Lines

Desert Shoes

You know what sucks more than possibly feeling every single pain of death, accepting it and deciding it's your time long before you even take your life? Living through that just to be crowded, suffocated, pitied, and looked down on like an abandoned puppy. It may sound marvelous to those who seek the attention but it's not, they don't treat you the same, they treat you like a china doll. They want to lock you up to keep you safe, no one can touch you, you can't move, you can't go anywhere all while people are just gathering around you breathing on your neck.

There are those who can be perfectly fine with laying on your back, arms pinned at your sides, staring at the ceiling for hours. They don't feel that itch, the stinging feeling you have and soon you just want to scream at the top of your lungs and completely just dance the goddamn tango at that moment because lying there is not something you can just do.

That's the way I feel sitting here in this too white of a god damn room. I've been to the hospital tons of times but the ones I've been sent to would have those small designs that dimmed the angelic glowing room sensation from the white on. Every. Single. Thing. But not this one because oh no I had to be put in my own room away from any other patients, I'm guessing this is what happens just before they pull your family out into the hall, form the once again idiocy of a conclusion that we could talk this out, my parents would fall for the bull crap and when I continue with my sarcastic, little bastard of an attitude I have managed to use to push every person away. I end up in the loony-house.

Only I've had a growing suspicion since I was five years old that my mother wasn't human and neither was anyone else, everyone was a robot and I was in a simulation, every move I make has been calculated and determined therefore if I murder to see if they have actual bones and meat, the person I would have chosen to murder would've been a robot prepared and designed for that exactly, therefore I can only suspect but never prove.

My mother was the exception, I have a special theory about her. She's a giant alien leech. She's out to get me and I've noticed recently she's tried wrapping herself around me entirely, ready to suck the life out of me. If anyone offered to do that I'd probably give them a million dollars and thank them for it, except my mother, It's annoying to have her constantly around. I mean if you're going to kill someone, do it. Don't sit around looking at them and admiring them before you do because it just makes me want to punch you in the face and tell you "GET ON WITH IT!"

I act like I don't care but with every choice I make I regret them and I feel like just stopping, not speaking and not doing anything that might include some kind of contact that will lead to a conversation or a second decision to be made because that's where I usually screw things up. Unfortunately by not moving the finish line will not walk over, punch you in the face and say "GET ON WITH IT", because if it did I mean it's right there I might as well, get on with it.

So here I am sitting. Waiting. Thinking about ways I could murder everyone in this room because those are actually sane thoughts, look it up. And sitting some more. Getting extremely pissed at this point. Internally groaning and screaming so loud that I'm afraid everyone in the room might hear me.

After about a million years of internal groaning my family came to the conclusion that they weren't wanted. Gee...now, where on earth did they get that message? I believed that I'd be alone in the room, I was wrong naturally.

The boy who had 'saved' me was stepping into the room, he had a small scar on the side of his jaw, ruffly black hair, black eyes framed by his black and blue glasses, a green shirt, some blue jeans, and his desert shoes? Odd character, he seemed interesting but I didn't want him to stay around long.

I wondered how little this hospital actually cared about my safety if they'd let a random stranger walk right in here. I wanted to jump right out of my bed and beat him, hoping he'd fight back on instinct and actually kill me. Too bad I still had feelings, this guy looked miserable, tired and guilty. Of course he'd probably figured out that I had wanted to be hit by the bus. Now I feel like a dick, my line has had yet another fatal encounter, not fatal to me. At this point I could conclude that I'm immortal, nothing ever kills me. I've tried so many things to know, I only end up hurting those who cross into my line, stepping into the hell surrounding me, the one with no escape and soon they begin to rot inside, loosing it because they can't face the depressing truth that there's no getting me out of here.

Okay maybe this guy had walked in here just to apologize for 'saving' me, as crazy as that sounded but when you've been in my place long enough. He's screwed. The simplest contact means dragging you with me to hell, no matter how short or long of a time period our lines entwine in the end one of us is hurt, or maybe I'm just hoping someone will stick around long enough for that. It's usually just everyone else loosing it, not being hurt but loosing their patience with me. Loosing all the motivation they've had to try and help. Loosing themselves for getting wrapped up in my problems. But never hurt.

I had to let this guy say his apologies, I accept them, and let him move right along with his life unharmed. Although there was something off in the way that he walked into the room, he didn't have that feeling to him. The feeling as if he had just come here to do that. I was right.

"What's your favorite color?" He asked sitting down on a chair beside my bed.

This was going to be a long long meet and then leave my life for good.

What the hell was this guy hiding up his sleeve?