⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ACT ONE ⇢ Sucker Punch. PART FOUR, The Scorpion and the Frog
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
FADE IN: SCENE ONE DAY TWO— 4:42 PM
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₊˚ˑ🐋🌪*ೃ༄
THERE ARE THINGS IN THIS CRUEL WORLD that are made clear from a young age. Things that are distilled into prepubescent moldable minds. Rules that were learnt in kitchens with curious fingers over the stoves blue flames, rather than rooms willed with bruised knees, pigtails, or mismatched socks. When the charismatic flames lick ones finger, they enforce one of these rules (arguably the easiest of which to grasp; don't touch fire, it hurts). Although this one wasn't easy for Tom to grasp. The flames would leave red patchy callouses wherever they had kissed his skin.
There were many rules, or fundamental truths, that Tommy hadn't quite learnt. Perhaps, it's not that he learnt them, but, he wanted to question them (as all humans with rational thought would). Tommy for one hadn't quite grasped that you must sleep every single day. No matter how many times he would faint after sleepless nights, he'd continue to question, continue to test his hypothesis; how long can one stay awake?
Of course, Tommys testing was reserved for increasingly concerning spirals. Perhaps, one would propose, this was a desire to be numb. To turn himself into a corpse; to rot. Catastrophic silence in place of ones mine seems more welcoming than a sea of thorns. Or, in stark contrast, one could argue that it was the enthralling grasp of self destruction. A desperate attempt to answer a plethora of toxic questions.
How far can my body truly go? How much can it take before it's completely and utterly gone? When will I become dust? What will be my end; the blood, the bags under my eyes, or the weightlessness of my body? Will the weight of my bones turn me to ash— will it hurt— will it ache when I crumble?
Tommy was currently letting the scalding water turn his skin a blotchy shade of pink. Rather than addressing the situation that took place in his room earlier, he'd decided to flee the scene. He wished he could turn the water up higher. He wanted to caress the flames. To inject his veins with gasoline and burn. He wanted, as Kafka would say, the relief of giving in to destruction. He wanted to feel the warmth of the flames hugging his slender frame, then, at least someone would want to hold him.
I want to burn. I need to burn. I want to melt away. I want the flames to call me their own. I want to burn,
"I want to burn." Tommy had to say it, even though the water rushing onto the tiled floor drown out the words. If he didn't, it would've stayed in his mind. Uncertainty and isolation had raised him, nurtured him into a lone wolf. And, perhaps that was why he had to speak his mind in solitude. If the words hadn't fallen from his lips had he ever thought them at all?
