Obsession Starts With the Little Things

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Writers Note: As I stated in the begining of these posts, I am writing out my selfish personal analysis of my past. I will write as much as I feel necessary, as these are my discussions. I like the idea that, should anything I say inspire a thought or a question, I can openly interact. If you Don't like the idea of reading a long post, don't read Anything I have to write. Remember my name, and Avoid it. Don't complain, when You chose to read this. I DO NOT write to please you, I write to clear my head. Any questions? No? Okay. Next excerpt: (Crime cont.) His mask hadn't just slipped. He'd left himself behind, unguarded, while the mask carried out what duties this functional world had asked of it. I'm careful to think that he may have been suspicious. Not of me, exactly, but that Someone had looked at his journal. The next night that I would approach him, he'd be sitting in the far back corner, rather than right by the door, headphones blaring while he waited for his ride. I had been watching him from the peripheral for awhile since reading the journal. Whenever I would go to smoke, I would memorize the schedule on the way out, looking to see what days I might run into him again. There were no honorable justifications this time, only the sweet comfort that my fantasy was my own and I could imagine what I liked. And I liked imagining conversation with him, approaching the pig and tearing away his mask to see what marvel lay beneath it. I'll admit, my hormones carried my fantasy a bit farther than it needed to go at times, but what happens in my head stays in my head...unless life has other plans. Or I write it. I sat down in front of him, unaware at the time, that the subtle shift of his features meant that he had been moderately surprised. Logically, one would expect an individual to be convinced by the general distaste for his piggish character. Logically, one would respect the privacy of a journal, and keep from learning any life-changing secrets.. When he removed an earbud, obvious in that he didn't expect much to come from this bout of small talk, his lack of care allowed me to steer the small talk to what I wanted to know. "Whats your favorite song?" His eyes held mine, mesmerizing like a snake. Though he didn't seem to have any oriental or persian blood, his eyes are a narrow almond shape, more like a sunflower seed than anything. Sea foam green, somewhat grey-blue depending on the lighting, and sharp..sharp enough to kill. "At the moment?" He asked, an implication that music meant so much more than to just 'pick a favorite ', face still as he watched my reaction. "Close to me, by Vendetta Red." He went on to say that if I ended up liking that song, I could check out their album, 'Sisters of Red Death' although it wasn't the one that 'Close to me' was on. Soon, his ride showed up, and he left. I left. When I got home, Niel was still at the breakfast restaurant. He wouldn't be home until seven in the morning. My brother was setting up for banquets, and he too wouldn't be home for awhile. The only other soul in the apartment was Bumble, my little blue-heeler/collie. I played 'Close to me'. Then 'Body and the Blood'. Then 'Silhouette Serenade'. Then the lastest album from Fallout Boy, 'American Beauty/American Psycho'. It's amazing what music might say about us, in the ways we come across it. Not long after, while I mulled over how I might live if I were single, instead, I picked out the first journal I had dared to keep since the eigth grade. Black leather, medium-sized, eggshell white pages. My first entry was about Logic, and the many masks it wears to convince us of reality, taunting us with a knowledge we might never acquire. While I wrote, I wondered what the man under the mask might think of it. Would he see my cleverness? Would he notice his influence? Would my words mean Anything to him? Quiver his heart as he had mine? Most likely not, but a girl can dream. It's all a girl does, really.. I know the time after, when we were outside smoking, wasn't a dream. I mentioned before that he could avoid answers and avoid contact easily, shutting off what connections might have been. Once, I felt almost giddy as he stood beside me, lifting up an earbud and saying, "I think you'll like this song." It was sad, morbid, but beautiful. He explained that the song was about a boy who witnesses a female friend getting raped by their sunday school teacher. That's not what's beautiful. The impact, the pain in his voice as he tells this secret he's kept for so long, and yet makes you want to soar with the very relief he must have felt in finally sharing it. It wasn't a dream when I walked to work the next morning. My route consisted of neighborhood, mainroad, highway, under the bridge and a mass of parking lot. Our pizzeria was in a court of food and shopping centers. I was just crossing into the lot, listening to the song he had just shown me, and singing, absolutely certain that I was alone and no one else would be in the area so early. "I've got a secret..." I'm falling in love.. "A terrible secret." I know this is wrong. "But if I told you, would you promise to--" Someone barrelled into me from behind, shouting as my earbuds fell out and drawing a scream from me so piercing it might as well have split Olympus. Grey-green eyes crinkled into the most handsome boyish grin I had ever had the pleasure of witnessing, and if I had ever felt any sense of disgust towards this man it was unwarranted. I don't know. Maybe it was a dream..I haven't seen him happy like that, in such a long time..hell, I might never see him again, now.