I'M THE PAPERBOY

I've discounted suicide for killing everyone else in the entire world instead. (indie oc)

[useursmile-deactivated20151013]

[rosetho]

[illuminaughtyprincess]

[benkylorensolo-deactivated20160]

[kidmortician-blog]

I’m gonna find your daughters.

[kidmortician-blog]

missamcrica:

▓░▌━━ ≼☆≽ ░▓▌

         the officer felt her nerves twinge under the weight of his apology. he is just a kid,          after all. but, whatever this is that she’d stumbled in on, was something beyond          what kid was supposed to be capable of. a body, bloody and mutilated, and him          caught literally, red-handed. she couldn’t just let him go. she had to do her job.          she had to be the representation of everything good that was lacking in the law.          and, if that meant arresting this kid, then so be it. flat out murder, or…? ❝ you wanna tell me what happened here? did that guy— did he attack you, or something? ❞    she chose her words carefully, like she was almost trying to help him,    with the way that she spoke. and as slow as she spoke, she stepped    toward him even slower. the medical tools on the ground were an indication    to anything but self-defense. but she couldn’t help but extend him some    of her willingness to understand.               the soft static of her radio, clipped to her chest, buckled through the silence              of the alleyway. voices, barely made out, and words even more lost in the              breathy static, she could hear herself swallow hard over the tremor of sound.              and, with a quick movement, she as at his back, strong hands lurching his              bloody hands down behind his back to cuff his wrists together, tightly.        she was unsure. but she remembered her training. it was       all that, and instinct, that would keep someone like her alive.

    He flinches at the waves and eddies of crime on the unit clipped to her chest,     his eyes slitting under the burn of the red and blue lights. When he blinks,     the heat needling behind his eyes threatens to push to the front, and he has     to stare directly into her face to keep his mouth from dropping on a injured     noise.

    The excuses roll in his mind, and he coughs out a weak sound, his chest     thrumming under the pressure of decimation, this shitty feeling in his      stomach. A feeling of impending consequence, a plastic rattling of his breath.

    "Oh, fuck," he says, sounding wounded, or maybe sick, like he's ready to     wretch onto the concrete. He stumbles a little, turns his inky eyes up that     glitter like well-water to her. In a weak, trembling tone, he says: "Help me."

    His fingers curl softly when her hands tug his wrists to the small of his spine.     Oh, yes. She can help him. She can help him. He keeps his mouth shut, waits     for his Miranda rights, waits to be told his opportunities, waits to be coddled.     Waits to be helped, waits to be healed. He cranes his neck to the body and     winces bodily, gooseflesh prickling his skin, the tendons in his throat tightening.

    "I did something bad for something very important," he explains, eyelashes wet.     "I've never sinned a day in my life. But this was vital, officer. I needed to do this,      officer. He would hurt me if I didn't--even more."

[kidmortician-blog]

hlptobesquare:

"Just because you’re saying that doesn’t give me a reason to believe you.”

He sighs, giving the kid a once-over.

"Look, I appreciate the offer but I just don’t know that it’s necessary. No one gives a shit about anyone I kill. Whether they’re a whore or some lazy homeless bum, or just an annoying dickweed from work. No one cares if they’re gone enough to do anything about it.”

He banks the word 'dickweed' in a far corner of his mind to repeat later. Wetting his lips quickly, he tries a more monotonous drawl than usual.

"Tell me I'm not the single most interesting person you've met this short year. Tell me I'm not the only one who hasn't prattled on and on and on about the food here, the outfits that person's wearing, the song on the radio. You're gonna need me one day. If you ever, ever fuck up, just give me a call, alright? Congressman or movie star or political figure of importance: I'm here to remove all evidence. All of it. I'll even convince you that you've never done it."

[kidmortician-blog]

vilepulse:

Probably lots! But you’re older so you probably know lots of things I don’t know, too.

I mean of death. What do you know about death that I don't?

[kidmortician-blog]

ohfiendangelical:

You’re getting awfully deep on our first date.

(  Zero glances toward the boy, wondering if this is his idea of small talk or if he wants to engage in a conversation. Either way, he doesn’t have a problem with it; it’s actually interesting to come across someone who will openly jump into those questions — especially considering who and what he is. It isn’t something one usually asks a hellspawn.  )

— Yeah, I do.

(  He looks back toward the road, turning onto the highway that will take them to the warehouse district.  )

The way I see it, I’m the proof. If there’s the bad side, there has to be a good side. I’ve met angels, too. Why would holy water work on me if there wasn’t a God who designed it?

And that’s just the monotheistic god — Lord, Allah, Jehovah, whatever. I believe in the others, too. Pantheons, lesser known gods. As long as people exist, so do gods, even if it’s just ‘cause of belief. And even if it’s just a concept, without even being … a being. Concepts can be gods.

But that’s just my opinion. You?

Holy water. Angels. You're insane. Well, I don't know.

[ He turns in his seat, watches the woman leak and creak and remain uninteresting in her death. He wonders if she has a God, if there's some refuge after all this hell, after her supposed depression, or if she gave up hope and open-limbed, embraced the end. ]

I don't know about religion, but I think there's something.

[ He knows a couple of Christians. His mom's family was Christian. One Saturday, he'd pushed his black hair out of his eyes and looked at one of his wide-mouthed cousins in a white dress with eyelet sleeves looking back at him, scratching her nose and staring at him like he was some elephant in a zoo -- something dumb and ugly and impervious to hurt.

You're not my people, she had said. He had blinked slowly, waiting for an elaboration. You're trash.

Some Christian. But then, he supposed religion was not the topic, but an ethereal being, something powerful, some deity, some unkind, capable, unforgiving God. A God of punishment, a petty being that reigned His abilities when upset. Temper tantrums. If that was the case, then: ]

Yes, there's certainly something.

[kidmortician-blog]

hcdonistic:

           ❛ if that’s what you want… you should certainly do it. ❜

     "What do you think I am, a barista? No. That's why I need you."

[kidmortician-blog]

godkiiller:

"is this sarcasm?"

Zach brings his thumb to his teeth, gnawing on the dead cuticle curling at his split nail. He lifts his shoulders once in a shrug. "No, you seem tolerably cynical." 

[wifipasswords-deactivated201908]

What my future Wikipedia page’s table of contents will look like

[defectors]

Visit Original Link

[kidmortician-blog]

defectors:

Timber Timbre: Creep On Creepin’ On

[kidmortician-blog]

godkiiller:

“mm.” how observant. 

"Are we friends now?"

[kidmortician-blog]

     "I want to fill an isolation tank with coffee and live in it."

[kidmortician-blog]

    [ He's enthralled with the dude's presence, the       minute he walks in the room, neon bright and       noir-gritty and aromatic of what may be tobacco       and what may be association. Zach cranes his       head around his glass of tea, tracks his movements,       his brows hitched. From behind his minuscule shield       of his drink, he gives a little wave. He looks dangerous,       he looks like he has G69 and the weapons to                                                               accommodate it. ]

[kidmortician-blog]

    "It's people like him that make me want to commit arson--      You know what I mean?"

[kidmortician-blog]

ohfiendangelical:

Really? Fourteen?

(  He’d known that the other wasn’t very old at all — a kid, obviously; still, he hadn’t expected to hear that he was that young. Once again, he finds himself curious as to what the boy’s story is and what made him fall into this line of work. This line of life.  )

— I’m, uh. Heh. That’s the question, isn’t it.

(  How old is Zero? There are a few answers to that one, and thinking on it tends to confuse the childe. In this world, he is twenty-eight — he hasn’t walked the earth for hundreds of years. He was born in the same year as the rest of the current twenty-eight year olds of the world. However, he had also been to Hell twice, and time moves very differently there. Days on Earth are years in Hell, and time is even more warped the deeper you go.  )

(  He’d been stuck in Hell for a few hundred years. It had only been a matter of months by the time he had gotten back, giving him two ages that are both technically correct.  )

I’m twenty-eight.

(  The easy answer.  )

[ Zach's only sign of recognition is the grunt and nod of his head. Zach sees no reason to answer if he can grunt, and grunt if he can gesture in situations like this. The least he can do is offer the dead some silence. 

Dead silence, what a term. There's no real comparison. I was dead silent, someone will proclaim, and Zach will shake his head. No, you weren't.

You were breathing. You shifted, you sensed: you lived. You lucky bastard, you lived. 

But Zach can't hold respect for too long. ]

Death is a lot like gospel. This is what killing is meant to do—make you hate and love yourself at the same time, make you ashamed and glorified.

Do you believe in a god? 

[ Zach does. Maybe not a named one, but he thinks there's some higher power. He thinks there must be punishment, there must be some path of fate that leads the way men pay. And they pay in the lives they live. 

He leans back and takes a deep breath, turns his face towards the window to track the forestry whip by, neon lights of shitty gas stations peering through, Marlboro-scented and fire-fed. ]