Fucking emo

The Fucking End

Before long, we descended into the basement, a large and damp-smelling room. I made a rather futile attempt to turn on the lights, realizing they were no longer functional. Unexpectedly, my companion, clad only in his underwear, hobbled around until he located a power box. With some fumbling, he managed to restore the light. In truth, I had never given much thought to what he did or did not know. Aside from his appearance, which consisted of a fragile physique and an pretty face, he seemed rather insignificant in other aspects.

Once we had illuminated the room and the sun had set, I impulsively attacked him, delivering blows until he fell to the floor. I then dragged him by his black boxers and left him in a corner near a protruding pipe. The basement was one large space, scattered with foundation pillars, giving it both an open feel and a somewhat labyrinthine quality. In one corner, there was a makeshift shower and toilet seat without walls..

After a brief moment of surveying the surroundings, a sense of loneliness, fear, and panic enveloped me. I yearned for a different focus, a more meaningful occupation—anything, really.

My heart raced as I reached for my phone, only to find no signal. I ascended to the top of the basement stairs in search of reception, and there, I sent my first and only group message.

-----o-----

Suddenly, a deafening roar erupted, echoing endlessly within the basement room. The rhythm intensified, leading everyone present to start jumping.

I was inebriated, as the kegs had come and gone. The passage of time eluded me; I suspected it was nearing morning, yet the party showed no signs of waning.

I felt compelled to check on him. He remained tied to the toilet.

"Trashed" aptly described his state. He had been forcibly stripped and then dressed in underwear that didn't belong to him. Fragments of his original clothes clung to his emaciated frame, remnants of his cozy black hoodie, jeans, and shirt, all torn, soaked, trampled upon, wiped with, and dragged while he wore them.

He had been subjected to all manner of mistreatment, with defecating on him being off the table. After all, we were partying in that space. But I could smell someone had taken him upstairs and used him as their personal urinal.

His skin bore bruises, a broken lip, but thankfully, the bleeding from his nose had ceased. His face appeared slightly better than before, as if someone had recently cleaned it by submerging it in the toilet.

I couldn't resist the opportunity and flushed it a bit myself, if only to confirm that he was still breathing.

Gasping for air, he struggled after I held him firmly for a good 15 seconds, and a warm feeling washed over me. He hadn't abandoned me; he would remain by my side until the bitter end.

The fucking end.

I kicked him repeatedly—his groin, his gut, his face. I seized his soaked hair and dragged him around. I stretched the foreign, blood-stained briefs over his head, remnants of someone's twisted idea of justice, until they lodged beneath his injured nose.

More kicks followed, unimpeded by anyone. Before I knew it, a crowd had gathered. Dizziness overcame me, mingling with a strange sense of arousal. Drunk and intoxicated by power, I reveled in my dominance.

Power over him.

Power over his dignity.

Power over his life.

I could have kneeled and kissed him. I did kneel down and spit on his face.

I could have hoisted him over my shoulders and carried him out, becoming his savior.

We could have lived together. I knew it. Forever. He would have smiled every night as we reminisced about this evening because I had given him everything he desired and then saved him.

Barely conscious, he began murmuring my name repeatedly as I continued my onslaught, obliterating him.

I knew he loved me.

I knew he loved this.

I knew he would never ask me to stop.

I knew he would never express his desires.

And I...

I was merely angry because he wouldn't communicate with me. And I refused to communicate with him.

I wouldn't mend this. I detested my inability to fix things. We were spiraling downwards, hurtling towards the inevitable end.

As I circled him once more, stumbling due to my drunken state, I nearly fell. People started screaming, but their voices seemed distant. He lay there, a skeletal mess on the floor, covered in tight, wet white fabric.

Screams reverberated, and bodies continued to fall. Then, unexpectedly, a pipe on the ceiling burst, water rushing indoors in a bewildering fashion. Bulbs shattered, and before I comprehended what was happening, the carpeted area ignited.

He was near me.

His eyes fixed on me, wide open. I finally crumpled to the ground. The roof began to collapse.

It was an earthquake.

The house crumbled around us.

I know he saw death in my eyes. I don't think I ever saw him look at me that way. His beautiful blue eyes.

And now, feels like falling.

And as chaos unfolded, I began to masturbate. The cacophony of cracking stones, debris pelting me—I didn't care.

I couldn't see anyone but him.

I witnessed him as parts of the ceiling crashed down upon his legs.

I witnessed him covered in white dust.

And finally, the fire engulfed him. Or me.

Rocks rained down upon my head.

Water blinded me.

And eventually, the fire consumed me.

It was his fault. Because he never spoke up.

Because it was never his idea.

I hate him.

He could have said something.

But he said nothing.

I hate him because he couldn't trust me.

And I would have helped.

I would have cared.

But he was too consumed by his own ego.

His appearance.

His status.

His role.

All of it.

So. 

Fucking.

Emo.

☆