𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘱𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘩? ❝ 𝘵𝘧𝘱 𝘹 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘮𝘢!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 ❞ | REWRITING

[ 1 ]

This was better.

A polka dot loving abominated mess, a coalescence of Hello Kitty and Ben Ten combined to the max, with whatever variations of it's genetic rip off counterpart could add ,much as so provide , to the full extent.

Fortunately, you plucked it out from the nearest IKEA warehouse (dumpster diving could be a synonym) and not only you forgot it's leg existed but you wasted a tad more money on a toad painting you couldn't help but feel enlightened with its presence known.

Footsteps padded the cold marbled floor, you glance to the mirror, eying the pajama pants that pooled around your knee, shirt tucked in the most obscured fashion that even David Bowie could be proud - and your hair?

You might want to thank Bowie again for the style.

You sigh, scratching your head - or the warbled mess on your head that could no longer grow but stay passed your chin you called your patch of hair.

Pixie style.

You wanted to be a hero when you were a kid. You worked to the point you could obliterate anything with a single blow, and even if that didn't seem impressive enough for a 19-year-old, you don't know what is.

The problem was, even if you were able to carve a planet hole crater into the crust of the earth, lodge a universal middle finger to the galactic cosmos, destroy someone's balls by accident - what fun would there be when, above all else that could be taken from you, you couldn't feel anything?

Your emotional development is nothing but agnate to a cold, crass, tasteless pop tart. You felt empty and the pigments of every colorful burst of sentiment held within your core are diluted amidst the vacant seams of dread.

Not in an emo, "I hate everyone I want to kill myself and everything - FUCK YOU"way, it's more like when you saw a really funny picture on the internet and tried explaining it to your friend, and instead of an animated response from such picture, all you get is a plain, "heh, that's funny"response, then cue the stoned face of a person who didn't get it all.

You were a rock, a mere shell, and inside is a hollow space.

When you were still a rookie, when a monster appeared, the sudden burst of adrenaline always excited you, and the outcome didn't matter as long as you enjoyed it.

Now, it feels like a chore. Again and again, you mop. Again and again, you sweep. And again, you bleed - not physically, but mentally. You'd finish the showdown with a splattered burst of explosion, feeling disappointed with a single punch.

And that lead you to Jasper, an equally boring, devoid barren land with nothing but probably dead bodies of old people strewn across the dry rocks of Nevada.

That last one was personal.

"Time to start my usual morning routine i guess."

• • •

"Wait!-"

The decrepit bus sped away to the far distance, wheels creaks in agony as ur drags itself across the road.You had your arms outstretched, pleading as though to call out for the vehicle, pointed fingers accounted to nothing as it continues to fade away, disappearing lastly by the minute traffic light.

That was the last of it. That fucking bus.

Growing aware that your outburst had attracted attention from the surrounding people, to your chagrin, your arms retract and your shoulders sag. The bus stop clearly hates you, and as you stood there, the noise begins to clear off, and not before long you realize - people were already setting off to work.