Six Illusions
Cold, crimson scars ran evenly across my wrist. The flowing blood long since scabbed over. Each and every one of them taken because of him. Lavi, Bookman Junior, or whoever he was now–I could still remember his flaming auburn hair and the ghost of a smirk that would grace his lips and, most of all, those twinkling emerald green eyes with dashes of hazel pooled together in a minty gray. Every detail of his face was engraved beneath my eyelids if only to remember him. His memory was the most vivid and recent. How long had it been since he had left the Order and me? A month, a week, a few days–time had dissolved into a puddle of nothing.
The first scar ran awkwardly along my wrist. It was nothing but hesitation that had spurred that. I had, after all, never been one for self-mutilation. It was the first time I had done something of the sort.
The second scar was more prominent and ran deeper and was more elongated than the previous. I was more sure of my actions. All of them ran on my "human" right arm for fear of the Innocence's retaliation to my methods of coping.
The third scar was rushed and thin from a hasty, unsteady hand with my vision blurred by an onslaught of tears. My knife had slipped and left a cut trail along the side of my wrist.
The fourth was the deepest where my hands rested, digging the knife deep into my flesh as my grip was restrained by reminiscent thoughts of him. My breath drew ragged and I stilled my restless blood by letting it flow.
The fifth was slow and painful as I felt it dragging across my icy skin and it slowly tore through.
The sixth, and the last, was the worst by far. It was harsh, brutal, and demeaning. I nearly stabbed the blade into my arm. It wasn't as deep, but it was striking and fresh on my pale skin.
Perhaps it would have been better of him to abuse me and then discard me. I wouldn't have minded–I was willing to give him anything...my life, even, if he had asked. But, no such luck–he raised my hopes high and watched as I fell with his unmoving stance as cold as a statue.
I had known the day would come when we would be forced to go our separate ways–he was Bookman's successor and I was dutiful to the promise I had made to Mana that I would always keep on walking. Still, when the time came, there was not even the slightest hint of hesitation. He didn't look back even once. There wasn't so much as a word to me–not even an apology. I remember Bookman telling him, "It's the time to leave, Bookman Junior." I knew, I just knew, it was a lost cause–he was no longer the "Lavi" I knew and loved. His reply was a solemn "I understand". And, with that said, stood up and left the Order, his friends, and me all behind–he never turned to see the broken mess he left behind after he had shattered my heart to pieces.
There were six scars–one for every time we had made love; one for every time he had lied to me with an "I love you"; one for every memory I could never forget; one for e very piece of my heart he took with him when he walked out the door–each and every one equally as painful.
Author's Note: A short composition...whatever you may call it. I haven't a clue what spurred this. Melancholy, perhaps – I wouldn't know, for sure. Either way...I hope it was, at the very least, enjoyable to read. Yes, it is gloomy and Allen-centric. The concept of slitting your wrist doesn't bode well with me so please do not try it. Stay in school and don't do drugs. But, most of all, do not allow depression to swallow you.
佐藤千春