Stars. Twinkling, sparkling, shimmering stars.
Those were how I kept myself busy; some nights I would count them, others I would discover shapes and figures that laid hidden in their strangeness. I found that, over time, it became increasingly boring. Not even a way to pass the time of night, any more. But that could only be; Surely one could not spend his eternity counting stars and making constellations, with not a hint of human or otherwise contact. It simply was not possible.. and I realized this. Perhaps realizing this was not the best of things to happen to me, for it made me hurt. This hurt turned to hate; burning, white hot hatred. Surely he, the man I called a father, would know that this would happen! Surely he had known that without someone with me I would fall only deeper into insanity! Had he not had a brain at the time? Or.. perhaps he had intended it. No. No, even he would not do something such as that to me. Without another thought, I pull myself from the stars. The bed, a simple pile of blankets in the corner on a withering mattress seems desirable right now.
In my prison, there was no sun. Just the night, with it's stars, and the walls, with my words and pictures engraved in them, as though marking my unwanted territory. I sometimes liked to think that my marking would scare away the darkness and shadow creatures; my favorite was the eyes. They watched me. watched out for me. I went so far as to scribble them onto my scarf with a pencil that had been provided for me by a man who's name I did not know and who's face had withered within my memory from age. The pencil was something I had never used before. It was far to frail to use on the walls, yet it was perfect for the scarf. As I defiled and defaced i felt a small surge of power, as this was something I had received from the man with the skull for a face. Here, inside the walls of my confinement, with my thoughts and words to myself, and the stars as my company, he could not harm me nor tell me what I could and could not do. Although I had not heard the voice of another mortal to the extent of my memory, I was nearly glad to be in the cold and dark prison.
I resurface from sleep one day with a singular thought in my head. I hate him. For a minute, it is floating in my brain. A singular thought that no other thought knows how to react to, or why it is even there, causing them all to stop and stare at the bold thought front and center in my mind, outshining all others. Another thought comes up next to it. Lord Death. I hate him, Lord Death. For a split second I am amazed by how horrible the grammar of my thoughts has become, and how these are only fragments of a sentence that should say I hate Lord Death. But then, I remember the 'him' in there, and realize this is probably not so much as fragments of a sentence, but a simple collection of words together that appear to be missing the correct context. I hate him, Lord Death. I hate him. Who exactly, I question myself, is 'him'? Who exactly am I saying I hate? These two questions sink and resurface in the ocean of my mind ever now and then through the sunless day, every time more confusing than the last. Him is who? Who him is? I hate who him is what who Lord Death who? Perhaps, if you the pitying type, you could pity me and my jumbled thoughts that make no sense and only serve to confuse me thoroughly. But, if your not the type to pity, you will probably find me a psychotic.. however many years old I am, incapable of anything coherent and incurable of myself. (And, of course, if you also the one for insanity you will know just exactly what I am going through and perhaps could provide me with some companionship)But I am here to tell you, all the non-pitying people, that I am completely curable of my insanity and that I am quite coherent. More coherent than my shit of a 'father'. Wait, why call him father? Why not my capturer? Kidnapper? Masked Bastard? No, I think I'll stick with his 'actual' name. Lord Death. Even though Masked Bastard is very fitting for someone like him, I'm not completely comfortable referring repeatedly to him as that name.
I have deciphered who him is. Him, is the new heir of shinigami. Or at least I believe so. It came to me, though a dream. One of the many perks of being insane. I also discovered Lord Death gave him a the death god equivalent of human name junior . It's Death the Kid. Oh now look, the stars are out. There are more than yesterday. So many stars. Pretty, pretty stars. There are eyes in the stars, watching watching watching me from up above. Kind of like angels. Balls of flaming angels. Excuse me while I, in a attempt to block out dangerous thoughts and voices, stargaze from the floor of my cell with tired eyes and quiet mumbles none could decipher properly.