Little drabble for one of my favorite characters. I'm in between stories at the moment, so I figured I'd keep my writing sharp with a quick little one-shot. So basically I have this theory that Midnight is actually like a really chill guy. I feel like he doesn't like being as sadistic as he lets on, though I'm not sure of the reasoning for it. Maybe he does it so Zero will be proud of him? I dunno. Also, I was listening to Animal I Have Become by Three Days Grace the entire time I wrote this, and that set the mood for the story, so I got, like, wayyyy into this XD I also pulled out just about all of the synonyms for gross, scared, and scary that I know :P ANYWAY, this is my take on Midnight.
He didn't ask for this.
None of it.
He didn't ask for his hands to be eternally coated with so much innocent blood, or his ears to constantly be ringing with the sound of agonized screams, but they were.
The only thing he did ask for was to fall asleep in a quiet place. It seemed like a harmless enough prayer at the time he made it. His innocent mind was simply unable to comprehend that a wish like that could ever turn on him. However, it quickly evolved into something more than a simple, childish desire. Something much, much more sinister.
True, sleep was ready to welcome him whenever he needed it. The boy could fall into a deep slumber at any time and any place, no matter what occurred around his unconscious form. He had to admit that that was pleasant, not to mention that it perfectly conformed to his one and only dream. But despite how wonderful that was, it was the only perk to what he so unaffectionately referred to as his condition.
Everywhere he turned, he saw red. It stained his vision no matter where he looked. It dripped from his slender fingers like some kind of irremovable paint, and he could feel it overtaking every word that fell from his lips, changing it into something so morbid, it could make the bravest of soldiers quake in fear.
He did such terrible things to people. Such awful, gruesome things that wouldn't be forgiven in even the darkest corners of hell. He killed people. It wasn't as though he granted them, swift, painless deaths, either. Oh, no. He made them suffer. He watched the faces of women and children contorting in absolute agony as he suffocated them with their own clothing. He listened to the shrieks of grown men, begging him for mercy as they watched his horrendous nightmares unfold before their very eyes. They saw their loved ones slaughtered in an explosion of crimson blood. They saw their own worst memories, playing over and over again in their heads like broken records. But perhaps the most horrifying of all, they saw him.
They saw him for what he truly was; a monster, a demon. A boy who got his kicks from watching others suffer at his hand, dragging out their torture as long as he could before granting them the mercy of death. Of course, the eyes he watched all of this with were the same scarlet color that he fought so hard to escape. They glowed bright red, alerting all who laid eyes upon him to his sins. And that was the way he wanted it.
Truthfully, underneath his sadistic smirk, he couldn't stand to see the grotesque acts that he committed against his will. He wanted to tell all who neared him to run, run before he could add them to his list of victims. But he couldn't. He wasn't in control anymore. He wasn't himself anymore. No longer was he the sweet, young boy by the name of Macbeth; he was Midnight, a member of the Oración Seis and a cold-blooded killer.
He didn't ask for that.
He didn't ask to become Fiore's malicious murder machine.
But this condition consumed him nonetheless, pulling him into such darkness that he knew the light could never reach him again.
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