Disclaimer: I own nothing of Corpse Party.
The filthy bitch. Even then, in the moment of death, she couldn't afford me the simple honesty of expressing her pain. Each time I drove the knife into her abdomen, it was like I was reaching up inside her toward that small glowing ball of light that usually shown so brightly in the moments before death. I pushed the blade all the way into her, to the hilt, and yet even as I scraped the inside of her I couldn't even scratch the surface. It was always just out of my reach.
No one else had done that to me before. No one else had denied me that moment of intense purity. The moment when I could understand fully every fiber of emotion they felt, be it dizzying panic, mind numbing fear, roaring pain. The moment where there was no veil of decency or empty feeling to have to work through. The moment of loud and paralyzing honesty. The moment before death.
The filthy, lying cunt.
Mitsuki Yamamoto. I thought she was going to be easy. Not easy to kill. I mean, obviously she'd be easy to kill. They all were. But I thought she was going to be easy to make sing. I was sure that all I had to do was slice her open, and her screams would spill out of her like her insides. But no. No, instead she took her pain in silence.
And what is silence worth in a place like this? Nothing. It's worth nothing. In here, silence is like the acrid stench that wafts up from a clogged drain. There's nothing to do but turn your nose up at it, and yet you've forgotten it ten minutes later, because there are far worse smells than that to burn the hair inside your nostrils.
Then why the hell haven't I forgotten about it yet?
I know why. Those last moments of agony before death are the most honest moments that a person has. Those pleas for mercy, those cries of agonizing pain, those precious sounds are the most honest words anyone has ever bothered to speak to me. And as such, denying those to me is like lying to my face. And I hate it when people lie to me.
That was it. She wasn't standing up to me. She wasn't exerting her one last free will on this earth. She wasn't coating her dignity in a plated-gold casing impervious to the burn of humiliation and the rust of shame. She was lying to me. Like every other cowardly human being too weak to live without the comfort of decency. That was it. She was just a snake. A rat. Like every other person who sought to reach under my skin and spread the filth of lies and patronization just like my siblings had started all those years ago. She wasn't defending herself. She was attacking me. That rotten, good for nothing slut.
That was fine. She wasn't worth another thought. I have more important things to do, anyway. She was a filthy stinking rat and I never needed her lies.
No more lies. No more rats.
Perhaps… rabbits, instead.