It wasn’t the first time he had done this; it probably wouldn’t be the last either. He sat in his mechanical chair, staring at the white, blank walls surrounding him. He wondered, why go through all this trouble for someone that hated him, why did he enjoy this so much if it always hurt him in the end? Whatever the answer to those questions may be, he didn’t really care right now.
The needle poked out of his skin just barely, she was his addiction, his nymphetamine. The fluid he injected himself with was an odd one, inside it were a million little hers, they stared up at him and laughed as he considerately killed himself to please her, and slowly pressed them, one by one, deep into his skin. He always did this after he felt bad, came to her for help, he probably shouldn’t but at least it helped him, made the depression go away for just a little bit longer.
The fluid pressed into him, it made him calmer, happy, and ready to face what was outside this room once again. He had become slightly more addicted, but he didn’t really mind it, whatever to keep whatever off of his mind. His bonds loosened, the chair slowly bolted itself back down into the floor, and once again he began to miss her, but he couldn’t have too much of her, she was too far away and there wasn’t enough of her to go around. He had known he was becoming more addicted for awhile, but he believed it was for the best, now… Now, he wasn’t so sure.
He walked towards that blank white door, surrounded by those blank white walls. He felt as if he could stay in here forever, and just watch the world burn away, but he knew that wasn’t the right choice, knew that wouldn’t help him in the end. So he moved his feet, slowly but surely, moving closer to that door to put him back into the world. He dragged them across the floor, moving slower than a crawl, but at least he could still move, every time he did this, it became harder and harder to leave this place.
With every step he took, he could feel it all building back up in him again, the depression, the hate, the jealousy, moving closer to the world, it all began to come back to him, and he wished more and more that he could stay here and slowly drift away. His legs began to speed up, the room rushed by, it all moved by so quickly, all of the emotion came back to him, he felt his normal self again, but he still wanted her, still needed her.
He opened the door, and it all flooded into him again, now more than ever he wanted her, but he had to keep moving, because if he didn’t it really would kill him. He walked back into his little world, a room filled with gray. A ledge with his contraption lay at the end, his contraption to help her, to make her feel better about herself. It wasn’t anything really, just something to hold him up, metallic claws reached out of a center ball which was attached to the ceiling with a chain.
He sprinted quickly across the room, began hooking himself up again, anything to get more of her, to pleasure her so that she would pleasure him. He hooked himself in, felt those claws bite into his shoulders and bleed him once more, felt that excruciating pain again, but he had felt it so many times before that it felt like nothing. He lifted himself up again; he hooked himself into the contraption, and without a second thought, jumped off the ledge. He fell down several thousand feet, instantaneously into the darkness.
Then, once more, he stared into her eyes, though they weren’t really hers, that wasn’t really her, she seemed hidden, but then he felt hidden, neither of their emotions showing. She stood in the center of the room, about five feet eight inches tall with a beautiful mess of natural red hair. Looking at her, he thought just like the first time he had seen her that she was just a vulnerable little girl.
She too had come from her troubles, though hers were different, xenon troubles, he couldn’t understand them even if he wanted to. She lived a dream, her eyes were clouded when she stared at him, he couldn’t see hate or pleasure in her eyes, but he always assumed it was hate, no matter what she told him. She maneuvered up to him; her clumsy yet cute feminine walk carried her right up next to him. She stared into his eyes, but he couldn’t see anything in hers.
He told her he’d always be there for her, that he’d do anything to make her feel alright, stared into those dead, delusional, and gorgeous eyes and told her that he’d do anything for her. She told him that she didn’t want to see him hurt, that she didn’t want to see him sad, but she didn’t seem to know she caused it all. She hugged him, and he felt pain that she would never love him the way he did her, that no matter what he did, she’d always be the same with him. But she told him that he could always hope, that maybe one day she would, and he lived happily in that lie.
Then she complained to him. Complained to him about her life, how no one she loved loved her, how she felt worthless because of it, how nothing else mattered besides that other person. She always did this, but she would never come out and tell him she thought he was worthless, that she never did and never would love him. It was things like this that made him feel horrible, that she didn’t count his opinion or his feeling for anything, that the tears streaming down his face didn’t matter to her, even as they dampened her beautiful hair.
She began to beat him, beat him for the troubles that she had. But this always happened to him, he felt that he calmed her down, but she continued to beat him into the wall. She didn’t even care about his emotions or feelings at this point, he had tried showing signs of discomfort before, but she had just continued beating him, and this time he wasn’t even going to put in the effort. His face became bloody, his hands became pulp, and her face became stained with him, her entire body began to be stained. Her face became ugly, her once beautifully curved body became flat, her once gorgeous hair became greasy and clumps began to fall out, but her eyes remained the same, they always did.
Within minutes, he floated staring into the ugliest thing he had ever seen, someone who took advantage of those she cared about and manipulated them to better help herself, committing the ultimate acts of selfishness, and then acting like she didn’t. Once again, he felt dead inside, once again, he needed her more than ever, once again, he hated himself for loving her. He floated in mid air, as she walked away, hating him for every problem she had. Maybe she saw every problem she had in him, maybe she just hated him and kept him around to beat, regardless of what it was, she was finished with him for now.
His contraption flew him back up the several thousand feet of darkness he had fallen through, it moved back onto the ledge, dropped him, and waited for him to go back to ‘comfort’ her again. He fell down onto the cold gray floor, and began crawling back into his room of apathy. Touched the door, in gray from this side, and moved into that room of white. The door closed, he was entrapped in white, the pulp that was now his hands and arms attempted to drag him back to his chair, his chair came back up from the ground, and he crawled into it. The masses of flesh and blood that he was at the moment were strapped into the chair, and the process began over again.
The needle poked into his skin, he let her into himself again, she flowed and his depression left, his anger left, he felt pure, blinding happiness again, and once again, she began considerately killing him. His being began to be recreated, his flesh was remade, his organs came back, his blood flowed back to his veins, his face came back. He sat there, whole and new again ready to face it one more time, ready to help her again, ready to begin his torturous existence again, ready to take every single hit she threw at him.
His bonds loosened, he stared at the walls around him, pure, blinding white. Began to crawl back to the door, slower than ever, and completely expected, he needed her again. His hands pawed at the ground, he was exhausted, he never slept, but he continued to move, continued to pleasure her in every way he possibly could and receive almost nothing in return. Crawled towards the door
It had been this way since he could remember, though it wasn’t always her who he lived for. He continued hustling, struggling, but this time he wasn’t sure he could. He continued to slow and slow and this time he stopped. He couldn’t do it anymore, couldn’t take it, couldn’t do it. The nymphetamines, the beatings, the chair, the contraption, and most of all, her, so he laid his head down on the floor, the hard white floor. He let sleep take him; let himself fall into total bliss. Let himself be pulled into darkness, hoping he would die and be saved, hoping that this torture would soon end, that this apathetic mass of flesh that he called beautiful would eliminate herself from his mind, and she did, and so did everything else. He surrounded himself in darkness, in black.
None.
