go little rock star

Brilliant. Strange. Burning brightly. Rave was burning brightly. So brightly, in fact. There was nothing to stop the way in which she burned, the way in which she thrived. Maybe that was fucked. Was it fucked? Was she fucked? Hey man, that’s fucked up. That’s too much. She’s fucked up. She’s too much. God fucking damn it she’s too much. That’s okay. Rave is always too much. Rave cares not if she’s too much for herself, for anyone around her. She doesn’t care. Why should she care? Why should she worry? They could all leave her be. They could leave her alone. Fuck off! “Leave me alone!” She crows. She cries. She calls out into the darkness around her. Wait… was that out loud? Was she speaking aloud again? No, certainly not. That couldn’t have been out loud. She’d know. She’d know if it was… wouldn’t she? No. No she probably wouldn’t know, actually. Shit. Fuck! Who was she to know? Who was she to be certain? Rave can’t be certain. Rave has never been certain of anyone or anything.

But she can be certain of herself. There was a heart beating in her chest. A caged bird. Yes, it’s caged. God, shit, fuck, why does she feel like this? Trapped in a cage. She’s trapped. The walls are closing in. Why are the walls closing in around her? Why are they closing like this? She’ll be suffocated. Rave is suffocating, actively, passively suffocating. Actively suffocating, it’s like she can’t breathe. Passively suffocating, it’s like there are too many things. Too many thoughts in her head, and it’s spinning. Too many things, they’re spiraling around her. The thoughts have moved into her lungs. They make it difficult to breathe. She’s having a hard time breathing today? No, she’s only having trouble with metaphorical breathing. That’s why Rave is a caged bird. She’s raving mad. Raving bad. She’s a raven? No, if she was a bird she’d be caged. Maybe Rave should be caged. Shit. No more cages. Fuck, please, no more cages.

No more cages. Is she being hunted? An animal. An animal that’s being held in captivity. She’s a captive in her own mind. Fuck, if she’s being hunted she needs to be armed. What was there to hunt her? Was it the creatures that wanted to put her back in her cage? No. No it couldn’t be. They couldn’t be. They couldn’t be the ones that chased her still. There were eyes all around her, they could look. They could look and they could see. She didn’t like that. No, Rave didn’t like that at all. Raving. Raving mad. Barking mad? No, raving mad. Shit. Fuck. “Fuck.” She says the word aloud, that much was for certain. The voice of a child, the voice of a child who’s been fucked up by too many things. Too much. Shit, she’s being hunted.

The eyes in the dark, they see her. They see her. Rave doesn’t like being seen. She needs to protect herself. She needs to arm herself. She needs to be able to fight what can see her, and what she can see. Yes, Rave will fight them all. Armed. Armed to the teeth. A knife. When did she find this knife? As far as she’s concerned, the knife has always been a part of her. A rusty blade. Sharp, sure, but rusty. Much like Rave, it suffers when exposed to water, exposed to sunlight, exposed to the outside air. Suffering? Rave was suffering. Ha! she was suffering. Suffering. How much suffering could she cause? How much suffering would she cause. Well that’s the thing my dears. That’s the thing my darlings. Rave was here, and she had arrived. She had arrived, and she’d come to cause as much suffering as she possibly could. As much suffering as she inhumanely could. Crumble. Suffer. Fall. They’d all fall.

Ashes, ashes, they all fall down.

But she wouldn’t fall. It was dangerous to sleep with a knife. Rave is probably dangerous. Shit, it’s dangerous to sleep with a knife. She needed it to be safer. The knife. The knife needed to be safer for her. The knife was hers. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you. Bite the hands that beat you. Rave would bite them all. She’d bite anyone that came too close. Can’t bite the knife. Don’t bite the knife. Shit, she can’t bite the knife. No, that’s dangerous. Would the knife bite her? No. Keep the knife from biting you. “You feed the knife.” That was right, yes. Rave would feed the knife, and she would feed herself. Yes. When had she last eaten? Right. Kill. Eat. Skin. Had to be in that order, and only that order. Can’t fuck it up. No, don’t fuck it up, not this time. Can’t skin it first. Shit. Right. Can’t skin it first.

She remembered to kill first. She remembered to eat second. She remembered to skin third. Prep the hide. Prepare the hide. Always come prepared. Scout’s honor. Rave was a girl scout. Wait… was she a girl scout? No, right, she ate the girl scout. Yes, that seemed to make more sense. Did it? Hm. What was a girl scout again? Sounded tasty. Oh fuck, right, no, gotta focus. Prepare the hide. Prepare it, make sure it’s clean. Make sure it’s dry. Dry? Dry. Tanned. Tan was boring, no. Not tan. Black. Gotta be black. Pink? Not neon enough. Can’t be neon pink. No way to make it neon pink. Black it was. Everything was black. Was Rave blacking out again. No. Not tonight.

Prepared hide. Fashion a strap. A strap. A holster. Knife holster. Leg holster. Right. Yes, make sure the knife can’t bite unless you want it to. Make sure the knife can only bite who you ask it to. Feed the knife. Feed the Rave. Feed yourself. No, you already ate. Right, yes, already ate. Already eaten. Rave had already eaten. A hare, fat and juicy. Mad as a hare in march? Yeah, that too. It wasn’t March. Rave was still mad. That was one of the key differences between Rave and the hare, after all. She’d turned the hare into a strap for her knife. Keep the knife safe. Keep the Rave safe. Keep yourself safe. Cope. Do your best. Cope. You’re the bird, you’re in the cage. Rave is in a cage. Her heart is in a cage, and she is her own heart. All she needs is herself.

All Rave needed was herself and the rusty knife strapped to her foreleg.

Good enough.

She was good enough.