Peroxide (Peterick)

stand up for jesus

It's sickening, and I want it to end. Dallon shouldn't be conversing with Lindsey, especially not so joyfully, and Lindsey shouldn't be so susceptible to his magic, or whatever it is that Dallon claims to have.

I'm enraged by both of them right now as I witness this treason from the threshold where they could only see me if they turned around and broke free of their petty games, which would be half what I want and half what I don't, because on one side, they would finally come to their senses, but on the other side, they would catch me spying on them, and though it's for any profit why I'm doing such a thing, it's not like they'll know or care while the only thing that's logical is that I'm stalking them, but I'm not responsible for cursing something that should've never happened in the first place.

Things were moving on a steady rate, but one sight begins the fluctuation of my heartbeat with an unbridled intensity as my fists tremble with rage.

They're laughing. Together.

Lindsey Ballato definitely doesn't deserve to be manipulated by an attacker that fucked me up in the mind with twice the blow than I fucked myself up, and if Lindsey's doing fine and has no idea what it's like to suffer, then she's in for complete devastation once the storm scalds the earth.

As a human, it's my duty to separate such treachery from both tails, but I'm paused by an erratic swipe of the arm that wounds my stomach with dread.

I don't know what's happening, just that I'm convulsing on the floor with my friends suddenly swarming me to find a solution to a woe that no one can label.

Someone that I barely recognize to be Pete slides a pillow under my head in an attempt to protect me from my own muscle spasms, and his motions are frantic, because he has no clue what to do in this kind of ordeal — no one does, but the others are trying somewhat adeptly to assist, while he loves me too much to act diplomatically.

Even Dallon is checking to make sure that nothing is in my mouth for me to choke on, as if he cares when I choke on a daily basis, albeit both metaphorically and in the form of post-traumatic panic attacks, and I presume he is cognizant of the connotations, so he proceeds to loosen the buttons near my neck, though that's not much of an improvement, as both actions prevent choking, but he's kind of doing his best.

"Hello? 911?" Gerard wails into the speaker, and I have no idea why he's doing that, because I'm not sure what's transpiring at the current moment, but I at least realize that it's probably not worthy of the American emergency phone number — I'm not that significant to anyone, and whatever this malady is should be the host of my funeral and shouldn't be relinquished for perfect health.

I've envisioned my funeral many times before, and my friends were nowhere in the dreary landscape to lament for my rotting corpse. There was only a well anticipated rendezvous with death, but we would merely stand there with a tacit bond around each other, and in some ways it was like an inversion, because I was tanner and happier and smiling, and the scene depicted itself as real life when "living" was only death, causing this funeral of mine to be all the more charming until I desired it to come sooner.

And maybe it was tragic for me to apprehend such ghastly events, but everything was still and silent, whereas this life is teeming with paroxysms as of late, and you can't blame me for admiring my downfall as it's perceived to others when the downfall perceived by myself is much worse.

It's a consolation, though, when I am conscious of the fact that my perceived downfall is nearing, and that it's not as bad as others would have me think, so I believe I got lucky in the range that others don't. Nevertheless, I still had to endure the hell that is daily life, and that's much more prolonged than a single funeral, so there's no deciding which group swept through the bed of roses with a smile and retained enough optimism to do the same through the thorn bush.