Evana's brain-aches - WHAT'S THIS, MORE SHIT GETTING DONE? HOW CAN THIS BE?

AND THIS TIME IT'S ABOUT ASSHOLE TERRORISTS.
AND NARRATED BY CREEPY PATH-KID.
Who I'm afraid that he's going to turn into a little possessive bitch sooner or later. B'C


OH WELL, MAKES FOR INTERESTING STORY TIME, RIGHT?
Oh, and, yeah. Tristan is still abiquiu 's. He's just a tad different. Always seems to vary from story to story...

IjustwishIknewwhatworldthisissuppostedtobe,aaaaaaaughhhh-



You’re not the kind of man anyone should trust, but here we are, gathered about and clinging onto your every word as if you are truly the last prophet. All at once, you are our salvation and our damnation.

I do not believe in prophets or Allah or Yahweh or God or anything at all anymore, though, not since you stole me away on your corpse-smoke wings, not since you killed my family and my name. Ever since you baptized me in gunfire and bombs and dictatorship and made me yours. I am your brother and your son, and I suspect, one day you will also make me your lover. I don’t mind, honestly, because I trust only you and truth that you create.

It may be that I dislike you some days, yes, but to follow you without pondering your logic would surely mean a collapse of the spirit, to die as a broken, wretched thing. I’ve seen you do that you many, many, countless others. And every time afterwards, after you’ve given the final blow, erased their minds, you always turn to me because I am always there.

You say that there cannot be a god in this world, because if everyone everywhere where to trust in that same god, the world would crash and burn while those that could save themselves instead cry out for their god to save them. You say that dependence is the real killer of man, puts them on the very same level of their pets. And more than once you’ve whispered into my hair that if god did exist, he would burn the world alive to save it from itself.

To save it from us.

Because you tell me these things, admit that you are and monster and a beast and maybe a demon, and I trust you with everything. Not just because you say the words, but because you say them with pride, with no shame. You’re glad that you are something above and below a normal man.

I’d be stupid to deny such honesty.

It's probably is harder to trust the brutal truth, especially with how you phrase it with your massacre syntax and your guttural diction, but maybe it’s easier to agree with someone who’s argument is so horrifically solid, almost like the bodies we leave behind. I’ve learned through trial and error that you can’t run from what has you pinned by the shoulders.

Though, with your sexual appetite, that phrase can be taken a multitude of ways. Then again, everything with you always comes down to how you can take it, make it yours.

You may have stolen me, but I’ve seen so many come and go on their on whims. Unless you send them on their way with a caring bullet between the eyes, but that’s rarer than I’ll ever be able to understand. Generosity is a precious thing among us cutthroats, and it earns you respect that you flaunt about only enough to gain more attention. You call it “street credit”, but I still think it makes you seem like a haughty teenager, much like I am now, I guess.

Our number is a small one right now, and I can’t help but worry to myself. My trust for you may be shockingly large, but doubt I would fully put my life in the hands of these men here, even though I’ve shared much with them for the past few years.

Taj is plainly insane, and trails after you too closely, his gun inches away from the back of your head every time we go to work. He will kill you that way, I’m sure, except he probably wants to carry your head on a pike rather than blow it away in a shot of lead and bone dust and raw meat. We’re supposed to be wild, yes, but that man is as savage as his laugh is when he mows down a room of corporate elites. His cruelty is as quick and sharp as the fingers he uses to pick through bloodstained wallets. I wish he was a simple killing machine like he claims, but there is a mind behind those burning eyes, and it imagines stalking you, killing you, ravaging your body, and then taking your place. He admires you more than I, and that admiration will either be the death of you, or of him.

And I swear that I will strike him down if he tries to draw your blood. Well, besides for when you two tussle. I know enough to stay out of that.

Then there’s Fin, who I don’t trust so much as I don’t think he would be able to handle the knowledge that he’s trusted. Taj is a savage to me, but Fin is surely the animal among us. But, I guess you already knew that much, seeing as you’re able to rein him in, even when he’s gone into one of his frenzies. At least with how much he talks, I always know what’s on his mind, unlike…

Tristan. He’s not one of us. I can see it; he’s meant to be above us beasts with hands only for pulling triggers. Maybe he fell and is just waiting for the right moment to go back, though I know that’s unlikely. We found him like you found me, a casualty that forgot to die, a still working mind and body turned prize. At least you choose to let him fight with us, and I guess that’s because you do want Tristan as part of our pack.

It won’t work. I know you want to believe otherwise, but it’s the truth, hard and brutal, just how you like it. The world told how it is, and this is how it is; Tristan is an observer to us.

Maybe he lost the part of him that would let him really connect with us, or maybe he always was that way. Either way, it’s just that he’s not on our level, even if he fell from somewhere, he didn’t fall far enough to stand on our battleground. I’ve talked with him more than the others, just because it is like talking to a window into another world, the world I was born in, but can never live in. Because of you. Still, Tristan belongs in that plane of existence, and some part of him knows it, won’t let him settle here, won’t let him really be family. That’s why I can’t trust him like I do you.

It’s why you shouldn’t trust him too much.

I know you as the flame and inferno, and don’t want to see you become the moth that escapes the fire only to drown in deep, blue waters.

Listen to me, hear what I don’t say, stay here as a living pillow instead of going and night diving into Tristan.

Smoke your opium, drink your whiskey, do whatever you want to ease your current addictions, as long as you don’t obsess over what I cannot get for you with the pay I earn from murder.

Walk in dark alleys with me. Don’t go out to sea when I still don’t know how to swim.

You may think that I’m worrying too much, or that I’ve been over thinking, but… I can see cliffs that you can’t, and I see that plunging too much into that man will fill your lungs, clog your senses, corrode away your fangs, and bring your blaze to a simmer. I have nothing against Tristan personally, but the sight of you together with him makes me anxious, even more than when I had the barrel of a gun pushed into my mouth until I felt it filling the back of my throat.

I can smell the disaster over the incense that intoxicates you. So, stay here tonight. I won’t beg you, but I hope I won’t have to.

After all, I know you like me too well to leave me under Taj’s command, right?


EDIT: LOL, just read over all my little mistakes and corrected some crap. Not like anyone but me would be able to notice. >3>;