation of my fingers in my cold artificial hands crack.
Infected doesn't care, he never does.
Everyone's indifference makes me rage. How no one notices that there's a dead body in this elevator. The odor is unbearable, maggots disguised as colorful raccoon tails clinging to his hair and and clothes that no one would wear in life unless they were rotting in a coffin, this elevator. None of that belongs to an actual living and conscious person, not the one I met once. Rage.
The stimulus of current running with disgust through my circuits feels similar to what the sensation of impending sour vomit being shot down my throat would be. Probably.
I always wanted to have a stomach, just so that it could puke everything that's bad inside of me from my system instead of me having to do it myself.