a sheet on a line.

but by the time you make fifteen you begin to eat the poisoned apples that grow on your own inner tree of pain. indie charlie decker from stephen king's rage.

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i’m...going to re-read rage

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are you not on hiatus anymore??

ehh, i dunno man. i’m gonna try to balance charlie and my other two muses, and i won’t be on him as frequently as them, but i wanna come around here some more ya feel

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we've never written together, but i love your writing. it's beautiful.

you’re beautiful!!!!!

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psycopxth:

“You’re a real fucking piece of work, Charlie Decker.”  He clenched his jaw so hard, he thought he was going to break a fucking tooth. “No, but I hope you’d disappear and never come back. Hopefully dead in a ditch, or dangling from the end of a noose.” He flashed a sarcastic smile before his face fell at his last comment. 

“Ha, ha, ha, funny cunt, aren’t you?” Tate had no boundaries  when his anger took over. So, with a step forward, he pushed his tongue to the back of his mouth before spitting on the others face and quickly stepping back again. “Fuck you, Charlie.”

    Bringing both wrists to his face, he scrubs his acne-marked cheek     of the spit and his smile dissipates. Both of his wrists are raw, the     skin all pallid and soft, like someone could scrape it off with a finger     nail. Two rings perfectly embedded in his skin. Baus relief of his     own body.

    “What a ‘welcome home.’ Greenmantle. State reformatory.”

    He offers his arms out, spread like a prisoner. “I struggled against     the cuffs a little,” he explains, and stares at Tate with genuineness     that always comes with fools and the mentally disabled. “My skin     looks like yours now, doesn’t it?”

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psycopxth:

              The sight of the return of Charlie made his stomach turn,                and not how it used too. Butterflies, and cotton candy and               fucking unicorn farts, but now, he just felt sick, as if he was               going to projectile vomit all over his smug face. “I prayed                you’d choke on some dirty old cock, or catch some sort of STD,               the nasty kind, the kind that makes your pee sting.” The hand               down by his side balled into a fist, and before Tate could stop               himself, he punched Charlie in the upper arm. “You’re an asshole,               and i hate your fucking guts. So, I hope that answered your question.”

    Charlie’s eyes are as white and empty as spider eggs. He laughs     cruelly, humorlessly, and his arm throbs in time with the scary     noises that he makes: barren, loud, godless.

    “Didn’t imagine you’d think of me all that much,” he rubs his arm     with his palm, and then he grabs Tate’s face. He feels strong.

    “You think I’d disappear with a bang or a crash? It doesn’t go out     like that. The world is going to end with a ‘Janet, your offer is ready     in aisle two.’ ‘Phone call for Mr. Barrywater.’ Or, or it’ll end with:     ‘hey, Charlie, wanna stay for dinner?’”

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OPEN.

    “You must have forgotten what it’s like to be a kid. To live cheek-by-jowl      with violence. Murder in the movies, brawls in gym, spit-balls in class,     Cowboys and Indians,” he drums his nails that are bloody in speckles     like stubble against his jaw. He has a cut on his jaw, and the blood drips     and sings.

    “I’m not saying nothing new here.”

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@psycopxth

        “You didn’t miss me too much, did you, Tate?” 

    His grin is wicked.     It always has been.

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thegrimsoldier:

Ronan grins. “Thanks.” It wasn’t that he didn’t understand sarcasm, it was more that he doesn’t give a hunky-dory fuck. Hunky-dory doesn’t make sense in that context but that is just how much of a fuck he does not give. Amazing.

A noise of disgust, “How ‘bout you kiss ‘im an’ I’ll kiss y– no. Wait. No kissin’. Don’t fuckin’ come near me with your faggy lips. Be a man an’ kiss the dead guy, fuck!” 

    Jesus fucking Christ. God fucking Almighty. In this head space, Charlie could spit every blasphemous combination possible with venom. This guy’s priorities certainly have been skewed beyond belief. Necrophilia--but not homosexuality. A prima dona limitation. Charlie wants to smack his own head off against the wall opposite him.

    “Jesus Christ, you dipshit,” he settles on the most popularized term, “I was kidding. Besides, even if I were to kiss you--barf, right?--I’d prefer the dead guy. You look like my bully from seventh grade. Like a lawnmower. ...I haven’t seen him in a while. And the dead guy’s prettier.” 

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thankchrist:

❝GOD CREATES ALL. ALL. None are before or equal to God, for he is the superior, the almighty, the indomi- table… sir, you are BLIND if you realise this not! Shall I confront for you personally the kind Father and have him bathe your eyes in the water holy so you may be rid of your blindness & see??❞

       Richard seems panicked, like a kindergartener were you to tell them jolly old Saint Nick isn’t real. Those blue eyes are SEARCHING, SEARCHING, desperate for an an- swer– but in the face of this man, he finds none of the such.

   ❝…God is not offended if under our stumbling feet the renewable daisy is crushed– it is EMOTION he searches for; this is why the snarling panther is free of sin. It is with no  FEELING that he kills– if you don’t feel bad about it, or know that it’s bad, it is not a sin.❞

      His expression stiffens even furthermore; his voice  cracks as though he’s on the brim of tears when he speaks again.

❝…I was an artist once, in an earlier life– but others FORBADE me from creating my masterpieces in their presence. Becoming a painter is far from fulfilling– have ever you heard of the term, “a starving artist?”❞

    Listening like a reverent, the man demands all of Charlie’s attention with      his baritone voice and unbridled veneration. He watches with full-fledged     seriousness, head bobbing on his neck along to his words, mouth parting.     It is probably the most interested he’s been in another human not on a     television screen in months. Sure, yeah, the ideology is a little flawed.     After all, many killers pass polygraph tests simply because they don’t feel     guilt for it. 

    He wants to mention that he’s not even a Christian, but that might come     coupled with explanation as to why he’s in a church and he simple doesn’t     have that kind of time. Instead, he raises his eyebrows and studies the man     with the side-eye meaning ‘really?’ 

    “Yes, I experienced a childhood on the planet Earth. I have heard of the     term ‘starving artist,’” and all the speculation is gone from his tone, his     voice filling with monotony once more, the same drone that teenagers      maintain for the most part. “What’d you paint? What’d you paint with?”

    He can’t see the man painting anything other than religious propaganda,     not after that lengthy speech. Maybe a half-assed silhouette of Jesus on      the cross, appealing to religious old ladies. Or maybe he paints landscapes.

    “You an Oxbow man?” 

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toxiicpsychotic:

Her nostrils flare. She snorts. Blood shoots from her nose and into her hands. Just looking at her crimson dotted palms made her stomach twist and churn. Anxiety, anger, and profound arousal stirs within her. “Charlie…” Lydia raises her head. “Get me that doll on the counter, would you? And a pair of scissors from the drawer.”

    He stares at the freckles of blood that spray from her nose like snot, entranced     by the sheer amplitude. Then he turns on his heel and does as instructed, almost     mechanical, curious about her intentions. Stress relief comes in many different     forms he supposes. 

    He reproaches Lydia and whistles, now, at the whiteness of her face in comparison     to the lump of pink, sensitive flesh in the midst of all that pallid daintiness. 

    “Jesus, she did a number on you, huh? Care to tell the tale?” 

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ncthisown:

     Jamie doesn’t respond. He probably couldn’t, anyway. He’s all choked up with sobs      that he’s still trying to suppress despite openly crying. They still find their way to spill      out, horrible sounds that shake his shoulders and physically hurt. He’s certain his      throat’ll be sore once he’s finished. His fingers curl knuckle white tight around Charlie’s      shirt and he’s not gonna lie, it feels good. It feels good to just finally let it all out. All      those things he feels but doesn’t really feel, just continually bottles up. Realistically,      it probably would have spilled over one day and drowned him under the weight of it.      He should be grateful – is, mostly. He’d have to remember to thank Charlie for this      later, when he’s not in the middle of soaking his shirt in tears. Another sob pulls out.      Jamie loses track of how long he continues to cry; minutes? Hours? It feels like forever.      His head hurts and his throat is dry and it’s hard to breath but he actually starts to feel      better, though he’s not sure how it’s possible. Crying’s never made him feel better      before.      The tears slow and the sobbing stops and soon he’s just resting against Charlie, nearly      the definition of dead weight.      "I don’t think you’re evil,” is what he decides to say when he feels ready to speak again;      his voice is quiet and it cracks towards the end but it’s better to acknowledge what      Charlie thinks of himself over the crying but also because of it. He doesn’t really think      anyone is evil but especially not Charlie. Maybe he’s biased because Charlie’d offered      Jamie a literal shoulder to cry on but that had really only helped Charlie’s case.

    Their time together stretches like a yawn, and he finds himself sinking into     the heaviness like a pressure on his chest, overly warm and throbbing, and     is ay-ok-ay with it. If he were more empathetic, if he could muster tears or      shared feelings, maybe he’d let a few slip onto Jamie. But Charlie is inherently     selfish, and he doesn’t cry when other people do. Except when his mom does.     That shit is heartbreaking.

    As time slinks on, the night doesn’t get odder and the wind doesn’t blow colder,     but there’s still a sadness filling out his chest like he’s swallowed some pill     compounded with exhaustion and the wails of this abused boy. And he gets     it, gets it too much. But Charlie cries on the regular, the rotten punk he is, and     this boy here, if he’s telling the truth (and he assumes he is) must have a shit     load on his shoulders.

    Odd how abuse can shape a boy. Did they end up differently because Charlie     was belted instead of punched? Did the scars squeeze out different instincts?     Or was it around the time the cruelty started? Charlie at age four, Jamie at...     what? Puberty? Or maybe it’s because Charlie’s a schizophrenic psychopath     with a predilection for ruination even before he knew what the word meant. And     Jamie’s heart of gold stabilized in the womb.

    “No?” he whispers, as if this is a private exchange, as if it’s sacred. His hand     has been absently rubbing his back. Looking at Jamie now, he’s jarred by how     hollow the boy looks, how vacant his glassy eyes look off, the soft swoop of     his eyelashes matted with tears. The redness rimming them. The soft swell of     his cheek gone damp. Like looking in a mirror. “I think you’ve dealt with real     evilness. You don’t need me to compound it. If you weren’t you, you’d know.”

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ofangels:

‘ yes? ‘ didn’t saw the problem with that, honestly – & was oblivious to the confusion. liked him – because he was the funny boy who danced & sang white stripes to her ( the only one she knew who liked this band, and that says a lot! ) basically. ‘ not really, no. ‘ 

a little laugh at his sudden movement ( was charlie trying to imitate mickey mouse or something? ) ‘ i said liked because i just met you, sorry about the confusion, charlie. but is really cute of you for trying to fix it… most boys that know me wouldn’t do that, really. ‘

    This woman’s in for a hell of a kicker when she realizes she’s been dancing     nose-to-nose with a murderer-to-be. But everyone knows something that     you don’t, and he guesses that accounts for something on her part. So     he doesn’t dare find the gall within him to deem her stupid or anything. So     many killers tend to do that. As if their evasion was impasse. They never     take cold cases into consideration. (He’ll never be proud of his stalling in     classroom 300 that day.)

    “Here, I’ll be like most boys and utter, ‘I’m not like most boys.’ How sickening     is that?” He laughs a sharp-toothed laugh and tilts his head a few too many     degrees off-kilter on his neck in a look of faux-innocence. “Tell me,     what’s your agenda?” 

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psycopxth:

Keep reading

    Oh, but Charlie has more to muse on. Sex, like suicide, has a practiced spontaneity     to it. And also like murder. He wants to tell Tate that. But maybe not now. He figures     that eventually, his pontification will pass the point of charmingly odd and creep into     obnoxious territory. And as much as Charlie hates to admit it--and he won’t, mind you--     he simply wants to be liked. No one wants to be found annoying. At least, not for being     himself. 

    Still, it’s a morbid thought of a strangely relaxing paradigm. And while sex is too fleeting     and chemical to save either of them, it’s a carnal need. Like murder. Funny, that. Now     maybe he’ll begin to understand the necrophiliacs. Another macabre thought that has     him smiling horribly to himself, eyes focused on Tate’s face. He’s very beautiful, Charlie     notes, hand coming up to brush the soft swell of his cheek where he’d previously been     gripping with the utmost surety. 

    He doesn’t open his mouth when he’s flipped into a riding position, doesn’t complain when     Tate’s cock nudges something in him that half-hurts and makes him jolt in half-enjoyment.     Oversensitive and ragged-breathed, Charlie finds himself leaning over him while still     working his hips in ill-choreographed thrusts. He mouths nameless shapes against Tate’s     cheekbones, almost like a prayer. 

    Like a lover, a boy obsessed, a devotee. Worship, that’s really it. Charlie could prostrate     himself to this spit-wet face until his knees bled from friction against the sheets. Charlie     bows back and works himself against the altar of Tate’s thighs, mouth parted in rosy     concentration. “Yeah,” he finally says, that cheesy, sex-laden word. But it comes out      almost monotonous, nasally, more than breathy. “Go ahead.”

    Tate’s own hand is an afterthought until it isn’t. But Charlie doesn’t want to look down     past the sad, bony tapestry of his chest and see himself. He just stares at Tate with an     intensity that’ll only be matched when he has a pistol in his hand and cums before him,     being less experienced, feeling horribly childish and wonderfully delirious about this     boy, this sad, murderous boy with a mop of angelhair and eyes as black as an insect’s.

    When he presses his mouth to Tate’s ear, he speaks to him in the reverence reserved     for holy text. “I adore you.”

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my muse is more priceless than urs

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I’VE BEEN NEGLECTING CHARLIE SO MUCH I’M SO SORRY GUYS

I’LL DO THE REST OF MY DRAFTS HERE TOMORROW (i have been paying too much attention to the younger son @cannibrat)

anyway enjoy this picture of charlie in the cover art it’s so cute he is so scared 

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jxnkhead:

          Mind is racing, mile a minute with thoughts stumbling, one over the other. Bam – bam – two second delay… then back to the over-stimulation of the flashing blues and reds that illuminate his pale skin. Does any of it make sense? No. But they’re the only sporadic nonsensical notions splattering his fried brain.              Oh, shit. Is he still talking?               It seems to be the thought of the hour, at least the only one in Gabriel’s mind that one can pluck out and understand. He still has that stupid grin on his face, toothy, vacant, and cheap — still, it’s sincere. He can’t help but play friendly, for now.           “ Yeah-Yeah, yo. Charlie, alright! ” He has no fucking clue, but his friends are few and far between. Social friends, however, those were everywhere when it was convenient to them. Like now. Everyone’s Gabriel’s friend tonight, as long as he keeps supplying them with candy.             “ What’s good, dude. What’s up? ”

    “What’s up!” he repeats, “What’s up. What’s up? Well, shit, man. I think I’ll     kill you. I think I’ll cause absolutely no one grief with your death. When I put     a shiny gold bullet between those vacant, beady eyes of yours, you will not     be mourned and perhaps not even buried until you begin to smell so bad      that someone gets tired of you. You’re a waste, a waste, a waste.” 

    It’s all said as cheerfully as he can muster, but a high hysteric screech of     useless mindlessness creeps into the forefront of his tone. A happy canvas     splayed with a scenery of glee, completed by children laughing and a sun     shining, accented by a splatter of blood. And then you begin to realize that      all those faces on the picture are twisted, ghoulish masks of horror. White     faces and open mouths.

    That’s the only way Charlie can describe how he feels. Horribly happy, and     unbelievably angry. It’s a wasted anger. 

    He shouldn’t give a fuck. He is not important to this guy and this guy is not     important to him. But when you spill your murderous manifesto to a listening     ear, when you plan to change the course of history and you give anyone in the     fucking world a sneak peek, it hurts deep and hard like a hit chime in the back     of your throat and behind your eyes when they don’t fucking remember it.

    “You won’t be mourned. Your services might. But you are the walking dead     right now. We might as well play target practice.”

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graveyardgurrrl:

Eyes buried in the pages of a book she’s disassociated from just about everyone in the room, that is until someone starts talking to her directly, making her look up from the book and see what they were talking about.      “Poem? Yeah— okay.”

    He clears his throat loudly, and then unfolds a piece of paper that he’s     tucked deep within his jacket. It’s a weird reversal of natural progression,     but so is he.

    “Roses are red. Violets are blue. If I shot up a school, I wouldn’t shoot you.”