I think I'm dissociating.....like....I'm not really here nor there but I can feel it. Some of my autopilot settings are on but....one of the main components that hooks A into B that helps translate it for C isn't fully connected to the brainstem. It's not depression this time its just the weird backrooms purgatory feeling again.....
Does anyone else have that problem? Or is that just me? Does everyone else view their brain as a machine that has different components, repeaters, and translators to help the main motherboard run? And does everyone have mental filing cabinets and also refuse to "upgrade to the cloud" like I do too? And a large video/book library up in there? Just...all nice and organized in the brain?
The paint job is a complete write-off. You are perhaps not as irritated about that fact as you could be, even as you light another cigarette. It's not long before it joins the dead ones scattered around you.
You'll hand it to Deadeye, he knows how to find things. A vindctive thrill races up your spine, because he missed the Bentley itself, soured by the fact he walked into the desert and said nothing to you.
You retreat to his apartment, not even bothering to pick a lock to let yourself in. It's not so hard to sink into the shadows from outside his door, reach out to the ones pooled quiet and still inside. You lounge on his furniture like you belong there, stewing away in a heady mixture of fond irritation and ice cold fury.
It doesn't take you long for the seething mess of emotions swirling in you to rear its ugly head, and you have to very carefully press your hands to the wall so you don't put your fist through it.
You -
You don't know what you want.
But this - this cannot be let slide. You sit on his couch and curse him in the black tongue, words oozing from your lips in hissing bubbles. Your hate smells cloying sweet, putrefaction, the decay of living things.
Today, you are going to remind Deadeye who he's actually dealing with. Even if he never sees it, even if he's face down in a sand dune somewhere rotting under the baking desert sun.
You find it in your black and twisted soul to hope, for the first time in maybe a long time, that this particular annoyance will walk back into your life
You unlock the door from the inside, returning to the couch as you pull your phone out. You're going to replace everything he owns with the most expensive things you can get your hands on. Deadeye's apartment is going to drip luxury by the time you're done, not a single thing will remain in this building that hasn't been replaced. You'll keep it simple, you decide, you won't rummage through the things he's put away, won't interrupt his carefully organized wardrobe. You're delighted to find that it will mean nothing is going to match. Let that stick in Deadeye's throat.
Luckily, there's an unused property nearby you can keep his things in, because while the idea of flaunting your wealth is particularly appealing you would not just strip it all away from him. He can always find the time to move it back how he pleases.
It takes a good day and a half, and by the time you're done the things you've replaced stand out like a sore thumb. Everything is precisely how Deadeye had positioned the previous items, allowing for size and shape discrepancy. Then you have everything moved a few inches to the left, just to really drive the point home.
You let yourself out after leaving a small note attatched to his entirely new refrigerator, the small simple spade in horrorterror ink the only easily seen proof it was you.
It's entirely possible Deadeye will never walk back out of the desert. The endless expanse of sand has a habit of swallowing even the fit and prepared, leaving nothing behind but fading hopes. If he never does - well. This can be a monument, then, and you'll keep it until it drags you to drown like an anchor around your throat.
If he does come back?
You're not going to speak to him for a week, at least.
