Something.

Consciousness in the drizzle.

There was slime caked on his skin. The world had a brown hue, a gray tint, and a wet sheen. He hated the sweat on his forehead that made him prickle. He hated the way sweat collected in his a*s crack and made him feel wet. Wet all over. He hated it. He just f*****g hated it.

A small bridge eclipsed the walking path he trod along. Every sucking noise of his dirty running shoes in the mud made his body buzz more with that sick discord. He could see them in his head. Browned from the artificial white they once were. It was terrible, and he'd tell you if you asked, that it was f*****g terrible. You're f*****g terrible. Then he'd realize what he'd done, and how he'd been stupid and negative again, and he'd be a right-f*****g-screw-up. That's what he'd be. All he ever was.

He wasn't walking alone. She was walking with him, along for the ride. She didn't know it, but she was there. He just wanted her to go away, but he brought her everywhere anyway. And he wanted to bring her. Things were less real when she wasn't around. That discourteous bridge, weather-worn in appearance, might have even taken a rustic appeal. Maybe he wouldn't hate the drizzle that made him flinch when enough happened to hit his eyes at the right moment. It really was annoying. He always hated the way his track pants stuck to his ugly, tangled, matted legs. They would smell later. Not even a good smell, a satisfying smell, like the guilty pleasure of his balls after he'd scratched them, but just an abhorrent stench of decay and all that damnable sweat.

It made him think about her. He was under the bridge, out of the rain. He stopped for a minute to indulge the fantasy. It felt good to rip open his chest right there. He saw his insides sloshing out onto the ground, his juices combining with the mud and runoff. He even cried, but just a little. Enough so that anyone else who came by would see and think it was just the sweat, grime and sheen on his face, and they wouldn't think less of him. He didn't care what they thought, but he only cried a little.

She hung back a bit, looking at him in a despondent way, with a sort of pity that cut. He didn't look at her, because he couldn't. Not for a few minutes. He had to collect himself. Instead, he experienced the world. The little cacophony of a quintillion little raindrops, just at the edge of hearing. There was some peace in that, he felt. He rocked his weight back and felt some grease and dampness suck between his toes. The peace was gone. He was disgusting.

She was disgusting. He bet her foul vagina smelled terrible right then. It would be slopping with the vulgar rain that insisted on making every one of his hairs go a separate way. Her face was disgusting. Her mouth went askew to one side a bit, and when she talked, she used too much of her face. He would have wanted her to be more refined. Her eyes always had a look of disdain. Nothing was good enough. His eyes were cousins to hers, in that regard, but their features spoke less of disdain and more of emptiness filled with bile.

A lone bird chirped. He had a measure of peace again, but a measured amount was all. Nothing good came in great quantities. Except for her. She did. She was a great quantity.

A great quantity of filth, hatred, worthlessness, suffering and the death of his careful self-promises. That's what she was. That c**t. That destroyer. He wanted her to just shut that pissing mouth of hers and leave, as long as she came home again, please.

Clopping from shoes. A woman strode past, poised, beautiful. Her brown hair sagged behind her. It was destroyed by the weather, but she didn't mind, on the outside. He couldn't see her eyes, but he bet they were wonderful. Almost as wonderful as the psychosomatic smell that went by when she passed. Her shoes were so ugly. She was ugly. He hated her and wished he hadn't seen her. Stop breathing. Stop thinking. The vibration of life is ruining this sphere I'm in. He wanted to run after her, tackle her, and tell her what a wretch she was. F**k you for existing. I hate you. He'd just hit her until he lost count. He could feel his arm getting weak and his fist stinging with every slapping, wet punch. She'd ask him why when he stopped, and look up at him, and he'd hate himself more than ever before.

What would his sick love think of that? He'd be on the news. Everyone would know him as a monster, a beast of discord. He'd feel guilt, and he'd feel nauseous, and he'd want to kill himself again. Like when he was naked. His gross, disproportionate body was an unreality, and it was horrid.

She was gross when she was naked, too, but she was beautiful. He couldn't think of her as being really all that disgusting. Only then, in the rain, and the mud, and the sweat in his a*s, was she was disgusting as that.

Nothing was worse than he was at all times. No loathing could compare to that which he held for himself. It was something.

No, she was something. Perfect. Her hair with little waves, sometimes, when she wanted. Her often ridiculing voice. Her sublime smile, which used too much of her face, and used just what it needed to. Her thoughts, sometimes mysterious, always ulterior in motive. It was something. Yeah. Yeah, it was something.

Reviews

[lushescape]

Harsh and gripping! I felt assaulted at first, but I liked it. The descriptions are of the sort that the commoner can identify..those little uncomfortable things that are subtle. It was very...observant and well-worded. I like that you mention little things, like that she uses too much of her face when she talks. Just great.

[Sarah>_>]

All I can say is that I am so glad that there are younger people on this website who are actually original, not anime vampire obsessed weaboos who seem to only write about to same topics. You have some serious talent.

[Kenneth The Poet]

Something good. This is a stream of conscious piece that I would die to write. You utilize it brilliantly here. Short, punchy sentences with the right amount of angst and hatred that would make any pessimist smile. I also like how it doesn't go for lowest common denominator shock value. This is a keeper.