Written by: Powowpyon
Disclaimer: I obviously don't own Durarara!.
Summary: "The words ring hollow in his ears, and Kida doesn't care." [OS]
A/N: Angst, definitely AU. Before Mikado's arrival in Ikebukuro, after Saki got attacked,
Kida becomes increasingly mentally instable, and here's my version of his descent into hell. Contains a very insane Kida, therefore. And some mind rape just for you.
(And btw, I'm french, so I really hope I didn't butcher the vocabulary or syntaxes too much.)
Of Wood and Blood
❝ With the liberty of a man whom culture hasn't completely engulfed,
the music hobo picks up the glass shard he finds on the road
and points it towards the sun to bring forth a thousand colors. ❞
— Theodor Wiesengrund Adorno.
He imagines people are nothing more than color dots, there at the tip of his paintbrush. And they are.
He cries and he shouts and he dies and he smiles, again and again, and imagines stories of knights and dragons, of faraway countries and of unexplored lands.
He seizes his paintbrush and spreads people on the canvas, in a multitude of colors, a shapeless stain on a second-hand canvas, that he pierces while trying to sketch on it.
The clock is ticking and the birds are singing, only the birds don't sing anymore, the clock is broken, winter is here and Kida is here too, always. They begin to worry about him, but this "they" is far, so far, that Kida doesn't pay attention to it.
He buys a canvas again the next day, or maybe the previous, and resumes to spreading people on it, emptying his paint tubes, staining his face and his shirt and his thoughts, falling into an instinctive stupor, and he seats in front of his canvas for days.
Then he cries and he shouts and he dies but he doesn't die and his parents are there and shake him and what has he done ?
The broken glass cuts his hand and deep inside his veins, deep inside his soul, and he wonders when the color dots took shape and relief, really came to life, and he remembers a girl with a sweet face of wood and blood.
He cries and he shouts and he dies, a bit, inside, when they come to bring him there, somewhere, elsewhere, and he clings to his canvas, and he holds his paintbrushes close to his heart, and he shoves his paint tubes in his pockets and he cries when they make him let go, and he shouts when they lock him in the back of the car, and he dies when the birds come back, when the girl dances and when the injections aren't enough to make him come to his senses anymore.
They gave him a canvas, paint tubes and a paintbrush, today.
He stares at the wall, white, as a voice says that nothing more can be done and another bursts into tears. The words ring hollow in his ears, and Kida doesn't care.
He paints again and again, and the birds leave and he realizes that the girl had not been dancing, and would never again. He cries and he shouts and he dies and he smiles, again and again, and imagines stories of knights and dragons, of faraway countries and of unexplored lands. He imagines people are nothing more than color dots, there at the tip of his paintbrush.
And they are.