Hello, peeps! Chirp chirp! Just kidding, or am I? Anyways, here's something for my Deadman Wonderland fans! It's a little twisted, but you guys can handle it, right? Plus, this diverts from the original story a bit, because I haven't read or watched the series through and through, yet. Sorry.
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. Wish otherwise, but it isn't. Oh, well.
The squelching sounds of spilled blood and splattered organs were heard before the announcer called it out. "Oh, and it looks like the Eagle had took a big hit," the announcer barked into his microphone. "Ha ha, and it's pretty ugly for the newcomer, too! I guess the United States better start changing their national bird symbol if they wanna save face!"
Ganta was lying on his bed, finally exhaling and letting his heart go to its steady beat again. Although he wasn't exactly watching the killing match between the Pigeon and the now-deceased Eagle, he was pretty in-tuned throughout the entire time. It was his way of watching fights take place: lie still in bed, conserve his energy for his own fight, avert the eyes and be sure that no matter what he hears, no matter how interesting the changes of events and circumstances in the fight sounds, he should never look. Never should he ever look at the television screen, at the match, at the way the blood and organs look so beautiful as the blood paint the cage's floor in a pretty crimson and the stomach and intestines and kidneys and such look like fitting little pieces of real Halloween decorations all round the cage's floor and bars.
Ganta couldn't look because he was now insane. Or, at the very least, growing more insane by the minute. He first noticed the insanity creeping up on him around two months ago, when he was watching another televised fight with Shiro eating like a pig next to him. At first, he was simply staring at the screen, so focused on the bloodshed to see his next potential opponent and study his or her battle strategies, but he felt shaking from his side and found Shiro looking at him, worried. When he came to, he realized that he was looking at the blood and gore with an entranced expression, as if the blood was hypnotizing him into a mindless state. He had drool flowing from his lower lip and his breaths were coming out slowly and in a strange, heavy rhythm.
It grew worse day after day. Watching each match, Ganta had this sickening feeling of something inhuman, something physical yet abstract, growing inside him. This thing was within him, coursing through his veins and interfering with his thoughts-changing his thoughts. Blood, it would whisper, the blood, it's so riveting, isn't it? The hushed breaths of this voice that tickled the back of Ganta's mind didn't belong to Ganta, but it sounded like him, and it knew everything about Ganta: his personality, his desires, his goals, and twisted them into something that this thing, this hideous dark beast, wanted.
Yes, dark beast was the appropriate name for this gruesome entity of insanity. What else to call a monster that made you want disgusting things and made you do degrading and unhealthy acts to get them? What do you call a monster that made you dig through garbage just to look for used female toiletries to sniff the copper-scented stains, that made you lower your head into every menstrual girls' thighs to taste that blessed, delicious goodness dripping out of them, that made you break your closest friend's rib because she wouldn't allow you to lick up the red drip bubbling from her paper cut? What do you call the demon that made you want something you fought and still fight to end, like the whole Deadman Wonderland tournaments? One certainly wouldn't call it an angel of purity and peace.
"Aw, it's too bad Eagle died; he was such a nice kid," the announcer feigned sob. "Someone should've told him that niceness doesn't get him saved once he's in the cage, no matter if he's just a nine-year-old."
Ganta sighed in relief and loosened his grip on the bed sheet, but when he felt the beast's presence, felt its cold, frigid, yet graceful presence enter his psyche, he gripped the sheet again and bit into his lower lip.
Don't destroy the hand that feeds you, Ganta, the demon was singing softly. It isn't nice to kill this wondrous blood bank that is practically giving you blood and organs without a need for emergency transfusions or transplants! Not many people are as lucky as you, Ganta; don't waste such a precious gift…
The beast left, but not before giving Ganta a taste of its torturously deviant power. During the ordeal, Ganta's back arched and his throat choked in a silent scream. His pelvis shot up and down and images of his many battles, of the countless pints of blood he drained out of bodies with his bare hands and his Ganta gun and the mounds of gory flesh and organs he ripped out of his opponents' bodies, flashed in his mind. After what seemed like forever, the torture went away along with the demon, and Ganta was left on his bed sweating and panting. He wiped the back of his hand on his forehead and watched the glistening of his wet hand. He sighed and tried to calm himself and reassure himself that he was going to win.
He was going to stay sane, stay strong, and stay him, in order to put an end to this sick imprisonment and free all of the fighters. He wasn't going to let Wonderland win outside, and he was sure as hell that he wasn't going to let it win from the inside by not letting the dark beast within him win…
Okay, so after going through my saved documents on this website to proofread them, I realize that some of my typing tend to end up italized after the one small bit that I really wanted italized, like in this story before I fixed it . -_- Anyways, I hope you've enjoyed this freaky story! :D