I hate being ignored.
To ignore is to refuse to take notice of or acknowledge; disregard intentionally. Being ignored feels as though you don't exist, as if your presence never truly meant anything to anyone, ever. The feeling of being ignored is almost as great as death.. okay maybe that's a tad bit exaggerated.
"Hey sweet cake."
"..."
"Butterbean."
"..."
"Twinkletoes."
"..."
"Fuck this." I turn away from the girl who looks as though a unicorn orgasmed and came all over her.
Stomping away, I make sure to put a little more weight on my feet with every step I take, needing to burn off a lot of steam.
I don't know what the hell that damned Mendez told these people, but literally no one will talk to me, hell, I'd be grateful if they even spared me a single glance. Of all the 800 and something agents in this building, I'm only 'allowed' to talk to the two who are assigned to watch me; Speed and Walker.
God, it's so miserable here. I'm getting down right tired of gazing at the same four walls every second of the damn day. My schedule is a repeating cycle of pure shit. Wake up, work out, eat, physical therapy, doctors, lunch, more doctors, more therapy, dinner, and then, finally.. sleep. All of that only to do it all again the next day.
I've come to the conclusion that I have a very wild and dangerous imagination. Sometimes I just look at Walker and think "damn I wonder what would happen if I pushed him out this three story window?" or "what would they do if I suddenly decided to blow a hole in the side of the building?"
Just the thought of actually doing one of those two things brings a smile to my face.
"Why is she smiling like that?"
"I don't know, but I'm fucking scared."
Using the back of my hand to wipe away the sweat on my forehead, my eyes land on a suspicious looking agent and my smile widens. "Hey Walker, you got a second?"
"No, hell no!" Walker tries to step back, but was steadily getting pushed forward by his partner. "No, I'm not going. Stop fucking pushing me Speed."
Rolling my eyes, I throw the towel on the ground starting to take the weights off of the bar. "Pussy."
It has been nearly a month and a half since I've unofficially joined the FBI. After the whole Diner blowing up and the dead chief, I haven't been allowed on any other case. Hell I haven't even talked to the people I was 'working' with. Every time they so much as feel my presence they find a way to get away from me.
I should put laxatives in their coffee tomorrow.
Not even two months ago my body was so frail I'd almost fly away from a gust of wind, but after properly eating and exercising, I was slowly able to get my body back into shape, I'm still working on it, but the progress is promising. Not being able to do my normal routine is killing me tho, these lil cutesy exercises ain't it.
The bruises that once covered my skin had now faded and are now mere memories of a past I cannot remember.
Everyday I try to regain a grain of what I used to be, but fail miserably. Every now and then I would get glances of what I think my life use to be, many of them containing blurred images of an all too familiar face. Those are the most confusing at times, what connection we have, is forever a mystery to me. The me in those images seemed so happy, while the me now just wants to knock his head between a wall.
