Day by day, I wonder why the hell I do these things to my favourite character. ;3; Wrote this months upon months ago, but I'll upload it anyways.
Feliciano could feel it. His eyes. They were gone. Not there. Nothing to see, nothing he can see. All that was left was bloody, mangled sockets with cuts and scrapes. He would never see anything again. Not him. He could also feel his lips gone. No lips. No lips to kiss, or eat with, or lick, or touch. Just scraped flesh and blood.
It was cold. So cold. Feliciano thought he should have been warm, what with the blood covering his naked body. But it was cold, cold, almost like he was covered in snow. Maybe he was dead. Feliciano doubted it.
There was something in front of his face now. He knew he couldn't see, but he knew what it was supposed to be. A mirror. Maybe, if he still had his eyes, and his lips, and his ears, he could laugh and smile and play like he used to.
Even if he could, it wouldn't matter. No one would hear him. No one. Laughter, and smiles, and screams of agony, and the sound of blood gulching out of his mangled body and flesh, doesn't escape.
Blood was all over him. It was covering nearly every inch of his face, his neck, his chest, his arms, his legs. He wasn't tied up, not anymore, but it didn't matter. Feliciano wasn't going anywhere.
Feliciano briefly remembered seeing his killer. Only briefly, so short that he only recognized that there was a person before he was gagged and blindfolded. And he asks himself quietly, "Who is killing me?"
His foot, his hair, his curl. They were gone now. All done, all gone. Bye bye. Feliciano shortly wondered why he wasn't crying, or sobbing, or- oh right. He had no eyes to cry from, no lips to sob from, no ears to hear himself.
He was still cold. He thought he knew why he was cold now, even though he was caked in drying and fresh blood. Because he subconsciously knew who was killing him. He couldn't remember, but he knew at some point. He did. He did. He knew he did.
He wants to hug him and hold him. He wants to kiss him, and cuddle him, and siesta with him. He can't though. He can't. Not him. Not him. Not his killer.
Feliciano felt himself being tossed on the floor haphazardly. He hit his head, but he didn't mind, not if it was him. He was rolled onto his stomach roughly, his wrists and ankles being tied up again, and rolled onto his back once more. He couldn't hear, or see, or feel much anymore, probably due to blood loss, he remembered. Then he felt something cold, so cold, and wet run down his leg. He knew what was happening. He was going to be waterboarded, and not to torture him. This would be Feliciano Vargas' last few minutes of life.
The water had dripped down his nose and into his lungs. A lot of it. Feliciano could feel the life being drained from him, along with the blood. He briefly wondered how soothing the water would feel if it was warm, if it was instead mud covering him, if his lips were numb from eating popsicles. It wasn't, though. He couldn't imagine such luxuries at his dying moment. He had no lips, no eyes, no ears, no foot, no hair, no love. No love at all. Not him. In his dying moments, despite having no lips and no way to tell what he was saying through the pain, Feliciano managed a dry, hoarse, yet loving whisper. "Fratello..."
Where are my eyes, where is my lip?
Why is here a place, cold darkness here?
There's children playing, in the mirror
Laughter does not leave, under the Labryinth
Blood gets my skin wet and,
Who is killing me?
Where is my hair, where is my foot?
Why is here a place, cold darkness here?
Wants to feel the warmth,
Skin got wet, of having got wet and rain,
And who is killing me?