Gods grow lonely too.
Looking down upon a lesser world
It doesn't take a higher being to recognize
Scum from scum.
Pitiful beings,
Their existence only poses the question;
WHY?
When born as dirt one should live as filth, so
WHY?
Show thy misery,
Expose thy hate,
Remember thy name.
If insects don't dance, what purpose do they serve?
Happiness is not yours to seek, so
WHY?
It should be mine, so
WHY?
Why do they possess that which a God cannot grasp?
...oh.
I've studied worms and the ways they should crawl;
For a God it should be simple,
All I need is dirt.
My pitiful creation, your world is me for I am all.
Do not ask me
WHY?
You are to ask me
HOW?
I've spent my life spectating so now I will teach.
Watch me dance and remember;
It's you that's pitiful,
Not me.
-
Today is a new day.
Therefore,
Yesterday never happened.
Tongues stained blue, cloudless skies sung a certain song. A melody on loop, birds chirp of their travels above incoherent chatter. Background music of the word is tuned out as pain screams louder. A pain that's been denied recognition, for today is devoted only to good.
Good meaning ice cream.
Heat of Summer bullies spring while a convenience store curb houses the pair. Seeking refuge in the shade they replace memories that hurt with chilled flavors of berry.
Mask pulled down, Sanzu's attention is equally divided between a new phone and ice cream while yours is balanced between ice cream and mourning.
"We're bad parents," you wept internally, looking at the replacement phone free of damages or dents. "My heart says it likes the old one better."
"I don't see the issue, they're basically the same."
Attachment to inanimate objects is an emotion your roommate uses sparingly. Brushing away your previous complaint, one hand tapped along a fresh set of keys while the other lazily maintained a half finished popsicle.
"The ice cream's making ya cold Mr. Sanzu. What about all the memories that were jam packed in the old one?" emotionally driven, you expressed the extent of your disapproval, "to let go of them so easily is just-"
Turning the screen towards you, Sanzu's cold temperature thawed out, displaying a picture of an automotive victim taken the night prior. Basically the same down to its pixelated memory.
"The SD card wasn't busted so," he paused, cutting that thought short. "Like I said they're basically the same."
Possessed by the secret art of SD cards, the new phone houses an old soul. There's peace in knowing it gets a second shot at life, hopefully this time it won't die via poor pocket protocol.
Relieved from mourning duty another problem takes its place.
Pain that persists is starved of attention.
With a throbbing debut, your wrist seizes the main stage. A lyrical hellfire leaves nothing but ashes, conveying a message to all competitors; the stage is gone, try talking over me and you'll be next. Violent yet effective, any other problems dropped from the lineup leaving you to scramble for a fix.
Pain, pain, go away, you're way too busy eating ice cream today.
Substitute jingles want to distract you but wish you'd called for help sooner for the stage is gone and anarchy cannot be undeclared.
Fluent in evading and avoiding there comes a time when bearing it is all that remains. Fixing it had been first on the list but when aspirin fails what more is there to do? Easy;
Evade,
Avoid,
Ignore,
Repeat.
Though if you skip ahead you'll see we're in the bear it arc.
Reflexes told your wrist it could handle the weight of a minor fall. Looking at its current condition, not to mention how it felt, it's fair to conclude your wrist loathes that prior assumption. Afterall, two wrists are better than one so now it's time to bear the solo and swollen consequences.
A presence finished messing around with the phone and started messing around with you. Leaning his arm against yours it seemed like he was trying to push you as you tilted along in the new game of; how much could he move you without actually moving you?
Is he launching a curb-wide takeover?
Hold your ground—
—or at a bare minimum don't tip over.
Former popsicle reduced to nothing but a wooden stick, Sanzu shed mercy and pulled it away from his mouth.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
Nothing gets past his all-seeing gaze.
Especially not prolonged silence.
"I did something weird to my wrist," you answered.
"Did you sprain it?" Sanzu asked, gazing down at the sprain in question.
"Dunno, I'm a bad judge."
You grinned, but as he lifted your wrist an immediate response ushered you to pull away.
Confiscating your wrist you cringed, "geez do ya hate me?"
"It's that bad?" He asked, cocking his head slightly.
You nodded deeply several times before responding, "the worst."
Sanzu initiated round two. Lifting your arm he shifted it this way and that but movement faltered as his eyes narrowed. Standing up from the curb he motioned:
"We're going to the hospital."
"Why? Ya can't fix it?"
"No."
"But ya always can."
"I can't fix that."
"You...can't? But we can't—right?"
"There's nothing else we can do."
"Shit I really..." gritting your teeth, you hated the severity of this fuck up. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine. It was bound to happen eventually," he answered dismissively.
Although you claimed to be sick proof, the same doesn't apply in terms of injury proof. Cuts, scrapes, and bruises are a typical outcome of any given encounter but such is manageable with the aid of a do-it-yourself doctor. He's always been able to treat injuries, meaning this is;
Bad.
Hospitals exist to strip penniless pockets in exchange for a band-aid or two. Treatment is guise for what's really going on, it's a large scale con. A sucker like yourself has no medical knowledge therefore you're in for a scam amongst scams, not even the cockroaches are safe from their clinical clutches.
Simultaneously walking and rehearsing, Sanzu offered a strict set of lines to follow when asked x, y and z.
Bottom line:
Lie about everything except your wrist.
A preemptive strike to scam the scammers.
Though your feet feel cold within its presence.
Towering above, it could smell your fear.
A place where life and death raged war.
Did ghosts roam the halls?
Who handled the corpses?
Would you see a dead body?
Anxiety seeped from every pore.
And the unknown looked forward to your arrival.
Some old kook patrolled the sidewalk, his rambling nature preyed on all who passed. Was this a test of initiation?
If so, you walked right by.
Better luck next time psycho man.
Abusing your roommate's hand you entered through automated doors, meeting the stench of death- or maybe that's disinfectant.
They're covering up death with disinfectant.
Despite an overwhelming number of heads occupying the lobby, each of them must've harbored a similar fear because the silence is nauseating;
Fill it with something,
Elevator music,
The news,
Anything, just hurry up and eat the silence.
Death's lackey greets you from behind the front desk, disguised as a woman who offers a smile. Allowing Sanzu to do any and all talking, you offered moral support by binding your souls as one.
To smother is to cope—
—at least it is from your perspective.
For the time being it seems you have a pass.
Sanzu ignores the clingy creature while feeding death's receptionist lie after lie. He offers a name you've never heard and an address you've never been and sure enough-
"Perfect, I have all your information right here," clicking around on a computer, death's receptionist is cheerfully duped. "So you think it's broken?" she asked.
A nod from your roommate leaves you at a loss.
Broken.
To break something takes a great deal of pressure, for example when a scum-jerk, prostitute-loving, politician wakes up mid mugged and decides to reimburse your nose with force. Therefore a minor fall poses no threat to these peak bones.
"Can you put pressure on it?" Death's receptionist asked.
Too mortified for words, a nudge from your roommate tells you to answer.
"No."
Nervous eyes look at Sanzu to see if that was the right answer, but no such approval or disapproval is given as the sound of typing responds instead.
"You can take a seat for now. Someone will be with you shortly."
Turning away from the counter a void of noise settles in once more, blank faces of captives beckon you to join their seated ranks.
"I don't wanna be here," you mumbled.
"And? Does it look like anyone wants to be here?" Sanzu replied.
Blue eyes flickered with vague irritation, meaning any second he'd reclaim his space and set you free,
If only to be devoured.
Or not.
Eviction notice postponed, calloused fingers simply pull you and your vice grip along.
Sitting down amongst a lobby of fellow captives you felt your lifeline shorten. A mental vault of D-rated horror movies contorted to spew toxins. Days in which scary movies held no weight are dead;
They're heavy enough to crush you.
"What if they harvest my organs?" you blurted out.
Attracting empty stares from your fellow captives, you felt stiff beneath fluorescent lights.
"Hm? I thought you knew."
Blue eyes looked distinctly amused beneath heavy lids, twisting together a backwards solution.
"...knew what?"
"They already met their organ quota this month."
"So I'm safe?"
"Mhm."
"What about ghosts?"
"Priests come by regularly."
"What if there's a zombie outbreak?"
"They already have a cure."
"What if the doctors are cannibals?"
A timely game of question asked question answered later, relief is yours. Out of all the hospitals, this one in particular was horror proof.
Safe from within the hospital of no horrors, you'd been summoned and forced to play question asked question answered medical edition.
Hospital memory bank updated.
1. Their time operates differently, how they slowed it down will stay a mystery.
2. Half the terms they used were made up on the spot, the end.
3. Nothing is sacred, they saw your bones and have photo evidence.
4. Don't get lost or you won't be found (not tested).
5. They only deliver the crappiest, shitiest, screw off-iest, no seriously screw off—form of news
As always Sanzu was right.
It's broken.
Therefore your bones aren't peak, but are embarrassingly easy to break chumps. Though Mr. Doctor said otherwise, your two-bone track record states you should search for a donor with better suited bones.
Shamefully supported within the confines of a splint, your wrist would hide its face for another six weeks. Mr. Doctor also said it's lucky you didn't need a cast but it seems Mr. Doctor doesn't have the faintest clue about what luck entails. Here's a hint:
It's receiving medical treatment under someone else's name, having the bill sent to said person's home and then strolling out of death's doors with your soul still intact.
"My bones are sorta the worst so how about ya trade me yours? Then I won't be completely useless," you gleamed.
Starry eyed and scary, a harsh contradiction of words and tone work as a last ditch coping mechanism from hell. Far more inconvenient than breaking a nose, a wrist plays a vital role in daily life. It's so horrendously bad it's comical because if it weren't you'd be sobbing.
"I'll pass. A careless owner would end up breaking them," Sanzu taunted.
"Ya'know If I did that I'd have to live out the rest of my life in shame and solitude. Meaning they'd be way safe—no, the safest."
A route consisting of following your roommate showed a questionable future. Primarily because you hadn't even made it to the street before new problems were made readily available.
Skeletal fingers gripped your shoulder revealing who else but some old kook in robes, looking to be ten seconds from death—
"All can be forgiven so tell me-"
...
—Five seconds from death.
Shoved to the ground, a pile of bones is momentarily out of commission while condescending eyes spare no pity, urging you to keep walking. It only takes a glance to lose interest, for the elderly are a breed of unworthy donors.
Avoided upon entering, encountered upon exiting and laid out upon leaving, people like him all look the same. Black intentions dressed in robes, religious creeps who prey on the weak.
Mumbling against the pavement he's delusional and determined, helping you to remember outside isn't horror proof while leaving the hospital behind.
"Everyone is dirty, we only wish to help."