Scars: Seifer

By GlitterGirl

Yeah, I'm him, the him, yeah I'm evil, yeah I'm sick, I deserve to die, to rot in hell, I should be shot, crucified, lynched, beaten, battered, bruised, kicked, shoved, nailed to a wall, blah blah and all that shit. There's nothing, and let me repeat that just for the fuck of it, nothing that I haven't heard before, but feel free to give it your best shot. You might surprise me, but I doubt it. I really do.

Surprised I'm still here, aren't you? Thought I'd be dead by now? Yeah, well, don't worry, I'm working on that slowly, but surely…

Excuse me a moment, would you, I gotta' get a drink.

Yeah, anyways, it's me, the carnival freak, let's gawk and stare, and don't even pretend you weren't staring, that it wasn't me you were whispering about. I could feel your eyes from a mile away. I know what you said, hear it all the time in the halls. And in the cafeteria, and in class, can even recite it all back for you if you'd like. I hear it in the dark, in my sleep and I wake up screaming.

Excuse me, would you?

Still here, I see. What do you want, are you waiting for me to say something? Want me to impart some words of wisdom? Alright, here's some advice: Don't ever try to take over the world. You'll get shit for it, I guarantee it.

You look stupid like that, you know, standing there with your mouth open… Were you expecting something else from me, like an apology maybe? Fuck you! Ya ain't gonna' get one, so just leave me the hell alone. Please, just leave me alone. Please.

Please stop looking at me.

I just can't take the eyes anymore, I… I see them everywhere, staring back at me, yellow eyes. She could see right through me, you know? Every thought, every fucking feeling I had, she knew. And I know it doesn't matter that I did try. To fight her, I mean. I know it doesn't matter that she used me so bad and mind-fucked me so hard, made me writhe, bleed, beg, cry, and whatever the fuck else I did, because in the end I did what she wanted and I deserve what I get. But I tried.

God I need a drink.

Hell no, I don't want something to eat. I'm not hungry. And no, I don't need to get some sleep, can't sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time, so what's the point? Just give me the vodka. And if you don't have that, I'll take gin, or rum. Hard liquors only, something with a high proof. It takes an awful lot these days, but if I drink long enough and hard enough, those eyes start to blur and flicker and dance, and I can almost pretend they're something else. Sometimes they even look like firelight.

Look warm.

Like I said, it takes a lot. Ever hear that expression "the eyes are the mirrors of the soul"? It sounds corny as hell, but it's so fucking true. Her eyes were so cruel, so cold, like a…like a snake's eyes, reptilian. I hated those eyes, was so afraid of them… And that, of course, is the fucking irony of it. Because now she's dead, but I still see those cold eyes everyday. Every time someone looks at me.

I see them when you look at me.

Seeing those eyes all the time, you wanna know what I've learned about people? No matter how low you get, there is always someone around to kick you in the teeth to prove that you can always get lower.

I don't know why I keep looking.

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