CaptainWacky
I want to smell dark matter
Charles Horse hated his life.
He had to return something to someone.
He didn't like going into details.
He pressed the buzzer.
He waited.
And waited.
Oh shit, the usual person wasn't coming.
They'd be here by now.
It was a girl.
Younger than him. Urgh.
She had a spoon. Why?
She asked what he wanted.
He said he was returning it.
She looked confused...then a look of understanding.
"The lady will help you," she said.
The lady will help you.
She thought he was a fucking retard.
He wanted to tear her apart.
Take that spoon and...well.
He would show her who Charles Horse was.
He was so angry.
He felt like slamming the thing down.
He stupidly waited for the lady to get off the phone.
It took a while.
He wanted to interrupt her.
SHOUT AT HER.
But no.
Finally, she was off the phone.
He was standing there awkward.
He'd been trying not to look at her becuase if he'd made eye contact she might have thought he was trying to speak to her while she was still on the phone and maybe that wasn't the thing to do but maybe he should have done that because he could have just indicated that he was returning the thing and put it down and left before spoon girl came back.
But in the event he was just standing there awkward.
"Thanks," she said, reaching for the thing, so easily. She didn't mind that he hadn't interrupted her on the phone. Maybe she appreciated it. He returned it. "Bye," he said.
He got out as fast as he could.
He wanted to destroy the world.
Well.
Not all of that was true.
Everything that happened happened, yes.
But the stuff in Charles Horse's head?
Not all of that happened.
The awkward parts, sure.
The angry parts? No. He was too scared. He didn't think about destroyed spoon girl, of doing something unspecified with the spoon, of slamming the item down, of shouting, of any of that.
He was too scared the whole time.
Too pathetic.
Too weak.
That was how he felt now, thinking about it. Pathetic and weak.
He SHOULD have thought the rage thoughts, but he didn't.
And even now, thinking back, he didn't REALLY feel the rage thoughts.
He didn't REALLY want to do those things. He wasn't even imagining them.
He was just adding them to his memories to feel less pathetic and less weak. It was the only way how.
He didn't have a violent rage, just an impotent rage.
It was funny, though, wasn't it? That the memories he was trying to add were of doing angry things.
Rather than trying to instead imagine it all going smoothly, doing everything perfectly.
That should be what he wanted to fantasise about.
He shouldn't be trying to make himself imagine destroying people.
But he was too far gone.
He couldn't imagine being normal.
He could barely imagine destroying people.
He was too old for imagination.
He used to imagine so much, growing up.
He'd been real then.
He wasn't now.
He was a shadow, a meat puppet, a drone, a zombie, a repetitive thought.
A remainder of something that had once been.
That was all.
Maybe everyone was.
Spoon girl, the lady, all of them.
But they could imagine they were more.
Maybe that was the the difference.
He could never pretend he was right.
He could never pretend he was so wrong as to be interesting.
He could only be a totally banal, pathetic, ineffectual kind of wrong.
He'd never be a serial killer.
He'd never even thought about it seriously.
And that was worse than actually being evil would be.
He could be nothing human.
He had shut down.
And there was no rebooting.
He was Charles Horse. And he was fading away.
He had to return something to someone.
He didn't like going into details.
He pressed the buzzer.
He waited.
And waited.
Oh shit, the usual person wasn't coming.
They'd be here by now.
It was a girl.
Younger than him. Urgh.
She had a spoon. Why?
She asked what he wanted.
He said he was returning it.
She looked confused...then a look of understanding.
"The lady will help you," she said.
The lady will help you.
She thought he was a fucking retard.
He wanted to tear her apart.
Take that spoon and...well.
He would show her who Charles Horse was.
He was so angry.
He felt like slamming the thing down.
He stupidly waited for the lady to get off the phone.
It took a while.
He wanted to interrupt her.
SHOUT AT HER.
But no.
Finally, she was off the phone.
He was standing there awkward.
He'd been trying not to look at her becuase if he'd made eye contact she might have thought he was trying to speak to her while she was still on the phone and maybe that wasn't the thing to do but maybe he should have done that because he could have just indicated that he was returning the thing and put it down and left before spoon girl came back.
But in the event he was just standing there awkward.
"Thanks," she said, reaching for the thing, so easily. She didn't mind that he hadn't interrupted her on the phone. Maybe she appreciated it. He returned it. "Bye," he said.
He got out as fast as he could.
He wanted to destroy the world.
Well.
Not all of that was true.
Everything that happened happened, yes.
But the stuff in Charles Horse's head?
Not all of that happened.
The awkward parts, sure.
The angry parts? No. He was too scared. He didn't think about destroyed spoon girl, of doing something unspecified with the spoon, of slamming the item down, of shouting, of any of that.
He was too scared the whole time.
Too pathetic.
Too weak.
That was how he felt now, thinking about it. Pathetic and weak.
He SHOULD have thought the rage thoughts, but he didn't.
And even now, thinking back, he didn't REALLY feel the rage thoughts.
He didn't REALLY want to do those things. He wasn't even imagining them.
He was just adding them to his memories to feel less pathetic and less weak. It was the only way how.
He didn't have a violent rage, just an impotent rage.
It was funny, though, wasn't it? That the memories he was trying to add were of doing angry things.
Rather than trying to instead imagine it all going smoothly, doing everything perfectly.
That should be what he wanted to fantasise about.
He shouldn't be trying to make himself imagine destroying people.
But he was too far gone.
He couldn't imagine being normal.
He could barely imagine destroying people.
He was too old for imagination.
He used to imagine so much, growing up.
He'd been real then.
He wasn't now.
He was a shadow, a meat puppet, a drone, a zombie, a repetitive thought.
A remainder of something that had once been.
That was all.
Maybe everyone was.
Spoon girl, the lady, all of them.
But they could imagine they were more.
Maybe that was the the difference.
He could never pretend he was right.
He could never pretend he was so wrong as to be interesting.
He could only be a totally banal, pathetic, ineffectual kind of wrong.
He'd never be a serial killer.
He'd never even thought about it seriously.
And that was worse than actually being evil would be.
He could be nothing human.
He had shut down.
And there was no rebooting.
He was Charles Horse. And he was fading away.
