Intent to destroy ones self

Clarke and Barnes are two friends who live near anarchyville. They both suffer from the kind of problems you would imagine they would living so close to the dead city. Clarke is a womanizer, psychotically destructive and angry. Barnes has asbergers

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1. clarke

 

Tell me, tell me what your after. I just want to get there faster. I am one, as you are three. The wailing of a post grunge band ringing in my ears talk up my sixth pull of the night. She is fantastic looking, body full of the right curves, meatier than i usually go for. She gives me her number. I mark her in as hot curvy red head number 12. I then move onto my next one.

Clubs here live in the after life. Here when normal people sleep, the desperate (people i pray on) and the needy (me) go out at night to make mistakes. My phone is a contact list of faceless women who i call up when im bored. Some i fuck. Some i just talk to. It is surprisingly easy. Yet at the same time difficult. I feel a pulling in my chest. Like my heart is trying to drown itself in blood. This happens whenever i add in their number. Good looking, ok looking, ugly, i stopped caring months ago. Im just a user. Some people are addicted to the rush of heroin, some to violence, some to sex. Me? Im addicted to control. I have them in the palm of my hands. To one i am a docotr who just lost a patient and needs someone. To others i am a teacher who lost a student. To others i am a struggling single father. In reality, well, what is reality? I am what i am, and i am all of these things.

I was born into a dark world, thus i make it darker for others. If i had no light in my life, why should anyone else? I see the seventh. Blonde, fantastic tits, nice smile, blue eyes. I am already bored of her. But i go over anyway. She stands by the bar wearing it like a fashion statement.

"Hi" i say.

"Hi" she replies, seeming disinterest. I know this look. I know what to do. Its a subtle thing you do with your drink. You loosen your grip on it, put it down on a table or the bar and you just loosen your face a bit. I do this. She turns to me. "Are you ok?"

I look into her eyes and there it is. That look of a genuine want to help. I can't tell if i want to fuck or cry to her yet. Though both lead into one and other all the time. "Its nothing." I say. "I just dont know what to do with myself anymore now she is gone."

Always be vague, let them fill in the gaps, let them make conclusions for you. Trick them into making the logical decision. Judging by my actions, my age and my sadness she can say 'did you lose your wife?'. She does this. Now what i have is the opportunity to cry to her, or i can play the whole 'you look just like her' deal. Either way i am getting something out of her.We talk in a way she will describe to her friends as 'for hours' she will tell them she really 'got to know me'. Even by now you, dear reader, know that i am no saint. I collect numbers, i collect women, lives, people. I tell them what they want to here, and in return i get complete control of them.

We talk for a long time before i decide to say i need to go home. To my empty bed. I drop that in subtly. She bites. We go home and well, what can i say? I fucked her, then cried to her. Played the role of both the man and the weak child. She now has not only a sexual attraction to me, but nurturing feelings for me. This is where it gets good.

If you ask any of my friends what is the one thing i have more of than anything else, they will say girlfriends. With some i take the alpha male route, i tell them i want them, and demand them. Others i play the part of a skittish and nervous man who is falling in love. I am whatever i need to be and i dont even know why i do it. I dont care about sex, i dont like crying. I just hate bieng lonely i guess.I have about twenty different issues, all of which i explore, each time the same advice and help comes through. I dont reach any conclusions with their help. I know i am depressive, i know i am a self harmer, i know what i am, i know what i should feel. I know that it isnt my fault. But i also know, that i have them eating out of my hand. I have pretended to be a 9/11 survivor, i have pretended i was a nazi (still got the girl) i have been a racist, i have been a facist, i have been a nerd, a twat, a dick, a chav, i have been a dandy. I have been everything but happy. 

At this time of night, when you write in a diary about all of the shit in that head of yours all that comes out is nonsense that sounds like fact. Next to me now is that blonde, she sleeps. I watch her chest rise up and down. As i drift of to sleep i wonder what it is like to have kids.

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