I Am The Kill

I don't need the pills, I need the pain. The glorious, fulfilling pain that cures all my symptoms, and makes everyone speak in rhyme and reason again. I can't understand the world, sometimes, if I can't feel the world.

Sometimes, I lie so much, that I go numb. I get that loss-of-blood sensation in my lungs, and I can't breath, or see, or rationalize. Everything is blurry, and blank, and frigid. Am I the only one who knows what this is like? Surely others must have this same traumatic experience. Surely.

Oh yes, yes...yes. The feel of my organs, the muscle and capillaries and thump rush of air through my pulmonary. The musical rapture that sings to my soul and keeps it pounding. I can feel it again. I can see the floating lights over my eyes again. The alcohol, the medicines and the moodswings don't do it the way you do it, my love.

Grant me destiny, or grant me death.

Of every encounter of this kind, I have survived, yes. Of every pain I inflicted, it has healed. Ever scar peeled off and every damage undone. How many times, how many cycles can I survive? I don't even know if I'll survive this time. I shove this in, and push my soul out of my mouth, and I'm free.

Oh my goodness, what remaining goodness I have ever had, I just want to be free. Secure and safe and solid. I have never been since I became this. Drake, don't you know, you have been a participate in my grounding? You should know. I'M SCREAMING AT YOU NOW, BUT I CAN'T HEAR ME. I can only hear the blood fleeing my aorta, coming to join you on the outside.

No. My mouth parted dumbly like that, my eyes dark and my body a coffin, I can't communicate to you yet.

No. I'm here again, though. You can't begin to build again, until you have destroyed it all. Look at the layers slide, Drake. All for you. All for you.

And if I make it out alive, perhaps. Perhaps I can love you, too.

If I'm alive.

Perhaps. If I just sit here, a little longer. Just a little long. He will notice.

I can't decide what to do. Who to hurt. I really need those pills.

I had been on them for several years. The same kind? No, maybe not. But...I frenzy, when they're gone.

I attempted death upon my own wife. My own brother. And now an ex-lover.

I need them. He will notice.

He will eventually notice, unless I get get out of this skin.

This wretched skin. Disgusting. I am disgusted with my body.

Disgusting. I am disgusted. I am disgusting. Nothing more than a human pestilence with advantage. That is all. I hate this place.

I love the way he tastes, though. He will notice, I know he will. What does he want with me? All those things said in the alley. He is not attempting anything upon my life?

No one has even been that forgiving. I can't trust it. Unless...he wants to enslave me. What could I say to that? I have...never gotten use to that. I am a slave to my work and my house and my brother's skeletons.

I'm tired of it. I want to leave. I'm tired. I want to sleep.

He wouldn't allow this, no. An attempt on my own life. He'd get in the way.

Wouldn't he? He would. I know him.

He wants to kill me. My attempt is a waste.

Oh god. Oh fuck. I'm delirious. Get a hold of yourself, Ashlee.

I feel sick again.

Fake it.

I'm sitting here, under his desk, and nervously thinking about him.

It's cold, I forgot to close the window on my way down, and I'm naked.

I never get cold. No. This has me shivering.

It was about an hour after we fucked, I remember, that I woke up, hazy. I was stumbling towards the bathroom, and then, I looked over my shoulder.

And I saw him, glistening bright like a heaving, fleshy, angular lightbulb in my wake. And I panicked.

He stirred slightly, and I dove under this desk.

And everytime I try to move from it, towards his bathroom, he stirrs. He flinches. His breathing undulates, and then recedes. So now I am left here, tired, with a horrible headache and a foul stomach. I have thrown up twice. The liquids weren't...clear. No. They never are. They were....chemical-smelling. And...laced with...him. Pieces of him. I am always laced with white, shimmering pieces of him.

It was like caviar in a pool of green and spit and red and decay. I have one puddle on one side, and it smells awful. I have another on his chair, which I shoved fiercely away. It swerved in front of the bathroom door. Poor, pissy luck I have.

I keep wiping the stains from the side of my mouth that aren't there. The drugs are gone, and have left me with an imbalance of anxiety. I want more. I crave the way I felt when I was fucking Drake. Mr. Tourleone. What I felt, was...awe. I was stumped. I couldn't cry, scream or kill. I know, no, I know I was ready to do so, or in the act. But I could not.

Wait.

Anyway.

They do that to you.

I can't think straight. I feel nauseous again. He keeps breathing funnily. Funnily is not a word. He keeps doing it. My head is spinning. I just swallowed another batch of vomit. I feel sick.

I have nothing to heave up, so why do I continue? I can't keep myself down, oddly enough. The thought of my own misery, the sureness of it all, keeps me hard. And dizzy. And vomiting. And masturbating every fifteen minutes.

There are more pearls in the vomit pool.

Oh god, I haven't cried like this in a very long time.

I don't know what I'm doing here.

Someone help me.

What have I done? What am I doing?



And what would he do, if I puked in his face?

I know i must be talking to myself, this timeline somewhere between midnight and morning. There is something biting at me, but I can't quite put my finger on him. Maybe, because subconsciously in here, I know his fingers rest upon me. He has come, finally, to seek revenge? I do not understand what this desire to destroy each other is, but it remains.

I sang to him last night. Perhaps because he is one of the last I enjoy sharing with. Everyone else is diluted with lights and stage magick, but I am still one of emotional and mental magick in my song. Very few still understand this working of sound with body language, because it's so much easier to fill your face with paint, and show your legs, and dance an eternal cabaret with no meaning.

I think, could I walk, I would have grabbed him, and attacked him. I would have thrown him against a wall, pulled out his heart, and sang softly to it. I would have danced on his ribcage, and crushed every bone. I am happy in my living apathy. I am....content, I think, with my current status. I think, but I could be fooling myself.

I don't know where to put my heart anymore, so it stays locked away, I know. But last night, I had no other choice. It was thinking more about this, or finding a quick, painful way out. They'll never prescribe those pills to me again, and this makes me frantic. They control me best. I think.

I need a new outlet. I need something new. I feel tragic again. I'm rambling to myself. He, also, is unstable, like me. I wish I had more unstable people around. I think I need him. I think I need him. I think I hate him, but I think that's the best part.

How many times have I echoed those exact words?

"Apres moi le deluge. After me comes the flood."

So,


I've been too scared to write anything. My fucking agent tells me, Ashlee, keep a journal of your events. You have an album coming out soon. You'll be big, and that's what you want, right? All of this touring, yes? You have to take a break, well you better keep a fucking interesting Journal as some sort of promise later for explanation. After your third big album, kid, they'll love you for this little Journal.

So make it interesting, yeah?

This is what he said to me, and I could have spit in his face. How could he know. He doesn't know what made me run, but I do have an album coming out soon. I'm unique. I'm different. What I make is music, not shit drowned out with poor lyrics and accepted bubblegum pop styles and rhythms. I cannot afford this at all, and neither can my reputation. I can't afford to have them knowing what I have done. In the public eye, they cannot see me acting in this fashion.

But he does this to me. He makes me so red with guilt and passion and anger, which is why we parted so long ago. Which I had to leave him.

After him, I have been a renewed animal. I have parted from the soul attachment to Ami. I have married. I have a child. All of these strange prospects, that even still I have no patience and emotion to balance skillfully, have deluded the me I have hidden. All of me has been surpressed to make room for the career man, the father, the husband, and the brother/sister. No one will believe anything about my past. No one will believe the claim of demonika Ami has introduced to me as this religious rite of passage into their world.

I was but human, and now a thing with a new set of unfamiliar limbs, unfamiliar soul, and unfamiliar blood. I don't know this person I have been recrafted into. I feel cold, when I want to feel warm. I feel hate when I want love. And I feel disconnected when I want to feel joined with my new family. I cannot control this flood of emotions.

With Drakalen, now Drake, I felt the balance. He let me act in the way a person breathes when short of breath. In odd motions, inconsistently, but whatever keeps them from passing out and strangling to death on the forces that have worn them down. Sometimes, I think I did the same for him. My former love, who bade me to bring death by force.

Well he never broke me. He needn't have, when I have my loved ones for that battle. I pray, to whatever the demonika allows me, that he keeps away, but I can only hope. I have no clue what I would do, were he to attempt contact. Ami would laugh. Minuet would ignore me. I would work myself into a fervor only surpassed my by own addictions.

But after me, I cannot know what he has done, or will do. These mental choices I cannot make until I know.