Serious The Musings of Someone Sick

[Nyanpasu]

Musing 0 - The Preamble

Ever since I could form this thing we call "memories" I remember a particular distance between others and I. It never was what I would call a "bad" distance, but rather a distance I desired. Why do I desire such a distance? I am not someone who is claiming the world is just out to get them; contrarily, I have had plenty of opportunities - and every time I spit on them. That friend who could get you into contact with a publisher? Too fucking stupid. That girl who said she would always be there for you? Not pretty enough. That friend of twelve years? Not interesting enough.

"Oh, you are just depressed..." (Aren't we all?)

"Go get some help..." (Why don't you help me?)

"I am here for you" (Until I get a little... scary)

Everyone has something to say to me about how I feel - usually it just ends with them linking me some bullshit "help" as if it will cure me. Then they will run away as if I ever had the capacity to ever harm another human being. Sometimes I feel as if my problem is that I do not want to harm others, and I trust too much in our fallible institutions. Yes, instead of giving abusers a little physical correction - I instead take the civilized route, and because of what is between my legs no-one takes me seriously. Why do I have to suffer such tragedy? Is everyone else feeling the same things - experiencing the same things? Is it all just one big false front and I am the only one outspoken enough to break down the stigma, unlikely.

And what is the worst part of this rambling equation that results in someone sick? I have no "reason" to be this way. I have a good life, good family, and good morals. Maybe such good is what allowed decadence to gestate, and then result in such... evil. A rather still life with no rush, no opposition, and no cruel memory to show you what true pain is... just emptiness. Where is the contrast to show me how sweet this is? Yes, tell me how bitter it can be, but that does not mean I will understand it. However, I so do want to understand it. I harm myself, stay awake far too long, throw others away, and to no avail - I never see that contrast.

Despite my previous conjecture that the world is not out to get me, sometimes my mind wanders into that pattern of thought. Every-time I find that sweet human interaction the heart years for, it leaves me. I want to believe it is bad luck, but I must be incredibly "lucky" to have so many strokes of bad-luck in a row. Just within the last few weeks (which is why my mind is... melting) I lost my seat of purpose. All my sweet new friends, which I love, all gone. Why? It's because I don't fucking know when to stop. Privileges have me blind, and when I find power... just a little... I push far as possible, and it breaks her...

I did it all to make amends and fix what I broke. Monetary sacrifice, begging, pleading, vengeance, and even the dark fucking arts of witchcraft. I literally sliced my arm open to make a pact with a "demon" as per a black magic witch's suggestion. Nothing mattered unless I could fix what I broke, but was that ever the goal? Or was it all to protect your DISGUSTING and SINFUL sense of PRIDE. Hell, I am not surprised if by some force that I am cursed.

Cursed...

It would make sense. Food has lost taste. Writing only serves as an unfiltered regurgitation of agony. Sleeping only spawns dreams of those thrown away. Then-again, am I really so cursed? Maybe I am just blind to the good things around me. I think my mind is just too jacked up on fantasy.

Fantasy...

The only thing that makes my world spin round. I dream it, breath it, eat it, and just live it. All one big fantasy. I love the internet because I can live one-hundred different lives. Sometimes I am a happy go lucky girly girl, others a grizzled brooding man, or on occasion I am you... Maybe right now none of this is real, and all my words before are another fantasy, but would that be so much more sick? A disgusting, vile, and horrible need for attention.

If one changes every day, trying different flavors of life in an attempt to feel comfortable in their skin, no-one will stand by you in the end. Measurable, predictable, and steady is all they ever wanted. All I ever wanted was the idol I so desire, a god. Tell me I am wrong, tell me I am right, and show me the light. Yet, when you try to make a god they you just realize they are a bad of water attached to a nervous system - just like you...


People
love
everything
a
sick
entrapped
human
ever
loved
perhaps?

I am tired... and before anyone says it... "Go get help" (HAHA AS I SAY THIS TO MAKE MYSELF FEEL GOOD ABOUT MYSELF. SEE THAT GUYS? I CARE ABOUT PEOPLE! HAHAHAHA! SO MUCH I AVOIDED ASKING WHAT WAS WRONG! GOSH I AM SO GREAT! I LOVE EVERYONE!)​

 

[Nyanpasu]

Musing 1 - Exposition

Let me establish something first. What I did, and I won't admit - ever, is unforgivable. Now that I'm back here on Earth, albeit for a short stint, I feel only more pressured to turn myself in. I still see remains of that "little" incident some years back. Thankfully, I've managed to find that old chunk of change I stashed back behind Billy's pop-store and have been living in and out of dingy motels. Times have really changed since then. Everyone seems to have installed all these high-beam lights on their houses, all the dark spots are lit up now, and people roam the nights. Anyone ever hear of a little something called sleep? Billy's pop-store, as mentioned earlier, is now a derelict refuge for junkies - which of-course raises my question of where Billy went? Hopefully that old fuck didn't croak or anything, but I am not sure if he would want to see me. Hell, since getting back here on good old mother earth, I don't like seeing myself.

I divert my gaze from mirrors, keep my head down when out, and only mumble to the pimple-face cutie when I'm paying for some shitty gas-station level garbage called "food." That little cutie and I have become acquainted. She really is my sole source of social interaction. My brain, a very sick one, has become well acquainted with her schedule. Tuesday and Thursdays nine to five - last week of each month she works a Wednesday too. She really gets my cogs turning when I'm downing coffee alone in my little chunk of "moteldom." She obviously lives with someone who supports her, or a roommate who pays a generous chunk of the rent. Her acne-ridden face suggests that she is young. Furthermore, Tuesday and Thursday (And Wednesday too) are school days (At-least I think. I avoid going near institutions of learning, so I can't confirm). So either she has an unlucky case of perpetual pizza covering that cute-face, or she is home-schooled, or just a drop-out.

Let me break-aside for a second to talk about home-school'd kids. They are the bomb (do they still say that? Hell, I probably shouldn't say that). I love how they are untainted by standard social-pressures that high-school brings. This is apparent in what interests them and how they talk. I talk like a scumbag because I've been indoctrinated by those institutions some years ago. Those beautiful homebodies don't have that in them. They get to stick close to their roots and remain mostly "human." Years of scrapping by on late-homework and cheated-tests took that human chunk away from me.

Anyways, back to the subject at hand, pimple-faced cutie, who looks very young, pure, and wonderful works on the T days (And one W). I only go to the gas-station on T days so I can see pimple-faced cutie? Got it? I'm that creepy guy, but she doesn't seem to mind, or is just a really good actor. We've gotten so close (speaking from a purely customer to cashier relationship) that she always greets me with a meek, cute, little: "Hello you." Key word in this phrase is "you" - not just a "hello." Of-course, me being the creepy creep I am only offer a little half-wave and a crooked smile. I slip over to the side of the gas-station to the coolers and just stare at the drinks. I always get the same thing, but I pretend I am mulling over my options. Really what I am doing is watching the little cutie in the reflection. You see, the little aisles for various junk create this perfect little line to the cash register, and I can just step to the right and generate an angle to where I can stare at her reflection to her hearts content. Gosh, I sound like a creep, but I really am not! You see, I have an explanation for why this is okay. PFC (Pimple Faced Cutie) makes sure to always keep those cooler doors to a glistening shine. Occasionally, before I enter, I see her working up a storm to wipe away smudges and residue of toddlers licking the glass; therefore, this proves that she consents to this little exchange of glances - she wants me to look at her.

Regardless, this brings me to today. I did something really bad. You, my dear reader, will act as my silent therapist for my mistakes. Read all about them, understand them, and hopefully avoid these errors. Unfortunately, you can't really understand the big picture without some explanation, but I really don't want to go through the entire history, after-all you are here to read a story, and I will gladly give one in time. However, I need you to just go with the flow for a second. Just accept what I say and don't question it.

Back to the bad thing I did. You see, I have a bit of a special ability gained over time through my stint in the other-world. If I take a few seconds to focus on someone, I can see shadows of what they are likely to do. They look a little bit like holograms, but a fuck-ton more scary - really can't do them justice in words. Let me tell you though - first time I saw them I almost shit myself. Anyways! Depending on how deep and dark the shadows are the more likely said person is going to do said action. It doesn't work in the dark, sometimes there's too many actions to track, and so on. It's not some catch-all mary-sue ability like some bitches I almost got iced by. Anyways, on another Tuesday afternoon grub-run down to the station (Yesterday) I got a bit of an evil thought when I took a gander in the window before entering. Saw the PFC spending some of the slow afternoon hours (the best time to drop in) huddled over in the corner behind the register on her cell-phone. She looked pretty invested in what she was doing, probably playing on of those new advanced "smart"-phone games (Back in my day we were lucky to have snake on our flip-phones), so out of curiosity I took a moment to focus in on her. I wanted to see all the likely actions she would take, but not out of malice, more-so out of a sick curiosity. It made me feel a bit closer to that little cutie. Saw lots of faint shadows doing menial labor (Refilling slushy machine, restocking the shelves, standing at the counter). What interested me was her shadow that walked out of the stores front, around the corner, and to the side parking lot. That shadow was dark as pitch! It really got my rocks rollin' seeing that dark shadow. Reminded me of old times, when in a fight, a shadow dark as pitch almost gave me a one-hundred percent chance to win (barring that one fucking time). So here, I acted on instinct, and hid behind the ice-box out front. I crouched down on the opposite side to the door looking sorta nonchalant. Luckily, me sitting on the ice-box looked pretty normal considering I hadn't shaved, and was wearing a bummy army surplus jacket. Looked like your run of the mill fucktard looking to score a free smoke.

Anyways, I waited for that ink-black manifestation to become real. Honestly though, as a quick note, I really didn't intend to do anything bad at first. Really! This was just muscle memory. Those inky blacks were just dope to my sick-mind and what followed is purely just my sickness kicking in. So back to the sequence of yesterdays events. I finally heard the little bell a-top the front door ring, and I peeked out from around the corner. Saw the petite PFC rounding the corner and sprung into action. I naturally decided to follow that tail hugged by those tightly fitting "work" pants (fucking slut).

Oh, and trigger warning for all you sensitive little fellows (I come back and everyone got 100 times more bitchy. I should write about that another time.) So I stopped right at the corner for a second to collect myself, and then rounded it full of energy. Saw her bent over in sifting through the passenger side of her little red truck. What she was looking for? Didn't matter to me. I saw what I wanted in a c-a-m-e-r-a blind-spot with not one car strolling by on the nearby road. Now the only issue is if the nosy-Indian fuck, who owned the drugstore across the street, was watching. Fortunately, I had just the ability to discern whether or not he was watching. I get a little tick in my right hand, a twitch, it feels like fire rolling from my wrist to the tips of my fingers. At one time a "good-friend" of mine explained that it had something to do with psychic signals from others and my bloodlines sensitivity to them, or something like that - I really don't remember the specifics (Like I said you are just going to have to trust me on these accounts). So to check for my "ticks" I began to focus in on the thought of that fucker watching us in between reading crusty old porno mags, and behold, no ticks. I was in the clear!

I moved just like you taught me Chiral, so be proud that I haven't let my skills get rusty. Not one pitter-patter of my dirt-caked sneakers alerted her to what was coming. Then again, you probably wouldn't be impressed that I snuck up on some teeny-bopper, eh Chiral? (Hope you are reading this. I kinda feel bad about what happened. I hope me being back on my home turf makes you feel one-hundred percent safer, bitch). Anywho, one swift right arm jab, and a shove forward, little PFC was out like a light and slumped over concealed in the right seat. Just like you taught me buddy, so feel good that your skills are still being used, bitch.

Dug my hand right into her pocket, got those keys, and off I went with my new-friend. She is sleeping right now, and has been out for a while. Checked over her body to double check if I broke anything, nope still alive, so now I am just writing over these events. I wasn't stupid enough to head back to the motel. That would be a good way to get tagged by the fuzz immediately. Instead I elected to go off to a childhood spot that I will not reveal (for the moment anyways. fuck the police). Not sure what I'm going to do with her. What? You thought I was going to rape her? Gotta admit that her tight (fucking) little (slut) pants gave me that thought, but I am the hero of this story, and heroes don't rape. Maybe it will be clear in due time why I do what I do, but for now...

Gosh, she is waking up...

(https://www.wattpad.com/799732967-the-musings-of-someone-sick-musing-1-exposition)​

 

[Nyanpasu]

Musing 2 - Unreliable

It's been a week. Right now I'm holding out in the nearby mountains. I remembered this place from back when my dad and I were cool. We would hike up these mountains, make-camp, light up a fire, smoke cigars, and talk till dark. Just writing that makes me feel a wave of unwanted emotions. Unfortunately, I'm alone - I wish PFC with me. Plans changed - Bright side is that I did not have to put her down. Anyways, for such a little thing, she put up an immediate fight when she woke up. I let her beat me until she became tired, which wasn't very long, of-course I protected myself just enough so she didn't take my eyes out. She tried to run once she realized that she wasn't going to win. We were in an isolated enough area; therefore, I allowed her to run about fifty-tier (other-world measuring system. Wager that would be around 90ft to 100ft) before taking her down and dragging her back to the truck.

Last entree, I was a bit afraid to disclose exactly where we were at, but now I can considering I've gone elsewhere (And I seriously doubt the feds are keeping tabs on this). We were down at the kissing-creek, which is just a short drive out of town. You have to take a back-road that stems from the bad side of town, which has only gotten worse with time, but this worlds bad is really not so bad. I'll take druggies over demonic cultists any day. Anywho, once you get on the back-road, you keep driving until you reach an exit just before the second bridge. Drive down that exit, navigate the rocky winding path, and boom - you are at the kissing creek. The kissing creek, as the name implies, is the perfect place to do the deed. Lots of thick foliage, a few secluded clearings (watch out for needles though), and a sand-bar in the center of the creek if you want to wade through that murky shit. PFC and I got their a bit earlier, a little before dark, so we probably had a few hours before the fuck-rabbits and dope-ropers showed up.

I felt somewhat more vulnerable down their, seeing as it is October/November (Has Halloween happened yet? Do they still celebrate that?) The canopy of solitude (as I have dubbed it) is wilting and making a mess of leaves, so I felt like God was watching from above. Maybe that's why I let the PFC have so much leniency in fighting, running, screaming, and yelling. All the while, I kept scanning for ticks. If that fire were to shoot up my wrist to the tips of my fingers, I was ready to bail right on outta there. Thankfully, that never happened.

Back to my point, once I got PFC back into the truck, I shoved her down into a chair, sat right on her and faced her. Yes, very creepy, but I had to keep her still so I could explain. I had a reason for kidnapping her, but it kind of slipped my mind. So I just stared at her... did I really have any reason...? Well judging from my last musing it was more like a "spur of the moment" kind of thing. Gosh, fucking Chiral was right - I'm much too impulsive. Fuck you Chiral for being right, bitch. I had no real plans for PFC (Spoiler alert: I still don't). As of this moment, I don't feel like being much of a murderer, or a rapist - or a combination thereof. Maybe I'll just have to fabricate a reason? Yeah, makes sense.

I got her to shut up and said: "..." yes you saw it correctly. I tried to talk to her, but the words weren't coming out. It really wasn't always like this! I remember being able to make lively conversation. That was back when I felt like somebody. Chiral, if you are reading this, and you probably aren't, but if you are - you and the others made me feel alive, forgiven, and purposeful.

PFC, between terrified sobs, managed to question: "W- what d- o yo- you wa- want?" Terror was causing her to trip over her own words, but I had terror in my heart too. Maybe I did this because her and I are not so different? Maybe? No? Yes? Alright, I bullshitted that reason. I'll be honest that I'm trying really hard to project meaning onto her. I stole her because... of the very question of the "because." I stole her for the infinite reasons I could come up with, nor could I accept any one of said reasons; hence, we will just leave that up in the air. Hell, my dear reader, please make up your own reason to justify my actions. I need you to over-analyze and find that any shred of justification, please? For both of our sake, you and me - we are in this together.

Sorry about my tangent. What really matters is how we got from kissing creek to the mountains with minimal complications. How did we do that? If the PFC, from my assumptions, has a family, and is under the critical age of 18 - then we can expect to see every bacon-bot, glory seeker, wanna-be soldier, real soldier, teenage dude, teenage girl, and every other person wanting to accomplish a good deed out looking for her. I'm no stranger to man hunts, so I think I'd be fine. Besides, it hasn't been long so not everyone would be out in force. Well I never had to test my luck because...

None of that happened...

Ha! I got you good, but it's not like you had any reason to doubt me. Now, don't think this is just me spouting bullshit. I actually experienced all those things, so I thought I'd include them. You see, back when I read books this literary trope is called the "unreliable narrator." Now, let's be honest, you still are wondering how all that shit could have happened? It's another quirk of my particular set of abilities, but not something that is necessarily "good" or in my control. Last musing I mentioned a "good friend" who gave me a long-winded lectures on my ticks (and just about everything else). Well that goody two-shoes prissy prick described this quirk you just experienced as a Linear-Time-Void.

Now, bear with me, we're gonna have a little lesson on this. I made sure as shit to listen to goody two-shoes prissy prick's (GTSPP) lecture on these time-voids because they are the biggest FUCKING issue in me living a good life. Basically, I am somewhat disconnected from the passage of reality. Imagine reality is a highway, and I am a drunk driver on that highway swerving about. It's really hard for me to stay on the road without barreling off into god-knows-where. Where I barrel off to are "time-voids" which are spans of time that occur instantly, but to me they can take seconds, minutes, hours, days, years, and... let's not talk about that one, yet. In these time voids, I have no personal autonomy and free-will is just an illusion. All of my actions are pre-determined and I am just there for the ride. Of-course, I never realize all that until afterwards. Regardless of what the fuck happened in a time void - it really hurts to come out knowing you HAD no CONTROL. Think about spending an entire fucking year of your life gathering up girls to butcher in a cellar in bumfuck middle of nowhere! Being totally complicit with that. Then coming out of it and remembering every second of it. Think about living with those memories! Now, here's the fucking kicker! Time-voids only generate things you CAN do. You come out feeling like shit, disconnected, and doubting every second of your life.

When I use to come out of time-voids, back when I was a younger guy, I would run into GTSPP's arms crying like a little fucking baby (Despite her cold exterior, she had a warm interior. Believe me, I know from experience). Anywho, what I am trying to get at is all that kidnapping a presumed minor only happened in my head. Everything after me scanning for her shadows happened in an infinitesimally small non-existent portion of time.

I went off into a time-void while I was observing PFC fiddling with her phone. I felt that familar filthiness wash over my body. I'm not a bad guy. I didn't want to do that, or did I? That whole trip into what could happen was all it took for me to cancel my little meeting with PFC. Fuck that, I booked it out of there. Ran right across the street, past the Indian-dudes drug store, through a segment of woods, through down-town, and right back to my little piece of moteldom.

I threw myself down on the yellow-stained sheets and just writhed in disappointment and agony. You ever feel that pain inside you? The kind where you want to claw your own eyes out, but you know that would not relieve it? That pain so great no human means can relieve it. I let out a shrilling scream of agony, flipped the bed, swiped the night-stand clean, put my fist through the flat-screen, busted the mirror with my head, drop-kicked the sink, tore the bathroom door off, sent the door through the window out onto the balcony, exited the room and screamed once again, punched the balding-fucker who came to try and calm me down, punched the latino-bitch he was paying chump change to fuck too... and after all that - I still that pain.

Cops, they would come, and this was real - I think? Regardless, I grabbed up my rucksack, piece, and bailed the fuck out of there.

Which brings me to here to the mountains. Never thought a temper tantrum would bring me back here. Any-fuckin-ways, I'm tired. Peace out.

(https://www.wattpad.com/800144846-the-musings-of-someone-sick-musing-2-unreliable)

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