Disclaimer: Gravitation is the brainchild and property Maki Murakami. By her grace, I’m just playing in the sandbox.
Summary: What if Yuki kept a diary of the fateful events, just for his therapist? Manga-based.
Warnings: Language. Really bad, Yuki at his worst, language. And probably graphic sex. Yuki’s uncensored VP all the way, so I’m making no guesses how that will go!
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My GDF Diary
By Vindaloo
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Hey, there, Diary. I still hate you. I don’t care what my therapist says, this isn’t doing squat for my screwed up head. Headaches continue and the medication still makes my stomach heave, so piss on you both.
Shit, what a weird day. Writing sucked. Damned characters just sat there and stared at one another. Hate it when they do that. The bastards sat until two in the fucking morning. So I chucked the day’s so-called work and went for a walk.
I should have stayed the fuck at home.
A fucking-fan-wannabe invaded my park.
Or maybe it was an alien from the planet Odd.
There I was, walking along, soothing my shattered nerves with one of the gods’ own wonder drugs (that’s nicotine, Di! Damn right I’m still smoking. Hell if I care about the ulcers or cancer. I don’t intend to survive long enough for it to matter, cuz I’m going to LIVE exactly how I want! So...ptl-ptl-ptl.)
(Fuck. How juvenile. Knew I’d been infected with stupid the moment I touched that paper.)
As I was saying, walking, minding my own business, listening to the wind in the trees, and damned if the characters weren’t right there with me, ready to spill their guts—
And then this alien sneezed. I mean, shit. How dare he invade my precious communion with my characters? Sneezed, and then his damned snot-filled kleenex attacked me.
Aw, y’got me, Di. It wasn’t his kleenex, it was worse. Worse I tell you. He’s a damned stalker, out to get my input on some damned poem he’d written.
I hate poetry.
And this thing was worse than usual. Worse because damned if it didn’t have a line or two worth the waste of paper.
At least I think, maybe they were. The writing was damned near illegible. But I read it. I mean, I’m compulsive, right? I fucking hate to shop because I get mesmerized into reading the damned labels on everything I pick up.
Thank the gods for home delivery.
Where was I? Oh, yes, the alien. And his shit poetry.
At least, I think it was a him. It might have been a really weird broad. Skinny runt in a hoody and shorts. Choppy mop of hair, and eyes ...shit, those eyes glowed in the dark. Big eyes. Pretty—ARGH! Did I say pretty? No, they weren’t pretty. Big. Bulgy, like a damned frog. Glowing space-alien eyes.
Except, they weren’t green. They were dark. Kinda purple. Shit. Who has purple eyes? Definitely an alien. ’Specially the way they seemed to pierce right through you and stab you in your soul. ’Specially when the wuss started to cry.
Oh, yeah, I forgot. I told him exactly what I thought of his shit poem. Lyrics he called that crap. Told him he wrote like a lovesick third grader. That he should get a real job.
And he started to cry. Worse, he wailed. Gods, that voice was piercing. Screeched something about how I could be so mean?
Hell, it’s easy.
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Hey, there, Di. Miss me? Well, fuck you. Nothing’s been happening...except the characters have been talking, and you, damn you, will never, ever steal time from them.
Besides...the book’s taken a really odd turn. I think...I think both the lovers are actually going to survive. Possibly even together. And happy.
Shit. Happy. Where the hell did a happy ending come from?
The bad news is, the alien appeared again. Bang! Right in front of my damned car. Out for a peaceful dinner, and that idiot just appeared out of the rain and if I weren’t such a superb driver, he’d have made a mess all over the front of the Merc.
I brought him home...I mean, what the hell was I supposed to do? He jumps out in front of my car, screeches at me to stop and won’t move—hell if I know why. Damned brat. Insisted he wasn’t trying to commit suicide, but I have my doubts. Said he just wanted to see me again.
See me. Hah.
Idiot. Wannabe. And a damned fairy.
Oh, yeah...he is a he, no question. How do I know? The wet tee-shirt look sorta gave it away. Nice little body—
Dammit! No. I mean: skinny body. And male. Definitely male. Not nice. Not nice at all.
(Fuck. I hate this no-erase program. Fuck you, sensei!)
Well, I nipped his bedroom fantasies in the bud. Sent him packing with another blistering assessment. God, I’m good. If they can be discouraged, they should be. Damn right. Writing of any sort’s no place for self-delusional whiners.
Damn right.
TBC (if y’all show an interest.)
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I don’t know where this came from. Started rereading the manga for Between the Lines inspiration, and this silliness just started happening. Have no idea how frequent the updates will be...I’m really deep into original work at the moment...but let me know if you’re interested in more. |