Ever since I heard about Evelyn McHale via the gorgeous band Parenthetical Girls, I've been wanting to write something vaguely related. Once I started, I have not been able to think clearly until I finished it, but that might be the Benadryl and Zyrtec |D;

Anyways, I haven't been able to play around with Emm's thoughts lately, and this turned out to be a very fun exercise c:
She's turning into a real Dominique Francon, I must say! AMIRIGHT OR AMIRIGHT? /Ayn Rand fangasm

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Augh!


Such arrogant assumptions about one’s character! These are stinking little thoughts clenching in the stomach, driving to such great paranoia.
Augh, again!

To glance at the thought (my goodness, the idea!) that everything is better with this absence. His absence!



If only these beasts were capable of delicate emotions, they could witness with unclouded eyes the stretched and aching divot he has left in our existence.

...


...




The match bemoans the loss of the wick; you see, the match can be struck, but the flame is born for only so long, and it must set fire to something. It’s the purpose of the creation of the entitlement of the match. What a sting, huh? It would be funny if it didn’t hurt so damn bad. Ha ha ha.








Well..

I hope you'll understand that I’m a girl who covets disaster. I am constantly fueled by the anticipation of the spark and sizzle of the lit bomb and the cacophony of wailing metal in a head-on collision. Oh my, what a noise!


That’s the problem with this place: death here is slow. Death is one commonly found in labored physical combat or from old age. You die by tines, not by guns. You die at birth, not by explosions. Death too is uncertain—assuredly, you do not come back to life from a shotgun to the head, heh.






Lean against the window, thinking maybe it will break, swerve into oncoming traffic, hoping maybe there will be a crash.

It was like that always around him. And yet, how many times was I told to get away from him? ‘He’s dangerous,’ they’d tell me, never realizing the thrill that comes with standing next to such an undiluted pillar of potential energy.












I was on the edge of death when I stood by him.



Always looking at the dark unknown. They assumed I felt anxiety around him, but I was always elated; I could do what I wanted, without considering anybody’s thoughts or worries—I acted as anybody would do when they are that close to death: I lived.

Nobody could tell me what to do, because I was too busy dancing around my own deathbed.






And, I think.. if I were to die, I would want him there. Even if all he’d do was laugh at me, I’d want him there! I’d maybe even want him to do it because he would understand.







I’ve lost that with his absence. We’ve all lost something with his absence; in a Forest of such calm, there needs to be somebody around to cause a ruckus every now and then to clear the air. We don’t have that anymore.











Dynamite, darling.

















Scarecrow.











I miss you.








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Hey, you made it through! Thanks for reading, and double the thanks for those who care c: