neostigmine

I was in shock. I was in shock because I was reading a page out of my own life. The details were mussed, exaggerated, but I remember that. I remember doing exactly that, at thirteen, when everything was so fucked and twisted and gnarly that even I wasn't sure what I was doing anymore. She wrote letters to him, and I wrote letters to you. But like I said—they were mussed. Exaggerated. You never killed anyone (right?) I saw you. A lot. I could be with you, too close in a sub-compact car, or silently glaring you down while contemplating suicide on a sofa. I hated that sofa. I hated that green blanket. I hated sleeping on the floor. My r

"I know what you are." There was electricity in the air. It was stifling, and I felt hazy gray green eyes bore holes right into my head. They saw inside of it, not through me. Not at me. Inside of me. I'd never felt that sort of rush before. That must be how charged batteries feel. While my spine was tingling, I watched in muted amusement as the man in front of me stiffened. Annoyed.  A smirk spread over his mouth, but it was the sort of smirk that spelled only malicious intent and impatience. His voice was rough, gravely, but I couldn't find it in myself to be scared. Not yet. "Excuse me?" He was daring me, pushing me to say something. Any