Schuldig, Bradley Crawford (c) Weiss Kreuz.
He glares at me, and he frowns too. His cold, dark, and disappointing frown. A frown that was made for his face, heh. I don't like it much--infact, I don't like it at all. I hate it. It depresses me, and right now I don't think I need to be in that sort of mood. I usually grin, but now, I'm not. He should realize it.. but I think he's too focused on my supposed "mistake." Strange Braddy.. ah well. He glares at me, and frowns, using his stupid Crawford frown.
But for some reason, I look right back. I stare my dark blue eyes into his lighter ones. But I don't have enough in me right now to give him my strange and mysterious smile, though. I know, and he knows it it too, that this is nothing I can smile about. I look at my hands wrapped in these bandages. They would hang stupidly, and just sway back and forth limply if I was to rise them. And then I look back at him. Even if I have been known to grin at the most inappropriate moments, I cannot find it in myself to smile. Not one bit. I don't use my Schuldig grin on him like he's using his Crawford frown on me. I just stare. Blankly. Maybe it disturbs him a bit.
He continues his pointless expression towards me. I say it's pointless because, well, if he's attempting to threaten or make me feel guilty, he's wrong. The situation, on my part, wasn't something for me to feel guilty about. Even if it was, I wouldn't care or feel it. Remember, I am Schuldig. I am the guilt.
Finally, he sighs, shakes his head, and turns his face away from my direction. He's funny like that, when he's mad or disappointed, and it amuses me. But I still cannot grin. But I do quietly chuckle. It's kind of strange, laughing to myself and not smiling. Like a song without a bird. Or something like that.
I look up and to the side. There's a window there, and the shades are parted just enough so you can see how it is outside. Rather pretty. There's snow. I squint, and lean towards it a bit. Bradley is watching me, he's letting his thoughts slip. I don't think it's purposeful: it's his anger right now. I'll try to make him smile for me later, he always does. In time. Outside, it's bright, bright with sun and bright with snow. Bright, and white. Most certainly unlike my soul, and most certainly unlike his. We are Schwarz, after all.
So I look out the window a bit, and there is an--no, not awkward--how about, a strange silence? Ja, that's it. Strange. A strange silence. I watch the snow fall, quietly, to the earth. It looks so peaceful. So unlike myself, so unlike him, so unlike the rest of them. It's hard to find peace of mind--peace of anything--in this retarded and dysfunctional world. It's a wonder people still believe in.. things. I kind of understand where Farfarello is coming from, you could say.
He's more than just a mindless drone who can't feel pain and strongly dislikes God, you know. But that's a topic for another day.
The silence begins to bother me. It's uncomfortable, and so I let my irritation be known. Though, not rudely or cocky as usual. I'm not myself today, for some reason.
"Am I allowed to go outside or what?" I don't look over at him though. It's fun to be all serious and mysterious.
He snaps out of it and shakes his head. His seemingly eternal scowl fades and he arches a brow at me--just another negative expression, though.
"I don't see why not. Can you?"
What a stupid question. It's not like I broke my legs. I just burned my hands.. and for some reason he's taking it all seriously--he won't let the thought that will tell me why, though, seep through his mind and into mine. He keeps track of that. Maybe he's embarassed to show emotions, hee. Funny Bradley. His attempts to hide his feelings from me are so amusing and futile. Sometimes I start laughing at him when he pulls crap like that and he just looks at me like I'm as crazy as Farfarello. I probably am too, and so his he. That's why we're all here, you know. Only lunatics would have jobs like this, while we could be lounging about, living the high-life on our own. Alone..
Anyway, my hands are burned. On our last mission, there was an accident. Something went wrong somewhere, which doesn't happen often, and there was a fire. Got my hands burned. And it was my fault. End of story. Ja? Nein. Anal retentive Bradley decided to punish me a bit for it. He yelled at me and smacked me around a bit, but I used my usual Schuldig grin, and I smiled and bared it. But it was one of those twitchy smiles that time--those kind that show you're just about to snap. He sensed it and stopped.
So he just kept me in my room now, with my bandaged hands, and my radio, and no food. Isn't he nice? Yep. It's the second day, and my stomach is aching so badly.. I don't tell him though--if I did, that means he'll add more days. For some reason, though, he is sitting in here with me like he's visiting me in the hospital. I should've gone there, I guess, but Nagi knew his medical shit I guess and fixed me up good, so I just have to sit here and wait to heal.
I'm surprised he's allowing this.
"Sure. I can walk. Just burned my hands, it's not that bad. My head's a little fucked too, but that's okay. My legs functon."
He let's himself grin a bit, the smallest of smiles creeping over his usually angered and hard-looking face. That's rare. I intended to make him smile anyway, so no harm in that. He hardly smiles. And when he does, I like it. It makes me feel a little better, and it makes me lose a bit of myself. When Bradley smiles, it helps me think I'm somebody else.
"You were always fucked in the head," he tells me, and I know it's true. So I force a grin to match his over my face. And he shakes his own head slightly, chuckling to himself. A chuckle and a smile. A song with a bird.
I look over to the table near him, and eye the rubber band on it. Again, my gaze shifts back to him and I ask if he can put my hair up for me. Something new, you know. I don't think I've ever done it before, and maybe I'll look better with it up. Of course I will, I'm Schuldig. I'm supposed to be perfect in everyway, the object of everyone's desire, the apple of everyone's eye. Guilt. Lust. All that. And I probably am.
He just looks at me funny, like I'm some strange animal he's never seen before or that's never been discovered. He looks at me like that for a long time, and I shift around a bit, arching a brow towards him. I ask what's up with him and he does not respond. I ask what's wrong and he finally snaps out of that.. thing he was in. He shakes his head and blinks at me like nothing happened.
I repeat for him to put up my hair and he slowly nods. He reaches over to the table and grabs for the rubber band. He isn't watching where his hand is going, though, he's looking at me, but I looked down after that. But I can feel his eyes on me, and I can pick up his thoughts. His hand misses, and it grabs again. He grasps it this time and then looks over at his hand finally. He then rises, and steps over.
"Turn your head," he commands.
His voice was made for commanding, leading, things like that. While mine was made for complaining, seducing, lying. I don't want my voice--in fact, I don't want anything of mine--and I wish I had his. Don't get me wrong, my body is nice, my senses are keen, and my attitude is cool, but it's not what I want to be.
I tell myself I am, but I am not. I want to be perfect: perfect like Bradley Crawford is. But in truth, no one is perfect, not even a man like him. But he's the closest thing I've seen to it.
I wonder what I used to be like, before I became what I am today. It must not have been much better, because I chose to forget about it. I'd try to forget this all too, but I don't want to be left alone--you never know what will happen. It's like a glass, on the edge of a table, ready to fall at the most slightest movement. You choose where you place the other things on the table very carefully, but if you set something down too fast or too hard, the glass will slip, and it will fall, and it will break, and all it's continents will spill onto the floor. Soiled, dirty, unable to be drank. And never able to be cleaned, except by mopping it up. And one most certainly couldn't drink that.
To make a long story short, he puts up my hair.. and we go outside.. together.
He glares at me, and he frowns too. His cold, dark, and disappointing frown. A frown that was made for his face, heh. I don't like it much--infact, I don't like it at all. I hate it. It depresses me, and right now I don't think I need to be in that sort of mood. I usually grin, but now, I'm not. He should realize it.. but I think he's too focused on my supposed "mistake." Strange Braddy.. ah well. He glares at me, and frowns, using his stupid Crawford frown.
But for some reason, I look right back. I stare my dark blue eyes into his lighter ones. But I don't have enough in me right now to give him my strange and mysterious smile, though. I know, and he knows it it too, that this is nothing I can smile about. I look at my hands wrapped in these bandages. They would hang stupidly, and just sway back and forth limply if I was to rise them. And then I look back at him. Even if I have been known to grin at the most inappropriate moments, I cannot find it in myself to smile. Not one bit. I don't use my Schuldig grin on him like he's using his Crawford frown on me. I just stare. Blankly. Maybe it disturbs him a bit.
He continues his pointless expression towards me. I say it's pointless because, well, if he's attempting to threaten or make me feel guilty, he's wrong. The situation, on my part, wasn't something for me to feel guilty about. Even if it was, I wouldn't care or feel it. Remember, I am Schuldig. I am the guilt.
Finally, he sighs, shakes his head, and turns his face away from my direction. He's funny like that, when he's mad or disappointed, and it amuses me. But I still cannot grin. But I do quietly chuckle. It's kind of strange, laughing to myself and not smiling. Like a song without a bird. Or something like that.
I look up and to the side. There's a window there, and the shades are parted just enough so you can see how it is outside. Rather pretty. There's snow. I squint, and lean towards it a bit. Bradley is watching me, he's letting his thoughts slip. I don't think it's purposeful: it's his anger right now. I'll try to make him smile for me later, he always does. In time. Outside, it's bright, bright with sun and bright with snow. Bright, and white. Most certainly unlike my soul, and most certainly unlike his. We are Schwarz, after all.
So I look out the window a bit, and there is an--no, not awkward--how about, a strange silence? Ja, that's it. Strange. A strange silence. I watch the snow fall, quietly, to the earth. It looks so peaceful. So unlike myself, so unlike him, so unlike the rest of them. It's hard to find peace of mind--peace of anything--in this retarded and dysfunctional world. It's a wonder people still believe in.. things. I kind of understand where Farfarello is coming from, you could say.
He's more than just a mindless drone who can't feel pain and strongly dislikes God, you know. But that's a topic for another day.
The silence begins to bother me. It's uncomfortable, and so I let my irritation be known. Though, not rudely or cocky as usual. I'm not myself today, for some reason.
"Am I allowed to go outside or what?" I don't look over at him though. It's fun to be all serious and mysterious.
He snaps out of it and shakes his head. His seemingly eternal scowl fades and he arches a brow at me--just another negative expression, though.
"I don't see why not. Can you?"
What a stupid question. It's not like I broke my legs. I just burned my hands.. and for some reason he's taking it all seriously--he won't let the thought that will tell me why, though, seep through his mind and into mine. He keeps track of that. Maybe he's embarassed to show emotions, hee. Funny Bradley. His attempts to hide his feelings from me are so amusing and futile. Sometimes I start laughing at him when he pulls crap like that and he just looks at me like I'm as crazy as Farfarello. I probably am too, and so his he. That's why we're all here, you know. Only lunatics would have jobs like this, while we could be lounging about, living the high-life on our own. Alone..
Anyway, my hands are burned. On our last mission, there was an accident. Something went wrong somewhere, which doesn't happen often, and there was a fire. Got my hands burned. And it was my fault. End of story. Ja? Nein. Anal retentive Bradley decided to punish me a bit for it. He yelled at me and smacked me around a bit, but I used my usual Schuldig grin, and I smiled and bared it. But it was one of those twitchy smiles that time--those kind that show you're just about to snap. He sensed it and stopped.
So he just kept me in my room now, with my bandaged hands, and my radio, and no food. Isn't he nice? Yep. It's the second day, and my stomach is aching so badly.. I don't tell him though--if I did, that means he'll add more days. For some reason, though, he is sitting in here with me like he's visiting me in the hospital. I should've gone there, I guess, but Nagi knew his medical shit I guess and fixed me up good, so I just have to sit here and wait to heal.
I'm surprised he's allowing this.
"Sure. I can walk. Just burned my hands, it's not that bad. My head's a little fucked too, but that's okay. My legs functon."
He let's himself grin a bit, the smallest of smiles creeping over his usually angered and hard-looking face. That's rare. I intended to make him smile anyway, so no harm in that. He hardly smiles. And when he does, I like it. It makes me feel a little better, and it makes me lose a bit of myself. When Bradley smiles, it helps me think I'm somebody else.
"You were always fucked in the head," he tells me, and I know it's true. So I force a grin to match his over my face. And he shakes his own head slightly, chuckling to himself. A chuckle and a smile. A song with a bird.
I look over to the table near him, and eye the rubber band on it. Again, my gaze shifts back to him and I ask if he can put my hair up for me. Something new, you know. I don't think I've ever done it before, and maybe I'll look better with it up. Of course I will, I'm Schuldig. I'm supposed to be perfect in everyway, the object of everyone's desire, the apple of everyone's eye. Guilt. Lust. All that. And I probably am.
He just looks at me funny, like I'm some strange animal he's never seen before or that's never been discovered. He looks at me like that for a long time, and I shift around a bit, arching a brow towards him. I ask what's up with him and he does not respond. I ask what's wrong and he finally snaps out of that.. thing he was in. He shakes his head and blinks at me like nothing happened.
I repeat for him to put up my hair and he slowly nods. He reaches over to the table and grabs for the rubber band. He isn't watching where his hand is going, though, he's looking at me, but I looked down after that. But I can feel his eyes on me, and I can pick up his thoughts. His hand misses, and it grabs again. He grasps it this time and then looks over at his hand finally. He then rises, and steps over.
"Turn your head," he commands.
His voice was made for commanding, leading, things like that. While mine was made for complaining, seducing, lying. I don't want my voice--in fact, I don't want anything of mine--and I wish I had his. Don't get me wrong, my body is nice, my senses are keen, and my attitude is cool, but it's not what I want to be.
I tell myself I am, but I am not. I want to be perfect: perfect like Bradley Crawford is. But in truth, no one is perfect, not even a man like him. But he's the closest thing I've seen to it.
I wonder what I used to be like, before I became what I am today. It must not have been much better, because I chose to forget about it. I'd try to forget this all too, but I don't want to be left alone--you never know what will happen. It's like a glass, on the edge of a table, ready to fall at the most slightest movement. You choose where you place the other things on the table very carefully, but if you set something down too fast or too hard, the glass will slip, and it will fall, and it will break, and all it's continents will spill onto the floor. Soiled, dirty, unable to be drank. And never able to be cleaned, except by mopping it up. And one most certainly couldn't drink that.
To make a long story short, he puts up my hair.. and we go outside.. together.