Being As I Am
By Patience
Legal: Characters are the property of Koyasu Takehito and Project Weiß.
Warnings: Blasphemy, violent descriptions
Notes: I am just playing with something Yuki Scorpio translated from a mook on
WKML.
The eyes of the LORD are everywhere,
keeping watch on the wicked and the good.
When I was young, the sisters told me
I would see the eyes as I rose to heaven.
These were the eyes of my Judge, and I would find eternal peace or
damnation in His eyes. I could never
escape these eyes. They would follow me,
watch me, and He would watch as I sinned or as I did His work.
When I realized the Lies, I thought the eyes were still there. I would make these eyes cry. Tears of blood would roll down the blissful,
holy cheeks. Angels would walk barefoot
in the streams, hems of gowns stained crimson.
They would whisper of Lucifer and his fall. They would see me as they had seen him, a
Fallen One.
He had to watch as I made Him suffer as I had suffered. I would make him cry for his families, the
innocent lambs he fucked with. They
cried for His mercy as I slit their throats, warm blood staining my hands. The stains were not permanent. Blood washes clean.
O LORD God Almighty, the God of Israel,
rouse yourself to punish all the nations;
show no mercy to wicked traitors.
I was not a traitor. God loved
me. God is love. I could hear the Last Rites and ascend to
Heaven as if nothing had happened. The
Hell He put us through meant nothing. We
were all pawns to him, each good little Christian, sliding across the board one
place at a time until one of His Knights came to cut us down. It was His way.
Before they placed me in the institution, I still went into His whorehouse and
lit His candles, for my family. I wanted
to believe Him, some how. Things were
simple before their blood stained my clothing.
Blood does not leave cloth, only our hands.
This flesh is far too temporary. It
holds nothing but our physical triumphs and losses. It is removed with a flick of a blade and placed
onto others, other places. I thought The
Lord intended it to be this way. Our own
stupidity could cause blood, but when my knife bit into the flesh of an altar
boy, I was sinning.
I was sinning repeatedly, watching his white robes become red, virgin blood
staining my clothes. Mary was a virgin
for God. Did their son make her bleed
like this?
The boy's blood never washed from my clothes.
I can still see his stains on an old sweater in my closet. It does not fit anymore. The stains still taste of blood, faint blood
mixed with laundry detergent. Schuldig
laughed at me when I licked it.
Let them think me the fool. It makes
them feel better; to think they are not so far gone as I. Perhaps Schuldig knows the truth. I try to play my part well. I whisper blasphemy beneath my breath,
whisper it to Nagi's ear. I laugh when
Brad prays, a stupid habit of his Christian upbringing.
I pity him. I tried the prayers once,
and, Brad, from one sinner to another: "My words fly up, my thoughts
remain below: /Words without thoughts never to heaven go."
I used to pray in the Institution, and I would curse Him as I prayed. My prayers were all wrong. Sister Ruth would have cried when she heard
them. Jei was always so good at his
prayers. He could say a whole Hail Mary
at four. She liked to boast of me, even
if Pride was a sin.
However, I was not Jei now. Jei did not
want to kill the altar boy, the priest, or the little girl coming home from
Sunday school. He would have cried to
see her mangled body left on the side of the road, intestines laced through a
chain link fence. He would not have
liked to see her legs spread open, skirt flipped up. Her knickers were white like the Virgin's
skin. Mud splashed on them when I left
her. That was her only stain.
Farfarello was a demon, and I suppose that was me. I did not pick the name. Brad did.
It did not matter who I was anymore. I
used to kill to hurt Him. I would do my
best to make Him weep. I dipped Host
into the blood of priests. This was the
body His son gave up for me. I enjoyed
the taste of iron, relishing it. It
would make me sick, but it made the Host have flavor. The Son's blood was a toy to me. One bottle of the blood over a priest's robe,
and the man was screaming, writhing in front of me. His skin would blacken, dying fingers pulling
at the heavy robes. He cried for
mercy. I gave it to him, unlike our
Lord.
I jumped.
They found me in the burning church, stamping on the priest's body. I did not see the flames around me. I did not care, but they did. They locked me away, pretty little psycho
boy. If you poked me, I would sing of
God and His crimes. I was a bird to
them, and I beat my wings constantly. I
have scars from their clubs. They had to
beat their pretty bird down. It hurt, to
have them hit me. I felt the pain. I did not like it.
However, I did not complain, merely singing to Him about how He and His minions
treat me. Perhaps these were his
bishops, lazy and ineffective. Useless
pieces, almost as useless as the pawn. I
sang as they beat me, screamed as they tried to put me in therapy. And I blamed God. His great eyes were watching me.
Schuldig thinks the great eye still haunts me, and I still want it to weep for
my sins. I want to laugh at him, but I
do not. I need to be the mad one. I am the one that rants and raves and throws
things about.
Jesus said, "For judgment I have come into this world, so that the
blind will see and those who see will become blind."
For judgment purposes, I think Schuldig is far more blind than the white
kittens.
He sees the great eye in my thoughts, but he assumes that those are my thoughts
alone. I am psychotic. I have one train of thought like some
hormonal teen waiting to pound a little girl into the ground, not caring about
her screams and tears. He thinks I am an
animal. To think beyond my little box of
hurting God is not something I am prepared to do. I must make that eye weep.
I must feel God's tears against my skin, and only then will I become sane.
But I know something Schuldig does not.
There is no eye, and I know there is no God.
This is what the LORD says about this people:
"They greatly love to wander;
they do not restrain their feet.
So the LORD does not accept them;
he will now remember their wickedness
and punish them for their sins."
I did not restrain my feet when they tied me down for the first time. I killed an orderly, pressing his head
against the window in my room until it shattered. He was screaming, glass imbedded in his face,
in his bright, bright blue eyes. They
were red with blood. They wept at my
sins like God would not. They lamented
my evil intentions as I grabbed a large shard and hacked away at him. His clothing was grey, tainted. Killing him was not like killing a virgin.
I was the one in white; I was the virgin this time.
His lungs were beautiful as they took the last few gasps, straining for
life. I stabbed one of them with the
glass shard, watching the organ strain against the glass. The doctors came in just as he died. It was a beautiful death. He was crying in the end.
They put me in a straight jacket then, and they only took me out to shock my
body. They liked to shock my body, angry
eyes watching me as I fried beneath their little metal devices. Jei McClain, you have done a horrible thing,
you know?
I did not answer them, just listened. My
feet were not restrained anymore.
It happened the first night. I was in
the dark, tied down carefully. We cannot
have him escape. Look at what he did to
Thom. He is a danger. I smiled at their words, hoping God was
weeping or shaking His head. I wanted to
see His eyes. I wanted to watch His face
as I sang for him, as pretty as I had done in mass when Sister Ruth let me
canter. I wanted to tell Him everything,
and maybe God and I would reach an understanding.
So I sat up. My body was below me,
yellow eyes staring straight ahead. The
lights caught them, cat-amber in the night.
I watched myself, watched my chest rise and fall. My lungs were filling with air, tasting the
pollution, and then letting it back out.
I touched my face, but I did not. I
could not feel the skin beneath my fingers.
I was beyond my body, but I was not dead. I breathed.
I could feel my heart beat, but it was a pulse in what ever I was then,
the thing beyond my body.
I turned around the room, spinning. It
did not feel like spinning, but I was seeing things in a wonderful spin. I wanted to see the eyes of God, the eyes of
judgment, pain, and forgiveness. But I
saw nothing. I raised my arms, or what
felt like arms, high into the air, and I felt nothing. It was empty of thought, feeling.
It was empty of God.
I closed my eyes and sat down, back on my body, and then into it. God was not outside my body, in a place I
could not see. He was not waiting to
judge my soul, which is what I think left me.
He just was not.
I stopped singing. I stopped praying.
They still shocked me. They still wanted
to punish me for what I had done to one of their own, and I hated them. They were like me, just stuck here without a
god or savior or a virgin. They fucked
the world up, and I fucked it up right with them, but they got to flip the
switch and fry me on the inside. They
got to flip a switch and watch me writhe like a she-wolf in heat, howling for a
fuck.
I stopped caring about their fucking machine after a while. I would leave my body fry in that chair and
stand behind them. I would watch my body
shake and twitch and fail, and I would hear their laughter. I would watch them smile as they slowly,
slowly killed me. Just because they were
on this side of the line and I was not, they got to be in charge.
Pain was not an issue anymore. Their
little machine fucked that right out of me.
My brain and nerves were fucked and frazzled before I had my plan.
I killed them on Christmas, during my daily shocking. I ripped my arms from the restraints when
they turned away from me and attacked an orderly. I was already bleeding, virgin blood staining
the face of the man as I ripped away his nametag. I stuck the pin in his eyes, laughing as
blood sprayed on my face. It felt good
to watch him scream. I looked at the pin
as the other orderlies approached, the doctors huddling out the doors.
The pin was a little bent, but it was shining in the light. I placed my foot on the orderly's neck as he
screamed, jumping down as if he were a priest.
The others approached, and I rammed the pin into my own eye. The light went out, but they stopped, staring
at me as if I had done something.
I liked that day. That was the day
before I was taken to see an American in virgin white, his glasses cold. I could not see his eyes, and I did not
care. He took my file, and he took me,
strapped to a cart and struggling. A man
with orange hair looked at me, and he laughed in the most annoying voice, and
when I thought that, he laughed harder.
When I thought of ripped his voice box out from the pretty little neck and
feeding it to a dog, he stopped laughing.
Furthermore, since they did not think it worthwhile to retain the knowledge
of God, he gave them over to a depraved mind; to do what ought not to be
done. They have become filled with every
kind of wickedness, evil, greed, and depravity.
They are full of envy, murder, strife, deceit, and malice. They are gossips, slanderers, God-haters,
insolent, arrogant, and boastful; they invent ways of doing evil; they disobey
their parents; they are senseless, faithless, heartless, ruthless. Although they know God's righteous decree that
those who do such things deserve death, they not only continue to do these very
things but also approve of those who practice them.
And I liked Schwarz. I liked when
Schuldig stopped laughing or Nagi looked at me with wide, frightened eyes.
But I liked to pretend for them, that I was really that mad that I blamed a
fake god for everything. I wanted to
hurt him so much that I hurt myself.
"Farfie? You want to come with
me?" Schuldig taps my forehead,
blue-grey eyes annoyed. He was talking
to me. "We're going to blow up a
building."
I do not tell them that I enjoy killed, and I like the flow of blood. I do not care for the taste, much, but I
enjoy the feel of it sliding through my fingers. I enjoy the shock, the disgust, and I love
the look in the eyes of my victim when they see me hurt myself. I like to play the part of a maniac.
"Will anyone be in the building?"
I look up at the ceiling.
Schuldig takes that as me asking God something.
"Yes, lots of people."
I get up, pulling out my knife. I like
knifes. The blood runs best with a
knife. "It will hurt God."
He smiles. I want to smile back, laugh
at him. I would be content to kill him
now.
Someday, someday, someday. For now, I
pull a strand of his fire hair from his head.
I think I will burn him alive when I finally end his life. He should burn as his hair does now.
Brad will die in his sleep. I want to
put glass in his lungs. I hope he does
not foresee it.
Nagi, I will kill swiftly. I want to
wear white as I kill him, as he will wear white. I want us both to be virgins in blood. But first, I will take those large blue eyes
from his head. I will let him hold his
eyes as I slit his throat. Then there
will be pictures and I will leave them here, blood staining the virgin carpet.
And I will be as the Christian god.
It is all the same; that is why I say, "He destroys both the blameless
and the wicked."
Quotes: Proverbs 15:3, Psalm 59:5, Hamlet III.iii.101-102, John 9:39, Jeremiah 14:10, Romans 1:28-32, and Job 9:22.
