Turpentine & Vetiver

11. Coordinates -I do not know myself completely-Franz Kafka

   I am tired of the pointless day to day, I usually don't get bored but my very existence is tedious, stagnant; seemingly meaningless. I wish that somebody understood how utterly dismal it is to be in my own head, Thorn thought, sitting at the table in the cold grey room. The metal fold-up chair was uncomfortable; yet the dark thoughts pervading his subconscious were even more so. Thus far he hadn't been given any indication that Inky was going to follow her curiosity, and he felt hopelessly alone.
   I have these self-destructive thoughts, yet my sense of self-preservation is stronger. One day, I too will slip away from this mortal coil. I am ashamed to be myself sometimes. I want someone else to suffer as I do, my knife to their throat as I bleed their consciousness away. I find their problems mundane, I sacrifice pieces of my time to patiently listen, unable to interject my own ideas or viewpoints. I want all of them to die, or go away and leave me alone.
   He remembered the words others had cruelly spoken about him his entire life, and stared down at the floor in frustration. I just intimidate them, they see me as wrong, sick, fucked-up; something to mock. I fear they truly don't get the point, and deny reality because fear of the unknown is infinitely worse to them... I cannot rest because my dark work is never done, and I'm so very tired. I wake up, paralyzed and screaming into the void. There is a void, a darkness within me where my heart should be, an endless abyss.
   The sudden pain of this realization made Thorn unreasonably angry, and he wanted nothing more than to feel something besides this terrible, painful emptiness. I want to feel something, anything real besides this fucking agony of being alive and trapped in my own head; constantly, consistently consumed by my own dark obsessions. He thought again of Inky; how she was the only one who made him feel -something- undefinable, yet he couldn't very well force her to come here, to see things from his perspective.
   I have a problem with control, I can't control any of their actions any more than I can my own thoughts. I dream of hurting them, killing them- yet will it truly make my wretched existence feel less empty, have more meaning? Humanity disgusts me. Thorn laughed humorlessly; a cold, hollow sound, and drank his black coffee, which had grown cold and bitter. I sit alone, drinking my coffee, plotting depravities and assorted atrocities- orchestrating murder in my mind. My dark thoughts are merely that; restless and relentless, spilling out like the blood that I so often fantasize about. I want to watch as the sanguine mess spills out chaotically into the night, staining the streets- the fleeting, fragile life fading from the eyes of whoever happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
   He shook his head, suddenly disgusted with himself- the self-loathing almost palpable. Maybe I should go away, spare them all the burdens of my endless rage, as I plaintively call out my bloodstained lament into the pure, dark night. I see the horrible eyes fixated on me, judgmental stares at my shadowy form. I am destruction, and I stare back, unfazed, and they avert their gaze. Nobody can even stand to look at me- am I really as disgusting on the outside, too? I know that I'm a monster -or worse- I won't try to deny it.
   Staring over at his hand in confusion, Thorn saw blood rising to the surface- pieces of the mirrored glass from the hallway shattered on the floor at his feet. Strangely, he didn't remember breaking the mirror- he barely felt the pain. He felt invisible, perhaps this time he'd truly lost his mind. Never had he felt so alone, and he wanted Inky to be there with him, but pushed the thought away. I've watched you from the window, you are invisible to them in a different kind of way. I sense your darkness is hidden, and it's beautiful to me. I contemplate what it would be like to not be so alone, but what's the point in further torturing myself? Life is fucking pain, layers of pain and hate and rage- I feel like I might as well disappear into the night, bleed into the darkness once and for all. He shook his head at the absurdity of ending his own life- wishing it were that easy.
   I wonder what they'd say- that it was expected, because they always knew that something was wrong with me? That much is true- however, I don't want to give them the sick satisfaction of not existing. My life has inherent value, as dark as it may be. Perhaps I should commit some terrible atrocity again, who would be the wiser? Inky- would you hate me then, too? I can't even imagine that, because you are in my constant, obsessive thoughts- though I dare not speak to you yet- for fear of how you'd react. I don't think that I could handle the rejection and betrayal again.
   Isobel's face came to mind, her look of pure disgust when she'd seen the scars on his arms- how she hadn't been concerned with his well-being at all- only angry at him for something he could not control, until he snapped and slit her throat, watched her die on his floor. Thorn never wanted that to happen with Inky- he wouldn't allow it. I'll just watch you like a creep, I AM a creep- my camera will record the evidence of your existence. I'll just watch you from afar, for fear of hurting you, and I will just contemplate scenarios in my head. Perhaps someday I might bring myself to talk to you- but today is not the day.
   Thorn stared up at the small red analog clock on his wall- it was the middle of the afternoon, and he was wasting time stuck in his own mind- feeling sorry for himself. You are pathetic, he thought disgustedly, finishing his neglected coffee. He wondered again if Inky had figured out the coordinates, and cursed himself for always being so weird and vague. He cleaned the pieces of broken mirror up off the floor, seeing his dark reflection in one of the jagged pieces. His eyes looked cold and haunted, dark as black holes in his pale face. He knew that staring into his eyes always creeped people out- as he never blinked or looked away first. Maybe I should work on my- staring problem, he reminded himself. It doesn't help that I'm already a goddamn psychopath. I wonder if Inky can sense it, and that's why she's avoided me...
   He finished cleaning up the hallway, and hung up some of the recent paintings he'd made on the charcoal grey walls- admiring the way the disturbing paint vortex looked- it was almost physically uncomfortable to look upon. The colors made him uneasy- layered dark reds (both paint and blood), greasy shades of greys, umber, and dark, murky sea green. It was framed by heavy gold- slightly obnoxious with the rest of his minimalist decor- which added to the overall weirdness of the piece. Thorn stood there for a minute, staring at the painting, when unexpectedly- he heard a car driving up the gravel pathway that led to the building.
   What the hell- nobody except for Cayson ever comes out here, and he's out of town right now. He walked slowly over to the door in confusion, which was replaced quickly by realization and then surprise when he heard the car park; the door open and close as the person got out. Inky was actually here, and was walking towards the dark building. The wind outside partially muffled her movement, and Thorn peered through a crack in the door. She stood nervously several paces away from the building, hands in her pockets, eyes searching her surroundings hesitantly. You're finally here. I was wondering if you'd ever show up.