Peroxide (Peterick)

I've been dead since 2005

I was fifteen years old when I died.

There was no warning label packaged with it — the occurrence just fucking transpired, and I was expected to keep up with the number of knife strokes from a promise engraved into my stomach, but how can you ask that of someone? How?

I didn't notice the streaks of crimson upon me at first, because I was too hypnotized by the bastard named Dallon Weekes, and there was that damn smile that just fucking shackled me to him, and I convinced myself that I actually wanted to be there with him, instead of safe in my home, and I likely caused my own murder.

He should've been my arch-nemesis, but he wasn't, and I was fucking insane for thinking that he was anything other than an abuser.

Truth is, Dallon injured me in ways I cannot describe. I was already messed up when I met him, but was okay with that, because at least I was taking care of myself, which I embodied when I endeavored to leave him, and all of this seems like a palpable encouragement that it wasn't my fault, but that will never be so, no matter what he did to me, because he may be an abuser, but he was an abuser with a purpose — my psychologist says that's the same mentality he finds in other victims, but it was evident that it was reality.

So I selected my poisons carefully, with an open palm towards the desolate sky, perusing the insignia of the various pill bottles and devouring every moment to study the effects it would have on my body, but it's not like I actually considered that, because I was ready to die in any shape.

Hydrogen peroxide unquestionably budded as the winner, and now I'm hooked on my own demise.

But none of it really meant anything, because Dallon Weekes was my only drug. He was the only one that could get me lost. He was the only one who interpreted that he couldn't possibly understand to every level. He was the only one that could make me feel like I was alive while fucking killing myself, and maybe he shouldn't have done so much for me, but he did, and I stuck around for a while because of it.

Very soon, I was unintentionally addicted to a metaphor, to a person that was always distant yet adorned with a magnified version of himself that was skillfully presented to the world, and every distinction between a monster and a blessing was hurled into the drain, considering I was too polluted by Dallon's charisma and too muddled by my own head to oppose myself, and an awful lot that did for me.

In my defense, throwing myself away like that seemed like the right thing to do. I was young and troubled and very much like I am now, and I would be the same if that event never developed, but in no way am I thankful for it.

True, I wouldn't be where I am today, but today entails panic attacks, entails monotonous meetings with a psychologist, entails destruction with every blink of an eye, and today I am confronted by my attacker for the first time in two years, and he constrains me to offer a challenge.

And here I am, floundering in those sapphire eyes that meant too much to me for it to be healthy, and a smile plays on Dallon's lips as if nothing ever happened at all.

"It sure has been a long time," Dallon spectates, towing a hand through his sepia locks and glancing around briefly before his gems alight on me. "What have you been doing?"

Nothing drips from my mouth, overshadowed by the shrunken position of my oculi, but as Dallon's expression tempts a response, I agree to it. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

My attacker leans in, bewildered. "No?"

I censor the urge to slap him across that fucking perfect face of his, clamping diplomacy over my jaw. "You know what you did to me."