Achilles and the Shot (You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone.)






"Achilles... Achilles, Achilles, please!"

He was angry. Boy, was he angry. Call it spite, insanity, whatever clever words you could think of. He called it getting even. He called it justice. Justice! The good guys always win!

But Hayden was hostile, thrashing, scratching and scraping. Fear had taken the normall cool, calm, collected boy Achilles had known far away. But the part of him he fell in love with returned. Fearful, gasping, shaken.

Hack.

The pedestal was moving and rattling quite a bit. So much so that Achilles had to press the boot resting on it down harder. It only worked for a second. In his mind, the image of a ruler taped to a table appeared. Someone was pushing down on it. Their hand was bony, nails overgrown into claws. Pushing it, constantly, flexing it to the limit.

Something underneath him moved.

He fell in love with those blue eyes, that sweet smile. Unfaithful? Never. Really? Never.

Hard to believe. So he didn't.

Wheeze.

Achilles turned his mud eyes downward. This small platform wouldn't stay still. Two white waves of silk licked his pantlegs, and with the strength they had, tried to drag him down. Drown him in the paling white, cover im with soft baby girl turning baby boy blue.

It was surreal. The ruler began to creak.

He tried to cry. He really did. And he managed to squeeze out a few tears. But when they flopped out they lost momentum and stuck to his cheek bones. He tilted his head downward so they could fall. Apparently the gesture was thought to be attention.

"Achilles, baby, help!"

But what was running through his veins drowned out any plea that was vocalized-- was he speaking now, or barking? Lolling in tongues? Hissing, spitting? Crying?

Down, kitten.

And what was running though his veins told him absolutely, positively, without a doubt, that he was fucked.

Hayden was fucked, too. Probably. Definately.

Smile.

His boot began to feel heavy, and the muscles in his thigh and calf were beginning to complain. The soft surface underneath

like a matress like the one he might have been fucked on just as dirty just as dirty

began to give- slack, unmoving. No more shaking. Exhausted? But silk on his thighs. Dark blue. Fog in the sky. We aren't clear for take-off. Roger.

Red. Brown. Yellow. Very classy, Hayden. That's right. Spit up what's in your stomach just like your ass spit out his come. Don't look at me like that. Come on, mister, chin up. Spit out that blood in your punctured lungs. What's that? You can't breathe? Say again? You can't breathe?

"Hayden. Hayden, can you hear me?" Barely any movement, but barely was enough. Just enough. He was still alive. God damn it.

Hush, little baby.

Achilles was sick. Ill. Still. To say the least.

"How could you, Hayden? I love you." His eyes slit, heated, something ugly crawled out of the puddle. Something ugly.

But Hayden didn't respond. His lips ghosted words, but nothing but the forced sound of breathing whistled out. But his hands were still wrapped around his ankle, soft, grip barely existant, but there.

Achilles could feel the taut muscles in his leg throb from the pumping motor under him.

Gasp a breath.

Hayden parted his ashen lips. He shook. He jerked. The limited amount of air was causing his head to pound. Caused his heart to pound. Caused his brain to rip apart.

Splinter. Splinter.

"Achilles. I didn't to it--"

The ruler broke. Little bits of splintered bone imploded inside him. First there was a cry.

Then there was nothing.

His body looked skewed. Deflated. Those nipples that he used to suck and bite seemed tilted through his shirt. Just slightly. Out of Hayden's side, Achilles could see a sliver or two stabbing out of his skin. His heart must have exploded. He was bleeding profusely. Obscene amounts of blood poured from his wounds and passed the lips he once kissed until they became pink and swollen. They would never move again.

Achilles?

His eyes stared wide at the ceiling, cold. The eyes he once saw flutter as he came against his skin. Covered by the dulling jet hair he once gripped to pull his hair back, so he cold see his lips part. His skin looked sunken, and gray. The skin he once caressed and tasted, that creamy ivory skin.

Achilles!

Lips.

Kiss me.

Eyes.

You're gorgeous.

Skin.

Touch me, baby.

Oh my god...

Once.

Never again.

It was unsettling. The silence. Not the blood, or the way Hayden's muscles spasmed for a few seconds afterward, but just the silence. A foul stench burst into the air. Hayden had soiled himself. Death was never nearly as beautiful from the giving end. But he was still gorgeous. No doubt about that.

Oh. But the smell. Would it cling to his clothes and skin like smoke? No, no, that wouldn't do. He needed a shower. Quickly.

So trotting his way out of the room, Achilles shed his shirt and undid his pants. His clothing felt stifling.

Take it off for me.

Before he knew it, he was bare, being pelted by freezing water. The drops threw themselves against him with the ferocity of bullets. Once there, they bit into his skin, but couldn't seem to budge his nerves enough to chill him any further. What was in his blood, skin, brain from the Shot was beginning to flutter away.

I'm yours.

His body quaked, but not from the cold.

I'm all yours.

Achilles slid his hands around his own slick waist, and didn't pay attention any longer as they wandered up and gripped his arms tight.

I didn't do it.

I love you.

I didn't do it.

He didn't do it.

I gave myself to you.

You're worth it.

You're my everything.

I love you.

I love you.

With a sharp, loud cry, Achilles struck his forehead against the shower wall, and was greeted with white, bright light flashing in front of his eyes. The pain came later, in thick, dull waves from te front to the back of his head as he struck the wall a second time. And again. And again. He heard a sickening crack as hit the fifth time. Someone set the backs of his eyes on fire, and as he looked at the flashing drain he saw that red was seeping down his cheeks and swirling at his feet.

Again.

Again.

My one and only.

Again.

Achilles.

Again.

Achilles!

Again.

ACHILLES!

He fell to the ground in a crumpled heap. He couldn't breathe.

I didn't do it.

And in that moment, he believed more than he ever had in his life.

There you are, baby!

What took you so long?




"Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone, they paved paradise and put up a parking lot."

--Big Yellow Taxi

I love my sister because she was the only one who would acknowledge that I was in a bad position. She was the only one who noticed, and did something about it.

She supplied me with the love and knowledge I needed to grow up and survive.

She saw me when no one else, did, and cradled me in her arms, even though she was still a child, herself.

She's only, what, six years older than me? So when it all started-- when I was about six-- she was only twelve. But she loved me enough to make up for a whole family. And she showed me she did.

She let me know that I wasn't a freak, or a monster, or a bad child. She let me know that it wasn't my fault.

I love you, Mandy.

I can't fucking stand myself. Is that bad? I think it is.

It's as if I was drenched in something that reeked of death, and was forced to walk around for days on end like that. I pray to god that the right eyes are seeing this, and that the wrong eyes aren't. If the latter is something that is unfortunately occuring, then I'm sorry. I know I promised.

But I just can't.

I've been recording a list of my medical ailments, seeing as I have no other output. People don't need to hear about how I'm aching and hurting every day.

Things like that are a lot harder to keep to yourself, actually. A lot harder than I thought it would be. But, I'll do it, if it means that I can function in society again.

I'm seething with a feeling that I've wanted to avoid, the same that I thought I'd fought off with laughing with my sister and all of my medication. But it's been joined by a new monster, one that won't shut its fucking house. I can feel its venom dripping into my ear. It hurts.

It's so fucking hard. Every bit of it.

I used to think that I didn't have the courage, but now that I discovered that I do, what do I do with myself? Should I just stop myself now that I finally can?

Why do I get hurt so easily? I should really just take it all in stride like friends have been telling me, but it's so hard. I THRIVE off love and the attention of people I care about.

Without it, what am I?

I have no means of drawing attention to myself, my whole life has just been composed of luck and other people's support. Nothing I do is of my own talent. Not even art.

I'm just lucky enough that my hand put that line there, or I'm fortunate that I just painted that stroke. Nothing's up to me.

/God, that scares me./

My life has never been up to me. My parents have held an iron hold of what I've done-- Which children I could play with, what I would wear, how I would behave, and often times, I was confined to a hotel room where I just waited for them to come home. Like a dog.

/I was a fucking dog./

I'd pull against the chain and scratch the door and howl for the people to return to me, and it stripped every bit of pride I had in me. I became dependant, and was thrilled when my sister began to watch over me and lavish me with her motherly attitude. She was my passion for so long, with caring that could only be expressed by blood, and trust, and love.

It was like I was hooked on a drug.

But more people paid attention to me. They called me a sweet little thing and touched me the way they shouldn't have. They called me their pretty baby and put their lips on me. Now that I recall these things, the skin that they've touched burns. But at the time, I was so desperate for attention and love that I was willing to smile and be their 'sweet little thing' or their 'pretty baby'. People hit me and burned me, people abused me verbally and physically, but I limped back into their arms when they opened them again, thinking that I'd rather have those few moments of happiness and love and just ignore the times when I was mistreated.

I was a fool. A stupid, selfish, ignorant fool.

It has travelled with me. Oh, what am I going to do? Still the feeling of dependence on other people gnaws at me, and every little bit sends me into a screaming flurry of hysteria and low self esteem.

My fingers hurt so badly. But I can't stop. I just can't.

I don't know what to do.

I've fallen victim to myself, and to everyone else, even if it was unintentional. I've hurt for so long because of myself.

I am an animal.

People are no more than human, I realize. No one is god. No one is to be put on a pedestal. No one is to be worshipped, or prayed to. Everything is just a speck of dust. I wish for hibernation, when I can feel my heartbeat slow. I cover my nose and mouth to hold my breath, and I am disappointed and disgusted to find that my vital organs have the last say over if I live or die when my lungs begin screaming and writhing. I take a gasping breath in, and shake as my lungs moan with the feeling of rushing air.

I feel that time is going by too quickly. And what have I done with my life?

I am telling you this now, so that once you have a slight grasp of what's happening, you can act accordingly, or not act at all. It's all your choice.

I know what hysteria feels like. I know what desperation is. I know what being frantic and scared is like. I've met them face to face and had them tear my skin off.

"Just take away the words I say,
'cause I know
that you don’t feel the same.
Just go and say,
what’s in your head,
and I won’t try to stop you."

To be absolutely honest with the world, I don't know what to do with myself.

Everything builds and bursts. Then it just dies.

I don't see how being remembered is worth it anymore. Call me bad?

I'm reluctant to say goodbye and leave because it's like it'll be the last goodbye ever.

Just know that I really do love you, even after the smoke clears up and the ash is swept away.

If I'm being vague, let's just say that I would have a great and easy time with The Hitcher.

I. WANT. TO. DIE.

It seems that I find comfort in staying in the bathroom from 10 at night to 4 in the morning, shaking so hard that my teeth literally chatter and crying my eyes out while raking my nails up and down my arms as I whisper nonsense to myself. I guess it's a way of coping with my fleeting mental stability. If you listened to me, I swear I'd sound like the Emily Rose when she's speaking in tongues. In fact, I think I was. I'm no sure what I was saying, actually. But in a fetal position on the tile, I don't think I cared. It was awful, I'll just say that. I sounded like a detuned radio, sped up in a frantic, horrified soundtrack. It was terrifying. I'm so tired of being scared of myself. It's like there's another person inside my body that I'm constantly fighting with over everything.

Left or right?
Happy or sad?
Up or down?
Whisper or scream?
Hug or hit?
Live or die?

Everything's a struggle. It's always been like this. Perhaps there realy IS another person. Maybe I'm not fighting with myself, or with someone else. A part of me wants to be happy and love and live and laugh, while the other wants me to hurt, to hate, to kill, to be killed. There are times when I truly wish some freak accident would just kill me where I stood. Sometimes I really, really, really want to die.

Maybe not just sometimes.

Maybe ALL the time.

People can still look at you.
People can still talk to you.
People can still love you.
People can still stand you.
People can still like you.
People can still call you.
People can still be with you.
People can still cry for you.
People can still be around you.
People can still hold you.
People can still laugh with you.
People can still hang out with you.
People can still call to you.
People can still stand your voice.
People can still hear you laugh.
People can still help you.

They just don't.

Myuu’s talk of his muses has got me thinking of my own. Have I really neglected using them for so long? I’ve decided I’ll record every change I give to them by writing profiles. I have to remember everything about them or else I’ll suffer the feeling of loss. I haven’t drawn them recently. Shame on me, shame on me. But can I remember their details? Letter has a cigarette burn scar on the left side of his mouth. He wears glasses. He has a cartilage piercing in his left ear. Nora has a birthmark on her left inner thigh. She has a freckle below her right eye. She’s curved, not thin. Joel is missing his right arm right above the elbow. He can’t taste. I hope I can remember them.

My head’s been hurting on the left side lately. My mom thinks it’s because of the time I hit my head on Kelsey’s car as I was getting in. It WAS really hard. I have to get that checked out.

I might have said this before, but I think that death smells like vanilla, cigarettes, and flowers. Believe me, there are reasons for all of these. Vanilla, like the smell of my cousin, Natalia, who died when I was young. It would be easier to spare the reader of pointless details, and just to say that yes, we were very close. Cigarettes like the smell of my mother's coat when she would come home early in the morning from the casinos. The smell was so sick, it felt as though it was a stinging, sickly sweet liquid that seeped down my throat and filled my lungs with mud. Flowers like that on the graves of the many friends and family that I have lost. Bitter, organic, and barely there, colorful and slick.

For the first five years of my life, I didn't know my mother. She would sometimes be there, but I wouldn't know her. She would leave around noon for casinos to quench her undying gambling addiction, and come back around four in the morning. The only time I would get to see her would be in the morning, for maybe three or four hours after I got up, and when I would stay up past bedtime to greet her when she got home. When I held her, her large, thick, felt-feeling red and black coat with gold buttons (which she still has hanging in her closet)would reek of alcohol and smoke. My father always went with her. I don't know him, either. But after the accident when I was five, they both stayed home and tried to make up for lost time. It didn't work. It didn't work.

It didn't work at all.

Who's fault is it that I don't know them? Is it mine for not trusting them immediately just on the knowlege that they were my parents? Or it is theirs?

Stop it. Just, please, for the sake of the family, stop.

Please, just stop hurting her. I used to love her. I can't stand the way she's become. It's not my fault. It's yours. It was long before I was even born.

Please. Please, don't do this anymore.

I'm begging you, before it's too late.

To anyone who might have control over the situation at the time, if I am ever in a vegetative state or in a coma lasting to the point where brain damage is highly suggested by the doctors, tell them to kill me.