He threw a spoon at the wall. Flung with a fanciful flick of the wrist, it flew.

Shunk. Right into the drywall.

What the fuck was happening anymore? Why was there a spoon in the fucking wall?! 

He picked up another, this time tapping into the primal instinct hidden somewhere on his brain. Fight or flight. Life or death. Soar, motherfucker!

It was less of a shunk and more of a thwack and a clang. Two clangs. The first utensil lodged inside of a prison of plaster had been freed. The floor was its home now.

The second reached terminal velocity and simply bounced off, leaving a sizable divot in its wake. That would make 99 holes in the wall. High score?

He was out of metal spoons. He liked metal spoons, but not in a heroin junkie sort of way. They were just nice.

Nice. Just nice. Nice enough. Good to hold, to throw. Just good enough. 

Spoons don't have identity issues. They're spoons. Hey, what was his name again?

Oh.

Welcome back, Harley.

He liked the smell of sharpie markers. The aroma was reminiscent of the feeling of having to sneeze. The tense anticipation, the stinging and tingling. The calm before the storm.

His watch said it was 4 pm. Wasn't it just % o'clock not five minutes ago? He needed to check on the jars.

They hung from the ceiling like…things that hang from ceilings. They were growing nicely. He noticed a twitch from inside. Ah, feeding time.

Jars themselves aren't very nutritious or filling, but he liked a snack. He wrenched a fork jabbed into his shoulder and tapped the jar thrice. What a lovely twinkling sound. They were ripe.

Jars needed to be grown in a dark environment with at least three inches of water on the floor. It made his socks perpetually wet

Schlop. Schlorp. Schlap. Wet socks on the hardwood floor. 

A vaguely meaty texture. That's what good jars were like. He could grow a pretty good jar, not to brag.

Even after subduing the jar (They liked to scream), his watch still said it was 4 pm. Stupid machine. It was lucky he didn't trade it in for more spoons.

Time broke again. Damn thing needed an infrastructure update- and soon! Where the hell else were his tax dollars going??

He hadn't paid taxes since…since uh… what were taxes? He'd never opened the door. He'd never even left this apartment.

Hey, what was this place? 

Home. It smelled of sharpie markers and had holes in the walls. Heaven on Earth. 

[hr]

He can't feel ANYTHING, and it's great. He's having the time of his life on the living room sofa, dying. 

Almost. He wasn't dead yet. Just some afternoon bloodletting. It was a soothing activity, if not a little cold.

The carpet would smell of iron for months. Almost as good as sharpie. It made the delivery driver uncomfortable. Was there anything greater to achieve in life other than harassing some poor minimum wage employee? He thought not. 

He was banned from most places that delivered, but they still kept coming. Maybe they liked him? He was sure one of them did.

Green eyed demon. Sparkling, twinkling… Pretty eyes that stared into his chest cavity- it was empty, as he removed his soul years ago. But she stared regardless.

Green eyes! Green, the shade of beautiful evil. He'd pluck them out of her skull if she'd let him. Maybe he'd ask when everything was said and done with. 

Everybody knows green and red are complementary colors. They go well with each other. That is just the way of things. Those are the rules, and rules are rules. 

And that's why he kept bleeding on furniture. 

Those were the rules. Any rule that meant he could see green-eyes was a good rule. Yes, this was nice.

Today was colder for him. Maybe too much liquid vitality? Maybe not enough.

If he stood up, the fumes might kill him. Best to way for green-eyes in the meantime…

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock- Wait, he wore a digital watch. Beep beep? Oh, well, it was 14 after. One more minute. 

The green-eyed demon didn't speak. He never asked why because he didn't care. He just liked being stared at. It was quality time spent with another. No messy conversing, or having to keep up with formalities.

Hello.

Hi.

I'm dying. 

Glad to see.

I love you.

Goodbye. 

And that's just how things worked. He wouldn't change it for the world. 

So long as he had something to stare at him, things were going to be okay. Didn't matter if everything was on fire. Any attention was good attention, apparently. 

And that was just how things worked around here. If they didn't, he'd probably be dead. But that was for him to worry about in some other, fucked-up universe.