Disclaimer: Weiß Kreuz and all associated and registered trademarks are copyright Project Weiß and associated firms. Typical disclaimer.
Warning: This fic might seem a bit dark to some people, so I merely wish to warn you of such. It is written from Omi's POV. That's about it. Reviews are greatly appreciated.
Vergleiche - Absonderung
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They are laughing in the other room. Smiling and speaking with each other, trading jokes and stories, little anecdotes about life. That room is warm, pleasant, yet I do not feel welcome in there. Only here do I feel welcome, the cold tiles of the kitchen floor chilling my bared feet, the silent and still air, enfolding about me like dark shadows. Here is where I belong, not there. There is where the happiness is, the joy, the pleasantries. Here is the isolation, the home for those without a home. There is where they are, and here is where I am. We are all where the world has meant us to be.
The counter is covered in half empty bags of pretzels, chips, and treats, all purchased and laid out for their Christmas party. It is supposed to be our Christmas party, but I cannot be there with them, I do not fit in. I am different from them, I do not belong. They each have family and friends, I have nothing. Well, not nothing, perhaps. No, I have a family that hated and abandoned me, and an uncle who trained me to murder them in return. That is what I have, and it feels too empty. Cold. Alone.
Muffled laughter reaches my ears as the eldest recounts some cute story from his childhood, talking of a kitten he got for Christmas and how he nearly killed the poor thing in shaking the gift box in puzzlement as to what was inside. Childhood. Another bitter and cold stab of pain strikes me at that thought, a reminder as to why I am not in there with them. I do not have a childhood, they do. Do they not realize how lucky they are to have one? To recall those things? I am envious of them. They have memories, I do not. All I remember is pain and killing, being given orders and following them through. Nothing more than that.
My slender fingers curl about the knife I had been using to slice a tomato. I had come here under the pretense of making a sandwich, but perhaps I had come for more than just the spilling of the red fluid of the tomato. Perhaps I had come for mine. And at that moment, I feel sad enough, alone enough, that I do not really care. They have family, I do not. They have memories, I do not. They have happiness, I have pain. Too much pain.
I lay my left hand on the cutting board, facing the palm up and spreading my fingers out, observing them. Faintly, I wonder if it would hurt more to stab myself than to endure the emotional pain of not fitting in with them. Probably not. Little more could hurt more than what I feel when they speak of their love and happiness.
The point of the knife rests gently on my palm now, the tip dragging up the softest hint of crimson. The pain is so faint that I can barely feel or acknowledge it, merely wanting more than what is being given. Tightening my grip, I wince as more sounds of happiness reach my ears. They do not even miss me in there, still laughing in the bright room while I stand in the dark kitchen. Laughing while I cry, my tears staining the floor, never to be seen or noticed by any other.
Pressing down lightly now, digging the blade into the skin, watching the dark fluid that wells up, clinging to the blade as though it were sole sustenance, the only way to survive. Perhaps that is how it is. Blood clings to the blade that draws it, this much I know. Just as blood clings to my hands, staining them further with each kill, drawing me further from their happiness and deeper into my own despair.
Just a little more pressure and I will cut straight through my hand. Would that not feel so good. A distraction from the mental hurt, a focus to the physical. Just a little more pressure, which I slowly begin to apply, until the light suddenly flips on, startling me into dropping the blade, letting it clatter to the cutting board.
"Omittchi? You gonna be long in here? You're missing the party."
Only Youji, come to check on me. Why? Sighing, I manage to bring a bright smile to face, the kind of genki thing they would all expect from me. "Ah, gomen, Youji-kun, I'll be just a moment." My words sound hollow and I know he can sense that, his eyes narrowing slightly as he observes me.
"Do you need some help, bishounen? I could give you a hand. Not like the party's doing much in your absence. KenKen is a little too drunk to make proper conversation and Aya is being... himself."
He grinned at me and stepped in the kitchen. What is he doing? Did he see my injury? Pressing my hand against a cloth, I shake my head, still trying to smile. "No, it's fine, Youji-kun," I hear myself say. "I will finish this later, I'm not quite so hungry anymore. Let's get back, ne?"
The blond nodded to me before he left, still seeming concerned. Why? I am just Omi, nothing more. Pay no attention to me, please. That is what seems to happen normally, and almost what I ask for as I leave the kitchen, pausing to turn off the light. My sapphire eyes rest on the discarded knife, the blood clinging to the blade and shining softly. It appears that, for now, I cannot test my theory. For now I must just live with the pain of the heart, not the body.
Just for now...
Author Notes:
This part's title, Absonderung, means 'isolation' in German.
Warning: This fic might seem a bit dark to some people, so I merely wish to warn you of such. It is written from Omi's POV. That's about it. Reviews are greatly appreciated.
Vergleiche - Absonderung
-------------
They are laughing in the other room. Smiling and speaking with each other, trading jokes and stories, little anecdotes about life. That room is warm, pleasant, yet I do not feel welcome in there. Only here do I feel welcome, the cold tiles of the kitchen floor chilling my bared feet, the silent and still air, enfolding about me like dark shadows. Here is where I belong, not there. There is where the happiness is, the joy, the pleasantries. Here is the isolation, the home for those without a home. There is where they are, and here is where I am. We are all where the world has meant us to be.
The counter is covered in half empty bags of pretzels, chips, and treats, all purchased and laid out for their Christmas party. It is supposed to be our Christmas party, but I cannot be there with them, I do not fit in. I am different from them, I do not belong. They each have family and friends, I have nothing. Well, not nothing, perhaps. No, I have a family that hated and abandoned me, and an uncle who trained me to murder them in return. That is what I have, and it feels too empty. Cold. Alone.
Muffled laughter reaches my ears as the eldest recounts some cute story from his childhood, talking of a kitten he got for Christmas and how he nearly killed the poor thing in shaking the gift box in puzzlement as to what was inside. Childhood. Another bitter and cold stab of pain strikes me at that thought, a reminder as to why I am not in there with them. I do not have a childhood, they do. Do they not realize how lucky they are to have one? To recall those things? I am envious of them. They have memories, I do not. All I remember is pain and killing, being given orders and following them through. Nothing more than that.
My slender fingers curl about the knife I had been using to slice a tomato. I had come here under the pretense of making a sandwich, but perhaps I had come for more than just the spilling of the red fluid of the tomato. Perhaps I had come for mine. And at that moment, I feel sad enough, alone enough, that I do not really care. They have family, I do not. They have memories, I do not. They have happiness, I have pain. Too much pain.
I lay my left hand on the cutting board, facing the palm up and spreading my fingers out, observing them. Faintly, I wonder if it would hurt more to stab myself than to endure the emotional pain of not fitting in with them. Probably not. Little more could hurt more than what I feel when they speak of their love and happiness.
The point of the knife rests gently on my palm now, the tip dragging up the softest hint of crimson. The pain is so faint that I can barely feel or acknowledge it, merely wanting more than what is being given. Tightening my grip, I wince as more sounds of happiness reach my ears. They do not even miss me in there, still laughing in the bright room while I stand in the dark kitchen. Laughing while I cry, my tears staining the floor, never to be seen or noticed by any other.
Pressing down lightly now, digging the blade into the skin, watching the dark fluid that wells up, clinging to the blade as though it were sole sustenance, the only way to survive. Perhaps that is how it is. Blood clings to the blade that draws it, this much I know. Just as blood clings to my hands, staining them further with each kill, drawing me further from their happiness and deeper into my own despair.
Just a little more pressure and I will cut straight through my hand. Would that not feel so good. A distraction from the mental hurt, a focus to the physical. Just a little more pressure, which I slowly begin to apply, until the light suddenly flips on, startling me into dropping the blade, letting it clatter to the cutting board.
"Omittchi? You gonna be long in here? You're missing the party."
Only Youji, come to check on me. Why? Sighing, I manage to bring a bright smile to face, the kind of genki thing they would all expect from me. "Ah, gomen, Youji-kun, I'll be just a moment." My words sound hollow and I know he can sense that, his eyes narrowing slightly as he observes me.
"Do you need some help, bishounen? I could give you a hand. Not like the party's doing much in your absence. KenKen is a little too drunk to make proper conversation and Aya is being... himself."
He grinned at me and stepped in the kitchen. What is he doing? Did he see my injury? Pressing my hand against a cloth, I shake my head, still trying to smile. "No, it's fine, Youji-kun," I hear myself say. "I will finish this later, I'm not quite so hungry anymore. Let's get back, ne?"
The blond nodded to me before he left, still seeming concerned. Why? I am just Omi, nothing more. Pay no attention to me, please. That is what seems to happen normally, and almost what I ask for as I leave the kitchen, pausing to turn off the light. My sapphire eyes rest on the discarded knife, the blood clinging to the blade and shining softly. It appears that, for now, I cannot test my theory. For now I must just live with the pain of the heart, not the body.
Just for now...
Author Notes:
This part's title, Absonderung, means 'isolation' in German.