A/N: Okay, so... I just typed this up right now. No lie.
I know, most of you were probably hoping for a Wings update when you saw this pop up in your inbox... but Chapter 8 is being super lame.
I am seriously sorry. I will update as soon as I possibly can, but I'm having a case of selective writer's block.
Disclaimer: Roses are red, violets are blue, me no own, so you no sue.
Even though we shared the same mother, my brother and I were never that similiar.
He was a leader, and I was more willing to follow his lead, do the dirty work.
If he wanted me to steal something, I would steal it. If he wanted someone to stop bothering him, I would torment them until they did.
And this was all just in Kindergarten. It's... fascinating, how long ago this is. My beloved brother was just barely out of his diapers, a full six months older than me. At the time, those six months seemed like an eternity. A mark of respect, and something that made me obey him. After all, older children always have that kind of effect on the minds of their juniors.
It's peculiar, how children think.
They see the world so innocently, a far fetch from the jaded outlook of an adolescence and the tired, weary outlook of an adult. If you ask me, only the elderly and children can see the world as it really is. Children see the hope in life, and those coffin-dodgers who can still remember everything know the good and the evil.
It's rare to find those point of views in anyone outside of their ages. Like I previously mentioned, everyone else is jaded or weary.
To be honest, there are some exceptions. If an autopsy is about to be performed on a living man, he probably has a different outlook on life than your usual adult. I've seen it happen before, on many occasions. Those men... I doubt I'll ever forget the looks in their eyes. The looks of pure, unadulterated terror as the scalpel inched closer and closer to their skin, the moments of being slit open seeming to be an eternity of torment when in reality it only took a few seconds. I won't forget their screams, nor the acrid scent of urine hitting the air as they pissed themselves from the horror of being dissected alive. I'll never forget having to throw away their cadavers, seeing the burns and cuts on their wrists and ankles and waists and necks where they were held down by their bounds. I'll never forget having to clean the blood and waste materials off of the gurney so some twisted scientist would use it for some other experiment.
Yet, even though I will never forget these things, it was not the loss of human life that makes me remember them. It was the emotions they felt that percolated my interests. Growing up I had always been rather sadistic, a trait my beloved brother had never really had until much later years, when my influence had tainted him. I wanted to inflict those emotions on people, study how they affected their lives. I've only lived about twenty-five years, give or take a few(seeing as how I do not keep track of my birthday), yet in that lifetime I have tortured hundreds of individuals, all for the satisfaction of seeing such foreign emotions in their eyes. I myself have never quite known emotion, something many of the psychologists working in this accursed lab have defined as sociopathic. For lack of a better analogy, I have never really been bosom buddies with my feelings.
Only my brother.
Oh, my beloved brother. He is the only thing that anchors me to this world. Without him, my consciousness would wither and float away, leaving my body behind as a shell designed to kill robotically. Ironic....
My brother calls me his mechanical angel. The name is fitting, a pair of metal wings made of some lightweight titanium alloy protrude from my back. The scientists say I have to wear them all the time or else my darkness will hurt my brother. And I would never want to hurt my dearest sibling...
I hate all these contraptions I am forced to wear, though. It feels like they're suffocating me, holding a part of me back. When I unlock my arms I can feel myself catch a breath of air easier than I could before, when I take off my mask I feel like a heavy weight has been lifted off my chest. It brings a smile to my face when I can dance with my shadows, feel them caressing my skin and threading through my hair. My shadows, my darkness, has so many voices... the voices of all those souls I've collected over the years, those of the individuals whose emotions I studied like the most attentive scientist here.
Those voices give me comfort when I'm alone.
For my own protection(but really, its for theirs), those accursed whitecoats chain me to a pillar. I scream until my throat is so overused it begins to numb, calling my brother's name because he's the only one that could ever free me from this torment. When his purity takes a step near my shadows, they shy away and dance around his glory because I dare not hurt my brother. He'll smile at me with this look in his eyes and I know he's only planning on using me for something... Me, his mechanical angel. Me, his most favorite tool. Me, his most devoted follower.
But it's the few times he's so kind to me that make it so worth it. He'll caress my face in a way sweeter than my obedient shadows ever could. He'll look into my eyes and I know there's still a shred of humanity in there, and that he's given that small bit of heart to me because I am worth it. Because he thinks I'm worth it.
At these times, my throat is on a cold fire from my agony, and I can't speak a word to him. He whispers to me that I am his favorite brother. His favorite person. His angel.
But there's only one thing I can say in return.
His name... His beautiful, pure name that will never be tainted by anything. I would die in his name if he so wished. My beloved brother...
Weiss...