HIS HAIR WAS WHITE-I don't know if that's what his original color was, but when I met him, his hair was white as snow. He had thick black brows, pink lips tugged up into an everlasting smirk.
Everything was a game to Doc-he found his madness his quite scintillating.
And it was.
Doc Vineson was a flame, and he knew it. He burned everything he touched, and yet, there were some who never learned. They grew to love the pain he brought, until he destroyed them.
I guess I was one of them.
The only difference between me and them, is my madness originated from me. I wasn't something pure that he could taint.
I was tainted, I was painted black. I drew people like him in like a moth to a flame.
Whether I was the moth or the flame-I couldn't tell you.
We were too much alike, too different, too everything.
We should have never existed. As individuals we should've never existed, Doc and I.
It seemed impossible that we could exist together. The two of us, born from the same ashes, different degree of burns, but burnt all the same-we should have never tried to be something we couldn't.
As I lay, dying next to him, his hand in mine, I remind myself how I got here-tye Earth around me scorched, my heart clinging to a dead beat.
Madness is lonely.
In the end, you cannot be Mad together.
We were mad. We were lonely.
We shouldn't have tried to be anything but.
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