Fucking emo

The fucking sun

The Fucking Sun was blinding, but not overwhelmingly hot. A gentle breeze brushed against us as we met on the porch of the house. Together, we walked towards the back.

He wore a black hoodie and torn jeans, looking snug and fresh. Soon, a wave of anger rushed over me. I swiftly tackled him to the ground, effortlessly overpowering him. Grabbing hold of his left foot, I dragged him towards the back. As I pulled, his hoodie and t-shirt rolled up, eventually covering his face.

I yanked his pants down to his ankles and removed his shoe. With it, I shattered the last large window at the back, granting us easy access inside.

The house appeared mostly empty, although not completely devoid of belongings. It seemed as if the previous occupants had never bothered to furnish it much.

"Strip down," I ordered him once we were inside, and I proceeded to explore the rest of the place. It had three stories, and the master bedroom contained a mattress. The master bathroom stood out with its large, out-of-place jacuzzi. In another room, I noticed police tape and blood-stained carpets.

A peculiar smell lingered, one I couldn't quite identify. I wondered if it was the scent of decaying flesh, the very thing that attracted the neighbors' attention. Upon returning to the kitchen where we had entered, I found him standing there, wearing only black underwear.

He appeared thinner than usual, which gave him a disturbing presence, though his face remained round. His blue eyes stood out intensely, accentuated by eyeliner and shadow.

I moved closer and kissed him forcefully, mimicking what she had done to me. However, he did not respond to my kiss.

"Nicholas..." he uttered a few moments later, hesitating.

"You're fucking sorry," I interrupted, sensing my heart pounding harder and harder.

"I just..."

"You know what," I stared directly into his eyes. "Fuck you." With all my might, I punched him in the gut, knowing it would leave a bruise. He didn't attempt to hide the pain, yet a smile formed on his face.

Though I wanted to apologize, I couldn't bring myself to do so. Instead, I left him to his own suffering as he writhed in pain.

I had spent countless days trying to figure out how to fix this, how to fix him. Yet, all I could think about when looking at him was how much he deserved to suffer. It was what he deserved.

"I want to be your fucking friend," I spat at him.

Silence followed. He avoided eye contact, gazing into the distance. I knew I would never say those words again.

"Why?" he finally asked.

That question infuriated me. What did he care? Maybe it was because I wanted to, because he was attractive, or perhaps I wanted to see what they... what we were going to do to him next. But I knew what came next.

I stepped away from him, studying his skinny, nearly naked figure and his partially concealed face under the long fringes.

He was entirely mine to dismantle.

Completely.

Utterly.

There was no turning back. That was what came next.

"It's not you," he unexpectedly remarked. "I just... bring out the worst in people... and make them hate themselves for it. And when that becomes too much, they find it easier to hate me."

"It's the curse, right?" I attempted to mock him.

"Right," he responded, dead serious. I knew he was thinking about the deaths, and perhaps, his own.

"What are you going to do to degrade yourself today?" I asked.

Why was I saying those words? I couldn't comprehend it at the time. I wasn't like this. I wasn't cruel... before him, I wasn't violent... before him. Right?

"You know it's going to be more than that," he replied, his tone dripping with condescension. It messed with my mind. It's not like I wanted any of this.

I struck him in the face. Once. Twice...

He tried to shield himself, whimpering, but he never pleaded for me to stop.

Blow after blow, I continued to strike his head as forcefully as I could. Once he was dazed enough, I stood up, grabbed his legs, and found myself dragging him around. He felt weightless.

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