It was a dark, cold January night when Elizabeth died. Three
days have passed since then; my eyes were long since dry, my
mouth sour from beer... Or was it the vomit? I couldn't care
less, really... My bedsheets were filthy with nearly any
kind ofbody-fluid there is in existance: stomach juices,
urine, seamen, blood, saliva... It was diharia free, and I
thank got for this. God, or any other power that took Liza
away... Bitch!
I simply laid there, thinking. I have no idea about WHAT,
can't remember, couldn't care less. I examined the fresh
cuts on my wrists... How many times did I try to kill
myself? One? Ten? I couldn't care less... The sight of my
deformed hands made me sick for some reason, so I just
raised and went to take a shower. It was long, hot, and
lonely. Too lonely.
After cleaning the urine from between my legs and by chin
and neck from fuck-cares-what, I decided to wash my
bedsheets. Aftr looking at them again, I decided to burn
them. Not now though, later.
And then it stroke me. Like a crashing helicopter with
exploasives on it, my head simply blew up. I went to the
kitchen to make myself a breakfest... Itis time to live
again!
Why?
Because THEY care.
Why?
I don't know, I couldn't care less...