A/N: This is mostly incoherent. I'm sorry. I apologise for the gratuitous run on sentences and lack of agreement between things. This is purely experimental.
Disclaimer: I do not own FullMetal Alchemist and am in no way affiliated with it.
From this point on, do not trust anything said by anybody. They are sound in neither body nor mind.
Roy was alone. Straggly, uncut hair had been forced into a rough ponytail. Light didn't reflect off of the fluorescent white gown – not now. No, it doesn't force itself into his eyes and- no, no! It's too much light – it's always too much. It always has been too much, not just since- since. No. No, he didn't remember. Didn't didn't didn't.
They were all sat on his bed. Round and round in a circle. Round and round the garden. They were all mumbling in their wispy little voices. Ramblings. On and on and on 'they've been here they have if you don't believe me you. Youyouyouyouyouyouyou.'
Nobody's here. I promise you. No-one.
He was a hero. Then a killer. Hero. Hah. Kero. Kerosene. Fire. Burning. Burning and burning and screams and burning and then the dying people in their dying moments. He sat with one of them, he did. Burning flesh penetrated his nostrils, into his mouth, down and down, burrowing through him until he vomited human flesh and blood. He wasn't the only one, he wasn't! Others did it too – don't blame him! Don't! Don't! They won't even remember his face, honest!
Before the madams and radios and burning flesh there was a voice and mama and the green grass grows all around all around and the green grass grows all around. There was brown hair and there were brown eyes. Welcoming and soft and gentle and warm.
Those days are dead now.
Don't let him be a hero, please! Please, please! He's not – a blind man could see it. Funny, because he really was blind. Couldn't see a thing. Couldn't see our father who art in heaven. Don't let him close to heaven – he's just a giant's toy. Don't let him be praised when he was being controlled. He'll hide, lie. Lying is a sin. He'll become a beggar, a prisoner. Anything. Anything that's not heaven.
He'd live forever to not go to heaven.
They can take him back there, tell him to face what he's done. It won't make any difference. He sees things as they are. There's sand and sand and bloodied sand and sand. One time he saw the body of one of his kills. No flesh but crumbly flesh. Bones are there – he can see them, all bleached and still. Still. Still. Still, it's still, but he swears he can see it move.
No. Nonononononono. See, because one he kissed his teacher's daughter and his teacher saw and then he doesn't know what happened. It's like that now except he doesn't know what's happening anywhere now. Not at all. Except he knows he kisses corpses.
He still can't see a thing.
He misses his teacher's daughter. Soft brown eyes like Mama's. He wants to touch her, to hold her breast in his hand and stroke his hair, to mutter into her ear, to nip her earlobe. Maybe float down the riverbed with her.
The government. It's all the government. If he didn't ever work for the government then nothing would ever have-
No, I don't want to hear to bang of the gunshot as your world ends.
