she took me home and spit in my drink [r]

[micheline bonheur]

i only photograph my fascinations
until the stress of the flash makes them fade

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In the long run, we’re all dead.

So, why do people dwell on things? The thoughts of their mistakes, of their childhood, of their future, it just cycles and cycles forever. It made no sense, because in retrospect every action that they would take would simple lead them one step closer to their demise. Be it natural causes, homicide, suicide – it would all come to a stop, a dead end. The only way that one could immortalize his or her existence was by doing something special, memorable. Even if there was living family, eventually his life would be forgotten down the bloodline, even though his name was shared with great-grandsons. To be famous was to be remembered, but even the most brilliant died. Everyone died. No escape, no turning back from the point of no return. Everything came down to nothing. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. They all fall down. It was a scary thought, a depressing ending point on the arc of life. And, once one came to that black hole, they never saw the light again.

In taking the time to nitpick every aspect of one’s life, they were simply wasting all of that precious time between that moment and death. Who wanted to simply sit and stall, do nothing? No point of ever existing if all you did was just watch the minutes tick by and roll over when the time came. Those that sat and mulled over the past were wasting just as much time as those that were desperately piecing together their futures. The present was the time to exist. The past could be reflected on and understood, realizing mistakes and using them as information in current events. The future could be an ideal, a glimpse, but it wasn’t something to continually think about. Everything changes, everything can change. One minute you could be having the time of your life, completely set, and the next everything just falls apart. It made absolutely no sense to do anything else but live. But, everyone was so down. So intent on continuing to sit down and just think, not act. Did they want to die this way?

Roxanne was one of these people. The philosophy of ‘live like today is your last day’ never applied to her. ‘Fun’ was an obtrusive aspect in her life for her days were routine. Living in the place of her work decided this ever more solidly. The rut that she had dug consisted simply of doing her daily chores, eating at almost specific times, and then taking some down time to play cards or sleep until the next day. Blocks of time separated for her, places for her to go. When everything was neatly packed into this, she could live in such a chaotic house. Ignore the patients, don’t talk or interact with them more than necessary. Smile at the staff, make nice with the boss. Eat three square meals a day, don’t slurp your soup. Routines, rules. Her life was in a single line – or at least she liked to imagine it that way.

That line that she drew as the steadiness of her existence wobbled. Her steady schedule intermingled with her backwards thoughts, and her strict diet lessened as she drifted into the past. Mistakes, mistakes, mistakes. The way that she had sneered such stupid things at her mother. How she slammed the door. Her inability to pay the rent. In second grade, how she smacked that poor kid across the face and expected to be backed up. When she came home drunk after he eighteenth birthday and ended up getting smacked by her mother. Screaming pointless things towards her sister, who had just told them that she was accepted into grad school. Her past was disgusting, and she looked back everyday and reminded herself of it. Even her unfailing optimism crashed down at the thought, tears sprung from the blue of her eyes and dribbled only halfway before she could raise a shaking hand and wipe them. This, more so than anything else, was her routine.

But, she did smile at the staff. She did avoid the patients (for the most part). Sometimes, when she didn’t wake up with her pulse racing, she could put on a smile – even if it was merely part of her uniform – and talk with a tone that was brighter, borderline cheerful. Bright thinking made her want to face the days with the hopes that her run at this gig would be over soon. Grab the money and go, be done with all of these people that simply clung to her so that they could watch her writhe beneath them in pain. Uselessly, she tried to believe that there was a happier future out there for her. She wouldn’t be stuck here forever.

Right?

Now, glassy-eyed with reminiscing, Roxanne looked into her bowl of cereal. Two or three bites had been taken out of it at an earlier moment, before her memories had caught up to her and shoved something distasteful down her throat. Her hands were positioned with the heels on her temples, stretching the skin there and bringing a slight pain that she chose to endure. This was how she passed the time, stuck in a place where she couldn’t get up. Mulling, dissatisfied with her current self because of what a past self had done. Her death was ticking closer, but she ignored the fact that she was wasting her precious sands of time by sitting there and wanting to cry. No voice in the back of her head enticed her to rise or put a smile on her motionless lips. Live, live, live. Why wasn’t there somewhere here to tell her that, to make her believe that?

The minutes passed and her cereal had ended up absorbing most of the milk, a sickly sweet scent wafting from it. While she did not move, it invaded her thoughts and made her feel sick, like that feeling that had clogged her throat longed to force itself back out. She wondered what it looked like, this emotion. But, instead of sticking her finger inwards to call it out, she pushed her breakfast away from her with one stiff hand. Three square meals a day, her ass.



word count: lol who cares. 8(
muse: wahaha.
tag: victor riddle.
notes: it's kind of jumpy and just full of philosophical mumbo jumbo. 8U
credit: the lyrics are st. exquisite's confessions by of montreal. who put it together? me.

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the danger is real, but I'm mute to the feeling
we started by giving each other interesting sobriquets

[victor riddle]

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i want to know what's going on in that pretty little head of yours

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where everyday's a bone palace ballet ![/i][/size][/font]
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Victor had never felt so alive. It was as though his move to the Alabaster House had encouraged his bad behavior rather than seek to contain and correct it. Every little detail -- every little conversation and confrontation -- set him alive in ways the outside world had failed to. But that wasn't to say that he enjoyed living here. Oh, no, not at all. Though there were no rules housed between these blood-stained walls, he longed to slink back into a world where sanity was the norm; where it was his to manipulate like a puppet master pulling gingerly at the strings. He certainly didn't think any less of himself in this setting, but the madhouse constantly vexed him with its many obnoxious inhabitants. So many of these freaks tried to stand on his level. Too many of them. It was beginning to grate on his nerves. Though he could satisfy his bloodlust so often, claiming that he sought to appease Arlynn with a high ANTi-HOLiC body count, it was really just some excuse to flex his wings and keep from growing restless. One would think an asylum couldn't possibly bore someone like Victor who thrived off trying to peel apart various psyches, but the sociopath was not content with mingling amongst those who clearly could not control themselves. He was so very high above them. It was degrading when he was forced to even acknowledge them, let along ally himself with some of them. He was someone who delighted in chaos, but only when there was normality which it could disrupt. When everything was already havoc... well, then madness was the new norm. Victor was growing tired of it, in some respects.

He made his way to the kitchen, craving tea to keep himself calm. He was a man who liked control, after all. Control could not be maintained unless he was calm and composed. He knew that well enough by now. Long fingers raked through his silver mane and he exhaled a sigh as he roamed the halls in languid strides. He was never hurried... he was never rushed... The world moved at God's will, didn't it? And so it would move to Victor's as well. He was an atheist, oddly enough. Unless there was a religion that had named him divine creator... If that was the case, then he'd be perfectly happily supporting such a cult. In the mean time, though, he found no reason to waste energy trying to adhere to the whims of those around him. He called the shots. Oh yes, Victor always called the shots. His twin brother had learned that, hadn't he? In due time, anyway. Vic could vaguely recall the memories of a life he'd had before he'd been shipped off to this godforsaken house. He remembered staying up late with his brother, trying to encourage nightmares whenever he told him ghost stories with a flashlight tilted towards his face. Sometimes, he missed the little whimpers... the wide, anxious eyes like that of a timid doe... the bowed, shy head... He'd driven his brother to paranoia, you know. After so many years of hiding animal corpses beneath his bed and in his shoes... of leaving hands, fingers, tongues, and eyes in his sock drawer and school bag, it was almost disheartening when he realized the boy wasn't around anymore. Good times, indeed. Once his brother had been carted off to a mental hospital, Vic had moved on to bigger and better things. But, oh how he'd missed his twin. Not in love, admiration, or connection... but because he'd been left with no toys to play with. Though here, in the House, he had plenty, he still could not find one who could compare to the boy he'd once shared a bunk bed with. Perhaps blood really was thicker than water...

As amusing as memories were, Vic was never impressed with himself when he waltzed down memory lane. Truth be told, he hated dwelling in the past. He hated admitting to any connection of any sort, particularly those associated with people in his lifetime. No one was special. No one stood out. Everyone was a pawn in his little chess game; everyone was his to move across the board with a flick of his finger. And, in the end, everyone was expendable. So he spoke very little of his past life. No one here would ever have to know about it. He'd decided that early on when one of his fellow HOLiC members had asked him about those experiences he'd shoved aside. Said member had later hung himself in the showers. Or, at least, it was made to look that way. The man groaned gently to himself as he entered the kitchen, annoyed with where his mind wandered as he set about boiling water for the tea he was now quite determined on making. Some of his teeth clenched on the inside of his lip and he was quick when it came to sorting through the cabinets in search of a cup, saucer, and the kind of tea here he'd taken a taste to. Luckily, he didn't have to wait long for the water to heat up. He wasn't in the mood to be left to his own thoughts and was hopeful that he'd be able to drink his tea in peace and quiet. An odd hope for someone so... malevolent... but he had no desires to play with the various bratty adolescents who frolicked throughout these halls. Was it so wrong of the deranged psychopath to favor more mature company? Those with brains in this dump were few and far between. Not that he usually minded or anything. Those who were brainless were easier to manipulate. But, still. Perhaps an actual conversation wouldn't hurt now and then?

By now, he'd managed to make his tea. He'd put it in a teapot and everything, just in case he'd wanted more in a few minutes. A true Englishman, he didn't like putting tea to waste. He also did not add milk or sugar, having always prefered the drink black, and picked up the cup and saucer to make for the dining hall. Usually, he prefered sipping his tea in the privacy of a chair in the corner of a room, but was too lazy at the moment to go off in search of a room that wasn't crawling with idiots. Upon entering the dining hall, however, he took note of one other occupant. Well, well, well. What have we here? Sure, Victor had been hoping for some privacy, but how could he deny a pretty face? And she certainly looked like she could use some company, the poor girl. His brown eyes observed her as he approached on quiet footsteps, a hint of a grin curling one edge of his mouth. She had such lovely hair and skin... mm. This wasn't his first time taking interest in her, though. He'd seen her bustling around now and then through the House, cleaning and tending to other tedious chores. She was one of the maids, wasn't she? And was a particularly delicious-looking one at that. Hm. Perhaps his sour mood wouldn't have to stay very sour for long. At least she seemed to be closer to his age. Not only that, but she was something relatively "sane" in a house for the crazed, wild, and delusional. It'd be a nice change of flavor to bite into someone like this while he was here. Ah, but he knew not to get ahead of himself with this one. Sometimes, it took time and just the right words and movements. But, in due time, he'd sink his teeth in.

Without even a cough to alert her to his presence, he sat down across from her. With surprisingly gentle hands, he placed his cup and saucer on the table and smirked as he surveyed her bowl of cereal with an eyebrow delicately raised. "That looks... appetizing," he said with a soft laugh, rerouting his eyes up to glance at her face instead. And it certainly was a pretty face. Mine... all mine... . "Not hungry, dear?" He asked her this in a perfectly innocent tone, as though there was no chance of hidden agendas lurking beneath his gentleman's smile. "To be honest, cereal was never my... cup of tea." He chuckled a bit at his little joke, taking a sip of the tea cradled in the cup poised in his clever fingers. "Are you all right? You look like you've got something on your mind. Nothing bad, I hope?" Oh, yes. He could certainly turn on the charm should the situation suit him. He was a good actor so why put his talents to waste? Victor did so enjoy the role of the gentleman because, in some ways, he still considered himself one. He'd always be the alpha wolf and the top dog; the man with everything to gain and nothing to lose. Despite what anyone would say, he was convinced he owned this asylum and everyone in it. This darling maid was no exception. In fact, she looked like she had the potential to be of special interest to him; a pet he would soon have sitting in his lap and eating out of the palm of his hand. Mm. He liked the sound of that.

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THIS THREAD IS finished.
AND IT’S FOR roxanne.
AS FOR WORDS, WE HAVE idk. i can't be bothered checking at the moment. lol.
THE LYRICS ARE FROM is it progression if a cannibal uses a fork? by chiodos.
MUSE IS THANKS TO i don't care by fall out boy.
ANY LAST THOUGHTS? uh, sorry for the wait and stuff. and that this is so rambly and bleh. D:
THANKS FOR THE HARD WORK template (c) - bethasaur ftw . of CAUTION 2.0