Fucking emo

Fucking toilet water

I had never witnessed someone drinking so much fucking toilet water before. As the audience left the room, his boxer briefs clung tightly to his face, smothering him, drenched and dripping. He appeared intoxicated.

"Talk to them," she had urged me in therapy, "Express your feelings and show them that nobody deserves to die. Everyone has value."... but the I could hear it vividly again now, it seemed pointless.

Exhausted from the physical strain of repeatedly lifting him upside down and up and down again, I still approached him in the stall. Leaning over his shoulder, I whispered into his ear.

"You know, Alex... friends confide in each other," I said, attempting to be sincere. However, my words unintentionally carried a mocking singsong tone, typical of how I interacted with him. Despite my best efforts to concentrate and convey my message, he remained unresponsive, solely focused on breathing through the soaked fabric pressing against his face. My anger surged, and I dunked his face, wedged with the fabric, into the bowl, rinsing it a few more times.

"My eyes hurt because I can't sleep. It's been three nights," I continued, forcing his head back into the bowl as he gasped for breath, struggling to avoid drowning. I flushed and rinsed.

"It's just... I feel utterly lonely, and that's a new sensation... and you, you tried to kill me or something. I've never cared about anyone until I met you. You and your fucked-up life," I confessed, flushing his head a couple more times.

"I don't know why it's important for me to tell you this. I wish we could grow closer, even though I fucking hate you, and you make me act and laugh like a fool... I know it's not your fault, or maybe it is. I don't care," I admitted, flushing again, holding him beneath the water until he was literally drowning.

"Just wanted you to know, I love you, even though you're messed up," I confessed, amazed at my own words. Even though he couldn't hear it underwater, I could see him kicking in despair. After a moment, I pulled his head out.

"And I also fucking hate you. Is it messed up that I want to be near you?" I questioned between his gasps for air. He nodded, paying attention, and I felt a warmth inside. He could be so endearing in moments like these.

Releasing his head, he unwittingly slammed his nose against the ceramic bowl, causing blood to seep through the fabric. Although I wanted to lift the fabric and inspect the damage, I knew that if I saw his face, I would spit on it or slap it. So, I simply stood up and left.

"Thanks for listening," I shouted back as I exited. "Talking might actually make a difference, I guess."

☆