This was written way back in January after I bought the DVD release of 9. God, I love Tim Burton productions. And after looking at the listing for 9 fanfictions, I think I might be the only one who writes out the names of the characters instead of using numbers. Odd much? I think yes.
Disclaimer: I think I'd die happy if I owned anything that was popular among the general public. Sadly, I don't own the rights to 9. Shane Acker does.
The ridicule was nothing. Complaints were nothing. The verbal tauntings and cruel laughter of One and Eight were nothing to this.
Pain and tortuous visions of endless circles, flashes of poisonous green that burned into his head. Pen nibs dug into his arms, into the paper, cloth, the wall to relieve the stabbing, relentless teeth that impaled themselves into his conscience with as much fervor. He lashed at his illustrations of the darkness and migrain-inducing color. He did nothing but hide in the dark of his corner, away from the burning light that One basked his old asylum jacket in.
If anything, he felt like the one that should be in the jackets with dozens of belts and locks, that held the most insane of the humans. They who screamed things to their gods, to the sky, about macabre images and demonic voices whispering in their ears, telling them to kill, kill, kill.
But he was meant to sit here and wait, wait, wait, for the arrival of the last one. He was meant to sit and wait, perhaps until his stripes were faded as if bleach had been dumped upon his being, perhaps destroying his inner workings that relied upon electricity. He could die and One wouldn't give a damn. He'd scoff at the lifeless form of the prophet and complain about how much of a nuisance he had been, waving his hand and asking Eight to dispose of him. And Five would not be able to cast his eye on him again, because, maybe, by then, he'd be disposed of, too. Heavens knows that One had attempted to kill off Two, and Five would retaliate if he found out.
So for now, he slashed his hands down the paper at his knees, sometimes in slow, graceful arcs or in harsh, painful motions that were much too fast to be professional. He left ink blots everywhere but he didn't care. Every movement was meant to erase some of the pounding, almost heart-like beating that just wouldn't leave his head, disregard the fact that he was not, in any way, biologically alive. He knew the facts. He knew the truth. And it blinded his oculars at times, just filling his vision with blacks and whites, greens, and even a dreadful, crimson glow at rare occasions. Symbols burned into his mind. A hateful glare from a single, red orb. Electricity running in currents, stabbing, teaching. And he felt it all. He hated his visions with a passion, but he was too naive as to actually try and rip away his own existance.
Try as he might, he wanted to listen to the incredible tellings that foretold of a hero.
As much as he wanted to rid himself of the pain, the suffering, the stress, the scarring, numbing visions..
Six wanted to believe.
Read and review, my loves. C:
- ZilverMidnight, she who is tempted to change her name.