[calling … ]
[calling … ]
[calling … ]
[txt] I’m going to shove a fucking pen in your ear tomorrow.
[txt] I’m positively shaking in my burlap. God
save me from a ninety pound girl wielding a
[txt] The real event you ought to be planning
for, however, is what will happen when you
awaken. If you’d like, I understand that in the
operating room, surgeons have their subjects
count backwards from one-hundred while
putting them under.
“The hired thugs are delivering
my chemicals tomorrow evening. I
need to be prepared and — “
She’s serious. Oh, dear.
"… Fine. But only because you’ve
promised bodily harm.”
Grandmother’s Kisses by cinemamind
the thing about a b r o k e n
boy is that he’ll never ask for
help, never tell you what he
needs. never reach out. he’s
been broken too many times.
r e j e c t e d by too many people.
“Yes. Yes it did. It made me feel very good.”
Anger makes her eloquent, but fear scrambles her words, so she settles in a middle-ground of well-enunciated phrases that fall from her mouth like pins dropping. Hitting him had been wonderful. And the angry pink mark it had left on his face made her very happy. Hurting him gives her a thrill, and coupled with her anger, the adrenaline makes her think fast. It gives her an idea.
"Did it make you feel better when you kissed me, Jonathan?"
She grins like a wolf baring its teeth and stares into his eyes; she moves her hands to cover his and presses them onto her face.
"Did it make you feel good to have someone that you could kiss? Did it make you feel powerful? Did it make you feel wanted? I know it did. Because I know you and you know me and we know each other. I know how badly you need to feel powerful. You have to be in control of everything because that way nothing can hurt you. And you’re afraid of being hurt, aren’t you, Jonathan? You’re afraid of being rejected and afraid of being alone. You’re afraid that I can hurt you. You want me to not hurt you but you’re afraid that I will because you know I can so you hurt me first.”
She lets out a manic giggle, hazel eyes wide as they stare into his. Everything about this is absurd and she loves it.
“Yoooouu’ve got a crush on meeeeeee.”
With Becky’s hands atop his on her cheeks, Jonathan is trapped
between touches, not wanting to relinquish the sensation, but
disgusted that she could make him change his mind in that regard.
Disgusted and charmed — the former toward himself, and the latter
toward her. She has a basic sort of mastery of the language of fear
that comes with being a prodigy — primitive in the sense that it comes
to her without study or labor. Like a terrifying little angel of Revelations
sent to swallow the weak and fragile hearts of man. Jonathan’s mouth
is dry and a quiver works its way up his spine as she goes on, tearing
a hole through his chest with nothing more than observations and
"We’re… not talking about me." He manages again, though his voice
is less authoritative this time. She’s under his skin, and he’s let her
get there. But she’s looking him right in the eye. Brave, plucky Becky.
After all, absurdism is reflective of one’s search for meaning and one’s
own inability to find it. And, bewildered and staring into those big hazel
eyes, he could find no meaning besides what festered in the pit of his
stomach, where fright is born. It’s t h r i l l i n g . And, before he can
stop himself, he’s acting on it.
His mouth is on hers, his hands pulling her up and into the gesture.
Her lips taste like her salty tears and his eyes remain open to observe
the anger and the rage he knew would be coming.