It's sickening, and I want it to end. Dallon shouldn't be conversing with Lindsey, especially not so joyfully, and Lindsey shouldn't be so susceptible to his magic, or whatever it is that Dallon claims to have.

I'm enraged by both of them right now as I witness this treason from the threshold where they could only see me if they turned around and broke free of their petty games, which would be half what I want and half what I don't, because on one side, they would finally come to their senses, but on the other side, they would catch me spying on them, and though it's for any profit why I'm doing such a thing, it's not like they'll know or care while the only thing that's logical is that I'm stalking them, but I'm not responsible for cursing something that should've never happened in the first place.

Things were moving on a steady rate, but one sight begins the fluctuation of my heartbeat with an unbridled intensity as my fists tremble with rage.

They're laughing. Together.

Lindsey Ballato definitely doesn't deserve to be manipulated by an attacker that fucked me up in the mind with twice the blow than I fucked myself up, and if Lindsey's doing fine and has no idea what it's like to suffer, then she's in for complete devastation once the storm scalds the earth.

As a human, it's my duty to separate such treachery from both tails, but I'm paused by an erratic swipe of the arm that wounds my stomach with dread.

I don't know what's happening, just that I'm convulsing on the floor with my friends suddenly swarming me to find a solution to a woe that no one can label.

Someone that I barely recognize to be Pete slides a pillow under my head in an attempt to protect me from my own muscle spasms, and his motions are frantic, because he has no clue what to do in this kind of ordeal — no one does, but the others are trying somewhat adeptly to assist, while he loves me too much to act diplomatically.

Even Dallon is checking to make sure that nothing is in my mouth for me to choke on, as if he cares when I choke on a daily basis, albeit both metaphorically and in the form of post-traumatic panic attacks, and I presume he is cognizant of the connotations, so he proceeds to loosen the buttons near my neck, though that's not much of an improvement, as both actions prevent choking, but he's kind of doing his best.

"Hello? 911?" Gerard wails into the speaker, and I have no idea why he's doing that, because I'm not sure what's transpiring at the current moment, but I at least realize that it's probably not worthy of the American emergency phone number — I'm not that significant to anyone, and whatever this malady is should be the host of my funeral and shouldn't be relinquished for perfect health.

I've envisioned my funeral many times before, and my friends were nowhere in the dreary landscape to lament for my rotting corpse. There was only a well anticipated rendezvous with death, but we would merely stand there with a tacit bond around each other, and in some ways it was like an inversion, because I was tanner and happier and smiling, and the scene depicted itself as real life when "living" was only death, causing this funeral of mine to be all the more charming until I desired it to come sooner.

And maybe it was tragic for me to apprehend such ghastly events, but everything was still and silent, whereas this life is teeming with paroxysms as of late, and you can't blame me for admiring my downfall as it's perceived to others when the downfall perceived by myself is much worse.

It's a consolation, though, when I am conscious of the fact that my perceived downfall is nearing, and that it's not as bad as others would have me think, so I believe I got lucky in the range that others don't. Nevertheless, I still had to endure the hell that is daily life, and that's much more prolonged than a single funeral, so there's no deciding which group swept through the bed of roses with a smile and retained enough optimism to do the same through the thorn bush.

However, my wait is over, because whatever this is has begun to engulf me in its dominance and is swallowing any riots that never would've been uttered anyway, and I surmise that I've won for now.

Even through the delirium of my friends, I have been liberated in the darkness of failing lids against a palette of ebony shades that circulate the blood of many rivers with a precision that I can undeviatingly follow into the grave.

And as I drift away to that safe haven, there is only one figure that greets me with a grin as he steals my soul, and it is certain that I have won.

~~~~~

There's a sort of muffler on my inhalation, a change in atmosphere present, and it's not something I'd like to dwell in often, as it's decorated with pollution and residual scraps left on wrappers and perhaps the worst stench of desperation I've ever encountered in my life, and it's not like I know what's going on, having had my lids dressed in black for my own funeral, but the people around me are insistent on rushing me to an unknown destination, and with the fumbling slur of my speech, I can't protest at all.

Some part of me dictates that I shouldn't protest, though, because yeah, my friends will persevere covertly after I won't cut them some slack, but this seems serious enough for my good behavior.

Even so, I should be malicious, because I thought I was dying and accepted that, so I prepared to see the savior of death who never succeeded in robbing me of my position in the Caribou cottage, and now I'm in some opprobrious automobile with people who only pretend to be defending me until the end but will anyway jump off of the bandwagon when they get the chance to be unchained from their petulant child of a companion.

Gerard is at the wheel, clouting his hair behind his ears while a frenzy consumes him in every aspect — slumped posture, tense shoulders, shaking legs as he hurries to drive somewhere, somewhere whose location is unforeseen for me.

I'm pinched in the folds of Pete's hoodie as he brings me tightly to him like I'll somehow drift away otherwise, like I'm not absolutely terrified of what's going on, like I even know what that is, and the man is just as familiar with an earthquake as Gerard, and maybe their intentions were to soothe me by taking me somewhere important, but this cloud of nervousness is now contaminating my own body.

"He's awake!" Frank alerts the rest of the passengers, startling me more than the general aura of Gerard's van.

Pete tilts his head down to behold me, romping in my peroxide fibers as a sigh assuages his troubles. "Are you doing okay, buddy?"

"What the hell happened?" I weasel around within Pete's arms, exploring many different positions to accommodate my aching limbs, sore from who knows what, but I hope to receive an explanation for my misery soon.

Instead, I'm only allowed solemn rotations of the skull, sockets staring me down like I did something wrong, but all I'm trying to do is figure out why I'm in a car all of the sudden with the premonition that it's my fault, and I don't know if that's why they're angry with me — I must've interrupted their Christmas afternoons — but I'm more confused than they are, and I should earn some research before I'm subdued.

"Where are we going?" I persist, less than accidentally shanking Pete with my elbows when he won't give me an answer.

"You'll see," Lindsey replies from the passenger seat, her tone surprisingly calm for the situation, but I suppose it's more chaotic for me than for her, considering I don't know where the hell I am, and there's a kind of power that is unearthed when you know things that other people don't which grows larger when you have control over their fate, and this is all just judging her from my own standard of pandemonium, so nothing I just said really matters anyway.

However, I'd still like to understand why we're moving so quickly down the road in the middle of Christmas Day with hectic expressions indurating our mouths as we endeavor to refrain from biting them through the stress of all of this, but I've been neglected a few times already, so maybe that prospect isn't so attainable.

"Please tell me," I whine. "I deserve to comprehend why we're in this weird vehicle."

Gerard scoffs as he drives, undertones of his earlier panic still waxing his delivery. "Hey, my car isn't weird!"

"Yes, it is, but that's beyond the point. Where are we going?"

Pete sows a kiss onto my head, lingering on me with a welcoming embrace as some sort of Machiavellian compromise that I hate yet need. "We don't want to upset you. You'll see later."

I saber him once more, ungluing myself from his touch, even if it's warm and sweet and pleasant, because I have a mission to fulfill. "I want to see now!"

"Just trust me, yeah?" Pete's eyes are authentically tenderized by devotion to me and my requests, and it's somewhat evident that guarding me is against his wishes, so I lay off a bit.

Scowling, I cross my arms. "I hate you."

Without warning, Pete's extremities coupe aroundme as they insufflate the evergreen forest and amalgamate with the strawberryfields that have always been a blessing to me, and now it feels like home. "AndI'm keeping you safe, because I love you."

~~~~~

A/N: READY 2 FITE, NUB FUCKERS???

current vibe: white people getting cold all the time and then commenting about it to their equally as suburban friends (why do I do this I'm also white)

~Daqueta (KIND OF LIKE BARBEQUE BC I'M A SUBURBAN DAD)