What if, one day, someone you just...Happened to have killed came back, and asked you why you ended their life? One cannot imagine that sensation. Well perhaps a few...But certainly not enough to count for anything.
Yet, as I close my eyes, pictures of the thousands upon thousands my hands have taken life from appear before me. A young child will scream for its mother. A mother, screaming for her child. A solider, desperately begging for his life as I shoved my sword through his head, deaf to his pleas. I suppose I gave myself an accurate enough name all those years ago...
My life, many people say, has been nothing but blood and death since I was born. Legends tell of Mukuro, the most bloodthirsty demon to ever roam Makai, how he...Well, she, now that my secret is out...Murdered her first person at age two. By my teenage years, I was one of the most well known killers Demon World had seen since Raizen himself. They speak of how I am emotionless, of how I bathed in my opponents suffering...They couldn't have been more wrong.
For ever murder I have ever committed, I have, I confess, felt a terrible blackness engulf me in my entirety. I have never enjoyed murder –It has just been a part of my being for as long as I can remember. Chikou, who kept me alive because of his attraction to me, would torture another, less fortunate servant until they could do nothing but breath hagardly as they waited for death to save them. I remember the screaming would keep me up until I would become delirious from lack of sleep, though the nightmares did have a say in that as well.
I remember how the acid felt as it touched my soft, delicate skin. I remember the lights that flashed in front of me, my world going white as the pain took over completely. The pain, however, kept me from losing my sanity completely, almost as if it wanted me to overcome it.
Many times I have been called an abomination. A disease. Something that needs to be purged from existence...Perhaps I am truly in need of being purged. If that was the case, destiny has failed in it's mission. Only, I cannot say for sure whether or not I'm glad it did.
If a murderer is asked why he killed a victim, oftentimes he will answer with some speech about a meaning or cause, or perhaps he will answer with joy, confirm that he infact did kill that person, and that he is glad. Not ashamed of having ended a life. But in reality, it is very different. One who has not killed cannot comphrehend that caliber of a question. They have not seen or experienced death so closely, they have not watched as someone's soul departed from their body. It is impossible for someone to truly pass judgement on a murderer when, in most cases, the judge has not been down that path. "Why did you murder this person?" quickly becomes a hollow question, one that a murderer can pose fake answers to, but cannot answer and know in his soul that he is being honest.
I remember I was asked this once. I couldn't answer. Not because I didn't have an answer though...I could not answer because I had an answer. I wanted to reply "I did it because they stood in my way." but when I opened my mouth, nothing came out. I began wondering "What manner of being am I...To pass judgement on a soul? Am I better than them?"
I think not. Murder, no matter which way you slice it, is murder. You may have some moral reason, some noble cause or some personal vendetta. But in the end, can you truly justify murdering someone? At the end of the day, can you answer that you are absolutely sure you would do it again if you had the chance? What sort of mentality does one who can take another living being's life away have?
It is my curse that I have the answers to these questions, but cannot answer. My soul will not allow me the pleasure of closure, forever tainted by the last breaths of those beings who I stole life from. It is my burden, and though it is heavy, I gladly accept it and all it entails.