Notes: This was written in order to dispel a very evil phase of writersblock that I was suffering through on my Gundam Wing fic. It's very weird, very stream of consciousness, and angsty. Plus it's Aya, which pretty much explains almost all of those others things. Feedback/constructive criticism/whatever you write when you click the review button is all greatly appreciated.

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By TK Date

Down-stroke.

He feels the vibration of the blade through his hands and let it become an extension of his body. Though he cannot physically do it, he can sense the feeling of the air moving swiftly against the steel. It brushes past his face, blowing crimson stained hair away from skin that caries the same milky colors as all things associated with innocence. The white cream of lilacs is nothing near to the true crimson stains bore by his soul.

Again.

The movement repeats in a pattern of unknown length but time hone skill. It is a practice of killing, to know how to strike a person so that death is certain. The art of splitting the skull, puncturing the lung, spilling the innards. It is an art of watching the blood flow across the tiles of the floor, watching it seep into the expensive carpet that numerous lives paid for.

Strange how that ironic retribution exists. A practiced art of death and destruction brings about a payment for lives lost through the same sort of training and experience. However, no solace is wrought from it, it cannot be, there is nothing but the continued turmoil. Certain people gain silence when the blade comes down, others only gained another voice in the screams that haunt their nights.

So why?

A question. Questions were not to be asked. Questions were to be sliced into ribbons by the fine blade of a well treated katana. They would be obliterated, destroyed with the simple down-stroke of the hardened metal. Never to be seen again. One did not question a profession of death. Originally there were questions. Questions brought punishment and they ended. If he asked, he died, it was simple.

Sheath. Discard. Vanish.

Night life was given a whole new name in him. He vanished in the darkness of shadows and warped his entire existence to something that was hardly recognizable as the person that anyone would have known him as. Everything that would hinder the possibility of his blade burying itself deep within the yielding flesh of his foe was no more.

Emotions, feelings, reactions, intuitions, personalities. All of them were gone.

The grueling process wore against him like the waters upon a stone. Night slipped into day and blended with it in a tapestry woven over the wages so that no one could or ever would find the string which had started it all. It unraveled at points and twined together at others in a weave so tight that it was naught but an organized knot.

Life's like that.

Life's like a lot of very strange things.

Aya put his katana away. It would be saved for another night of spilling the blood of those who dared to tread upon the fragmented shards of innocence that some people still clutched in their grasps.

Slowly he retreated into his room and lay down upon his bed. Darkness blanketed him and slowly wound its way into the inner depths of his soul. He knew dreams would come, or to be more correct, screams would come. They didn't really affect him, for he knew how to resist the fear that they created.

However, as he drifted into the endless chaos of screams and blood flowing across a lily's white petals he silently wondered if he should cut a thread any time soon, just to see if maybe it could undo the knot.