I try to breathe and with a hollow dismissal of air, I discover an emptiness where something once inhabited. Sadly, but not without trying, I can't for the life of me recall what once resided in the void. A consciousness of overrated spewing might have once lived there. Nothing more than thoughts desiring to fling away every grain of happiness penetrating my devilish sanctuary. Whatever it is, it is gone now, and in place of it is something mysterious and unorthodox, but it can't be seen.
Something that is there, I know is there, but I can't see it, or necessarily feel it, but it's there. The sadistic dancers are free to dance ballistic, not stepping on toes, but stepping on, and crushing the useless and feeble existences of those around me, “One, two, cha-cha-cha!”
Here we go, dosado, take a knife and make a hole, spin your victim round and round, now push her harshly to the ground!
I don't care about any of these people, my prey, I don't see why I ever tried to pretend.
I don't see why I ever tried to pretend that I could gain their acceptance, and I don't see why I ever wanted it. I don't need their acceptance, I don't need their approval, I don't need anything from them, but what I am going to give to them is the end. The end of their lives, and the end of their unfair and unjustified prejudice for me and what I do; all that I've ever done is try to kill them, but they can't even let me do that. Now, they don't have a choice, do they?
Wait, you don't mean any of this, and you know it. You're not this, Orion, you're not.
Who's to say what I am? I thought I could be someone who had justification for what he did, but I cannot. I thought that I someone who could slither out of his hole every now and again without me getting any closer to the towering brick-wall, but I was wrong.
I thought I was something else, but I'm Orion Corvus, I am the hunter, and I denounce everything else, because I am nothing else.
My life has forever been containing an unidentifiable question, a question where the answer is unobtainable, but I am obsessed with finding it. The theories subconsciously jot themselves down and fill the pages of my life. I think I'm getting closer to finding the answer, and I think that Cepheus will lead me to it.
I depart the kitchen with food in-hand, a plate of eggs and bacon in one hand and a glass of orange-juice in the other.
After our waltz with perfect insanity, Cepheus an I said adiós and went our separate ways for the night. I, of course, returned home to see a tired, and unsurprisingly drunk, James sleeping on the couch, and Cepheus went to his house, and probably went ahead and pealed a little bit more paint from his walls. As expected, James is mopey and unceremoniously dull about anything and everything that he does. Probably because of what his father said at the hunting grounds before James went to shoot a commercial through an arrangement by his mother.
George's body hasn't been discovered yet, or if it has, word hasn't made it over to our neck of the woods yet. I almost felt tempted to inform him I killed his bastard of a father, but I feel like that would have done more harm than good. Ah, well, if James wants to be a curmudgeon for all his life, I won't let him rain on my partying parade.
I walk over to my room and sit myself at the foot of the bed, I place my beverage on my dresser drawer, where a medium-sized television rests as well.
I bring the remote to my hands and begin to freely flip through the channels, discovering nothing that immediately catches my eye. An assortment of cartoons are on the tube, some which once lined the layers of my youth, and some that I haven't even seen before. In one, an anvil is dropped on the head of a house cat while it chases after a small mouse. He stumbles wildly in a daze before managing to pull himself forward only to have a washboard clothesline him to the throat and take him off his feet.
In another, a white fox attempts to solve mysteries with his lizard and bird friends.
I browse past a couple more channels, and nothing seems to capture my attention the way the fox solving crimes did. I stretch my hands high in the air before rubbing the grains left by the sandman from my eyes. Taking a small sip of orange juice, I chew and swallow a piece of egg, some of the yolk beginning to dribble own my chin before I wipe it off with my hand. Suddenly, ruining the peacefulness of the morning, in all its glory, I hear somebody knocking on the front-door.
Leaving my plate of food and orange-juice on the drawer beside my bed, I bring myself out of my room. I look and see James not in his former post of the couch before I turn my head up and look to see that his bedroom door is closed, indicating that he woke up simply to make way to his own bed.
I open the front-door and see, unsurprisingly, somebody looking back at me, but surprisingly, it's Belladonna. Opening the door, I usher her into my humble abode, my humble abode that I only faintly remember telling her existed.
She walks in with a sweet smile on her face, and for the first time ever, I know it couldn't possibly be genuine. She's wearing a gray hooded-sweatshirt, and jeans, while her hair looks only moderately groomed.
“Hi,” she says, still carrying the smile on her face.
“Hello,” I respond.
“So, how have you been, I mean, how was the hunting trip?” Belladonna questions aloud as we drift over to the couch formerly inhabited by James.
“Enlightening,” I respond truthfully.
“Oh, really, how?” Belladonna reciprocates eagerly.
Slowly, Belladonna shifts her position on the couch and begins to lay atop my chest. I can't believe that I ever thought she could be like me. Everything about her, there's something about her, and it's loving and caring, and nothing like me. It screams goodness and purity, whereas everything about me merely causes screaming.
“I found the answer to a question that I have been asking a lot lately.”
She shrugs it off my words, with a certain giddiness, like she has something she's been waiting to tell me since I left.
“Hmm..., I found us a new victim, real cold-blooded killer.”
Belladonna is the only person that I have ever met that can make something so barbaric and cruel feel so warm and inviting.
“Yes, I resisted the urge to kill without you, thought it could be special. Maybe light some candles around our alleyway, throw down a little rose petals, and set the bastard on fire.” Belladonna announces with a small chuckle in her voice. “Isn't it great?”
“I killed Silvia Garcia,” I utter faintly beneath my breath, but she hears me.
“What,” Belladonna firmly states, her giddiness replaced with something that frankly scares the hell out of me.
“I killed her,” I repeat.
“What the hell do you mean, you killed her? We agreed that she was innocent!” Belladonna responds with a noticeable frustration in her voice as she climbs off of my chest and stands to her feet.
“You don't understand, I'm not apologizing, I'm saying, it's okay, who cares, she doesn't matter.”
“Doesn't matter? She did nothing wrong, Poison! We can't just kill people, we're not like that. We protect people from these, these things, and we enjoy it but the only reason we can do it is because of the fact that it does some good, because without us releasing our demons, we let these more devilish creatures run rampant,” Belladonna says.
“Actually, for what it's worth, Silvia confessed before I killed her, but it wouldn't have mattered one way or the other. I am starting to realize that I don't have to spend all of this time rationalizing what I am doing, and I don't have to make excuses about it. I can just do it. You can just do it. Don't you get it? You're limiting yourself to criminals because you're afraid about not having the approval of these people,” I respond, my voice sounding frank and persuasive.
“We ARE these people, Poison,” she proclaims, placing a lot of extra emphasis on the second word.
“No, I'm not, and I'm not Poison either,” I reiterate.
“Orion,” Belladonna corrects, her voice riddled with sympathy and pity.
“You should join me,” I say before standing to my feet alongside her. I take her by the hand as I speak. “Think about it, you see someone that you want to kill, just do it. There is no more, did he do this, or did he do that, you just act.”
“That isn't right, Orion. You know that isn't right. This isn't what you believe and I don't know what has gotten into you, but you need to snap out of it. I get it, I really do, I understand what this is and I understand what you're going through, but you can't just let it consume you. It pisses you off, but don't let it cloud everything that keeps you human. If Silvia Garcia really did confess, you haven't done anything wrong yet, don't go over that edge,” Belladonna's voice feels like she's in-front of a podium giving a speech, such confidence and passion in her words.
“I'm sorry, but it's too late.”
“No, it isn't!”
“I am done pretending, and while I'd love for you to join me, I don't have anything else to say for myself.”
“No,” Belladonna utters before sniffling some. “No, Orion. You're the only one that I ever thought understood what this was. I'll always love you for that, but I won't walk this path with you. I hope you find something else to believe in. I really do.”
Belladonna frees her hand from mine, her tears dribble down her face. She turns away and leaves from view. I stare down at the floor below me, not wanting to face or accept reality before I bring myself back into my room.
The smell of eggs is repulsive. I have lost my appetite. I am not hungry anymore, not for food at least.
A game of cat and mouse. That's what I want.