She's been having these dreams for awhile now -- dreams where she's dragging the dead weight of Satoko's limp body with fingers throbbing black-and-blue in to a damp, somber room that smells of decomposing morality. Then she throws that little doll up on a cross like a child christ, straps her in, and makes her repent, over and over again, until that little demon inside of her is howling, crazed in it's ecstasy.
Her body is adorned with rubies that glitter in spite of the darkness, her face is graced with the happiest of smiles, but her ears and mind are tormented by the whimpers, the shrieks and then, when she has that brief moment of realization, the sound of her own haunted laughter.
When she wakes, she doesn't think twice; she rushes to the bathroom, strips away those bloodied clothes, and hides her shame behind the shower curtain. It doesn't matter how hard she scrubs, the nightmare is still tattooed dark on her skin and mind -- but, there's no blood! Thank god, there's no blood!
It was just a dream, just a dream, just a dream, just a dream.
I'm not a monster, I'm not a monster, I'm not a monster, I'm not a monster.
Even to a girl in denial, the mantra sounds a lot like a lie.