Work Text:
The clown won’t stop following you. Even though he is making little detestable pain-noises and you thought everyone who is not you. Avoids pain like a weakling. He follows you, like he enjoys it when you find another bone that you have forgotten to break. Even though he does not get stronger from agonizing struggle like you do. He just stays horrible and stupid. And bloody and purple.
(Your messiah blesses you with pain.)
Your bitch sister was fun to cause pain to. She was. Susceptible. She got upset and she cried and left you frustrated messages. But the clown just leaks his purple blood, drags himself after you, drips purple from everywhere and doesn’t die. He’s got purple clear stuff coming down from his eyes and nose and face and thicker, darker stuff. Which you know is blood. That is coming from pretty much everywhere.
Especially his stupid big smile.
(You can’t hardly motherfucking see but you see his face, there are tears down your face and you don’t know whether they’re tears of pain or penitence. You’ve found ecstasy and it’s his trust as you help him become the destroyer he’s meant to be, the pain he deigns to visit on you for your blasphemy)
(his eyes are so red and there are shards of broken diamond buried in you, phantom pain under all the other pains, and that shattered greed for warm hands on your face, that’s the motherfucking proof that you’re not ready to be his perfect servant yet.)
(You make penance.)
You get angry and he hovers, makes wet, bubbly breathing noises through his punctured lungs—you pull out your crowbar again. (it’s covered in his gross purple blood and he would lick it off for you if you wanted him to. You’ll have to do that some time.) It’s more fun than your gun. To hurt him with.
You hit him again. His jaw goes crack this time. He drools out blood and a broken tooth through his gappy, dumb smile. You hit the arm he’s using to hold himself up. He crumples on his face on the ground. In his own bloody muck. You laugh.
(You’ve pleased him)
He’s disgusting. You hit him again, in the back of the head, and blood seeps back through his dumb purple hood. He should wear something. That shows his blood better. Even though by now it would be completely purple. He’s bleeding a lot.
Not enough.
(Would have killed you if you were lesser, the pain is a white-hot laughing thing behind your eyes.)
(But you are a motherfucking servant of god.)
His arm is shattered, but it was already shattered and you know that that won’t stop him dragging himself after you. Clawing through the sand.
You hook the bent end of the crowbar under his chin and pull up and he kneels for you. The crowbar cuts into his skin a little. He kneels there for you and smiles up at your face. As you wind up with your crowbar. And aim it at his stupid smile.
“Someday, clown,” you tell him. “I’ll fucking kill you.”
(Amen.)