Is my writing to dark?

Is my writing to dark?
The darkness was too deep, the silence was too dead. The lights flickered as if winking at him, the subliminal whispering goodbye to him. Also goodnight because, soon, they were to be dead – along with the still night.

Cheap hugging b… ! Stupid tree-hugging losers who want him to save the world.

Lights – ever heard of lights? He muttered with the scar on his upper lip bouncing against his pronounced nose. With his hair darker than his black eyes, gently rubbing his snotty nose, he gazed out the ocean as the waves combed the shore. It sounded like a lullaby; as the waves gently hit the rocks like drumsticks against a drum.

He chuckled uncontrollably like hiccuping, thinking of how in grade school they used to say 'friends before money'.

Money bought him this nice prison cell, this 4×10 prison cell overlooking the massive ocean which looked like dark oil.

He thought about Patrice; how he was the most important person in her life. She was The Chosen One, she loved him so much she died for him – what an exulted thing she committed!

He thought about her in that white dress, the way her eyes reflected like a knife, their shade so pale that tears that were falling were the same color as her eyes. Mimicking his heartbeats, not a beat out of rhythm.

The light went out, nothing left to see now but the stars trapped in the sky. He was just as strapped in as the stars. Tomorrow was the day to brake out, tell the world what he really was! Fame, fame, fame – newspapers will be printing, bigger than any famous stuck-up, no-good loser. (jejune) characters that are going to wish they were him.

He looked down at his concrete whole,and thought about escaping.First was going to be that no good, cop that was jealous of his fame, who got him in this mess in the first place! He put his painting back to the whole when he heard words starting.

I-I-I wa…w-want a cigarette! hey ! -the voice stuttered, as if an earthquake was in his voice.

He looked over to find a young 19-year-old Jim there. He killed his parents for calling him 'good old chubs'. The killer gazed at him, his stomach sunk into the bars as far as they went. Sections of fat rolled over the bars. Pure fat cells, just flapping as if it wanted to fly away. It was clear that nothing on this boy was capable of flying, or even clearly being able to lift past it's gravity.

P-pa pa-a pap leas- Jim jeered, as if protesting.

The killer began singing, chanting in a voice 'I shot the sheriff but I didnt shoot no deputy, oh no! oh!

I shot the sheriff, but I didnt shoot no deputy, ooh, ooh, oo-ooh'.

Yeah! All around in my hometown,

They're tryin' to track me down;

They say they want to bring me in guilty

For the killing of a deputy,

For the life of a deputy.

But I say 'Have a cigarette! Chubs

in what little light there was to light up the room, the killer grabbed a cigarette, lit it and began to smoke.

Jim stared at him as if he were to do a trick, breaths quickening. He approached with his arms out, his stuttering turning to pronunciations a newborn could make. Then the killer's eyes lit up like a candle with rage, but he began remembering: 'no distractions '.

He could feel his blood boil.. He wanted to compress his face into the bars. Make his skull into mash potatoes. Watch thin blood pour, to the floor. Same color as thin, crimson, Chianti wine.

Yet, this caged bird would sing again. Life outside the big house was looking to pulchritudinous.

He tossed the cigarette right after getting a whiff, the red light rolled across the floor and that was going to be him. He was going to roll away; no more gambling for cigarettes, it was real money now!

It made him think of the deadman's hand, aces and 8s. They call it deadman's hand because a man was killed for winning when a guy bet a lease on his house. Bam shot him, for having 8s and aces in his hand, back in cowboy times.

The cop that got him here was going to get dealt a deadman's hand now.


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