I didn't do a very good job on this one... it's pretty hard to write Ulquiorra. It really sucks... but I decided to post it anyways :) Ah well, who cares.
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It's dark. It feels as though I'm floating in darkness. The black is all around me.
Fluid, shapes merging together to form epitaphs, then breaking apart once more into separate yet interconnected entities of shadow.
The darkness is not necessarily cold. No, it may have even been warm.
Fractured shards of memory stab into my mind. Blinding light. A terrible, burning pain.
And then.
Nothing.
His body had fizzled in and out of existence, desperate to reform. A battle fought in vain.
Ah… that was right.
He had, in that last moment.
Shown something other. Other than him, what he was created to be.
He had. Stretched out, reached for a hand.
In that moment, it had felt as though the world was ending.
A coldness, burning ice. And it's over.
Illogicality is not part of who he is. He has been, from the moment of his birth a being whom had relied on his head rather than a heart.
That's right. A heart.
He doesn't have that. Because he is hollow.
At that moment. He had felt more hollow than ever.
Human emotions are a sign of weakness. Useless.
No purpose exists to fuel their existence.
Yet still, they keep on living. The one and only thing he had been unable to comprehend.
And in that moment. He reached out. And through his fingers slipped the hints of understanding.
He wonders. Wonders why, what.
Why? That look. The feeling expressed in those eyes. In grey eyes as they watched him locked deadly dance with that boy.
In blue eyes as they stared unseeingly at him, glazed in near-death.
He could not understand.
A million shades of colours, those eyes could be. And his can't. Why?
To live without purpose is meaningless.
What was it? His purpose.
He knows what it once was. To serve Aizen-sama.
Yet Aizen is now gone.
Defeated by that brat.
The world is crumbling. How can it be that illogic has taken root in this world.
No reason. No reason at all.
And there's nothing left. Still as hollow as ever.
She had tried. Tried to teach him, tried to make him understand.
A futile struggle.
An eternity could pass, and still he never would.
And if it were possible, her attempts left him even more hollow than before. An emptiness.
So great, it could swallow the world.
That's what's inside of him.
Blue eyes, grey eyes, brown, black, amber, green. He has none of them.
It's empty. Hollow. In the black he drifts. Thinking. Eyes wide. But he can't see anyways.
He cannot feel the passage of time. It's dark. Years, centuries, minutes, seconds. All could have gone and passed.
And there is no light. But he feels no fear. For he is hollow.
An endless beginning.
Is what it is. And what it should be. But it isn't. There's no reason. Like there never was.
Emptiness. Alone. Sadness. Anger. Wrath. Will. None remain to be seen or heard.
It doesn't matter. Nothing has mattered. Maybe it might once have. At a time when the world was young, and soaked in light. Before he became hollow.
Before.
Maybe.
Possibly.
Before.
His eyes had colours too.
The thought, possibility.
Lasts.
An instant of a second.
Before he dismisses it.
Now, the dark draws ever near. Binding him, chaining him. None of it matters.
He can feel himself sink.
Sink.
Bottomless, empty. He is falling. Down. And it won't stop. It will never stop. He can feel it.
The creeping abyss, his feet.
Now legs.
Torso.
Arms.
Chest.
Neck.
Chin.
Cheek.
Mouth.
Nose.
Eyes.
And in the end.
There is nothing at all.