Predator (DWT x OC)

73

I should scream with the millions of voices of those who have been betrayed, cry the stinging, hot floods of tears of all of those who have lost, thrash with the horrors we are forced to witness, every day, every life, every world. 

Instead, there's just nothing where my heart should be, like it's just finally been torn out, along with my voice, and my tears. The world has taken what they wanted, stripped bare and ripped apart by selfish hands of men that do not deserve what they steal, left behind an empty hollowness that floods the gaps in my humanity, the ones that really could never be fixed. 

And this empty woman, this pale imitation of a human, will keep going, keep up the acts and the pretence, let old anger ruin those who hurt her, let stale sadness and long dried tears steer her in the right direction, let mellowed love and it's black-burnt heart cling onto those she once loved, let the faint memories of happiness drive her forward. 

Keep the pale, weathered sketch of a good world she drew as a child play like a movie in her head, let it lull her to sleep with kind faces, and loving words from lingering, distant voices, let it hide all that evil, all that violence, all that pain. Wait, until the world has been set right, until her time comes, and she can finally rest. 

Maybe she won't feel again. Maybe she will. 

I don't know which is worse, I don't know which to hope for her. 

That pain in my hip has faded to a twinge, a barely there reminder of the event that just turned this world upside down, slapped me so hard in the face that I can't recognise it anymore, and I want to feel something, anything, because despite everything, I have always felt. 

The arm in front of me is pale, and bloodied, dark red blood smeared onto it's palms, crusted into the well worn crease lines trailed into the skin. I imagine silver-sharp knife points and sharp red lines, the way they paint across plastic skin, the familiar cherry red and mottled pink and yellow, blood on skin, stinging wounds and pretty patterns. 

I feel like laughing. 

I am losing my mind. 

It's fracturing with every moment that passes, every flash of colour under my eyelids, like that girl in the mirror distorting in the fractures in the glass, cracking, twisting, splintering into incoherent little pieces spiralling off into their own little worlds. 

I watch a tree trunk meander by, imagine slamming my head into it's solid bark, the satisfying crunch and the dull ache that silences all that shit in my brain, imagine using the sharp edges of broken off flint to gouge out my eyes, plunge all those awful horrors that are out there into darkness, shield that mind from the barbarity that's to come. 

Strip off this skin, marked by men who are responsible for this, soiled by their touch, and their hands, and him, his lips and his tongue, dragged against everything that was mine, plunged his greedy fingers into my thoughts and muddled them, so he could seize that lost girl, so that he could use her for what he wanted. 

And the thing is, those thoughts are still that mixed, ruined mess, and while everything I should know, and every remaining ounce of logic and common fucking sense is screaming so loud I think my ears would bleed, that I don't, that I shouldn't, that this is not right, they still love him. I still love him. 

I wonder, if I asked him to kill me, whether he would. 

Probably not, because asking him to sacrifice his own feelings for me has always been an impossible ask in our relationship. He just can never let go of those strings.

The grand puppet master and the simple, worthless pawns in his game, some fucked up version of chess where he controls every piece on the board, sending us in a sick dance around one another, not realising he was sacrificing his prize while doing so.