Let me tell you a story… About whichever famous person’s death that trended on Twitter, despite their Earthly presence being unknown to you. I named it… “It.”

…

They kept themselves to themselves, and those on the outside that wondered why never questioned why. They were intimidated.

Inside, it shed tears futilely. “In vain” became a “reflex”. “Reflex” became “reflexes” and, unbeknownst to them, all they did was insensate. No shedding of tears would ever have been courageous enough to step before the weaponry.

Could they have got much louder around it? In its infancy, it was never put first; on the podium, it was looked down on. In the afternoon, it never spoke. At night, it would not sleep. In the morning, it would not mature, even though it had to. Repeat.

Beside the mattress on the floor, it asked and believed someone was answering. It asked for unspeakable things but they never came true. All they did was take. Materials were her father while he didn’t have a mother. They were educated by Satan. At first it sensed something, but after much thought was ultimately unsure.

Meanwhile, in the dim light of the streetlights, it taught itself a lot of things. It taught itself how to roll over, how to jump through hoops and how to fetch. Colourful drinks, that is.

Life once blurred by, but then things began to stain its reflections. Ironic, considering all it wanted was to kill the reflection that taunted it. It walked with a heavy step that did nothing but become heavier. That weight became too much and broke the reflection, EXPECTING it to fix itself. It took everything to heart which stopped it putting heart into anything.

It saw him wrap his hands around her neck like she meant something. They thought she couldn’t understand. She did, but they never explained. Regardless, what she said was suppressed; what she said was the exhaustion of a kaleidoscope. Elation enshrouded her and she drowned beneath it. Introspectively, he was moral. He told himself that because she made him suffer, she should suffer more, but only it was the one that suffered. It hid, but the noise found her and it hasn’t left her alone since.

There was blood borne damage where he once bared ink. Andesine blackened her neck. Together, they always needed a “kick”. It tried to hide everything: A.T.C, q.i.d., SSRI, IM… She hid after a while too, just like the policemen who hid their indifference and it who hid beautiful eyes beneath the ice pack. He blamed it.

Poison once fogged up its glasses; now poison fills its glasses. Cupio dissolvi was among what it caught. They didn’t know what to do and they didn’t know what it was doing, while it didn’t know what it was doing. It had no time for them…
Time passed but it didn’t age.

He let go of the label attached to his daughter and swallowed regret, only to weep when he read its last entry. With the infected ink on its back, the black marks on its stomach, the dope in its system and the hate in its heart, the last thing it mentioned was regret. She was disappointed in herself.

It would never shed tears again and now he… IT had no-one. What do you want to bet that he knew EXACTLY where they went wrong?

The story ends with a name on a stone with someone, today, a generation later, looking over it. The story ends with a name on a stone who wasn’t necessarily no-one. At the time, they were just someone to no-one. Now, they are someone to someone…

Someone can mean nothing to us; regardless, they are still SOMEONE.

…

There… As harsh as I sound, did you understand?
Thanks for the view.