This was originally written for school, as we had to write a short story (800-1000 words) on the theme of horror. I only got 8/10 due to a conspicuous lack of plot. On the upside, however, the teacher said that mine was the most disturbing of our class'.
The two characters here started out as non-entities, but due to my need for a fandom, I pushed them into Furuba territory… Enjoy!
Scream
You look as though you're about to cry. I do wish you wouldn't. There's really no reason to. You look so wonderfully pathetic, throat bruised and arms drenched crimson; a stark contrast to your pallid flesh. Your eyes are wide and your hands are shaking. Could it be that you're afraid? You have nothing to be scared of, I promise. Nothing can hurt you while I'm here. I won'tlet anything hurt you. Or anyone.
They won't - they can't – because you are mine and minealone. And you know it, don't you? What a ridiculous question. Of course you know it. After all, there is no-one else that will have you. You're disgusting. I don't know why you were even born; you're nothing but a useless, repulsive waste of space. You don't deserve to live. That's why you have no friends, why your family abandoned you. They could see how truly worthless you are, and they couldn't stand it. They couldn't stand to spend one more day seeing your hideous façade, festering in your heinous stench or feeling their skin crawl with every touch. And that's why you only have me.
You really are crying now, silent sobs wracking your thin frame. You look pitiful, hunched in the corner crying, surrounded by fragmented, blood tinged glass, remnants of a smashed window. I approach swiftly and bury your head in my chest, my fingers entwining with the vibrant strands of your hair. It's a mockery of a gentle touch; your mouth is pressed tightly to my torso, smothering you while my hand grasps harshly, almost ripping a handful of ginger hairs from their roots. Your hands clutch tightly onto the back of my shirt, leaving a plethora of crimson smears over the crisp white. Are you really so desperate for comfort that you'll seek it from your tormentor? Are the bruises, the blood and the pain really better than being alone? I suppose, to you, it does seem better. Your desperation embodies one of the most basic of all human instincts: the desire for contact with another, both emotional and physical.
I finally release you; you fall back on the floor, whimpering when a shard of glass embeds itself into your palm. I take no notice of this, instead kneeling down to lap at one of the salty trails running down your cheek with my tongue. You taste vile. You must have interpreted my gesture as one of kindness, because you mumble a soft:
"I love you." I stand frozen for a few seconds. I can't believe it. I can't believe you could be so utterly stupid. I pull back your head with a fistful of hair, exposing your pale throat. I consider slamming your head into the wall, listening to the sickening thud of bone against stone as it echoes around the room, revelling in it. Yet that would be too fast. I want you to suffer. So, instead I elect to slide my lips along the bruise marks, before sinking my teeth into your flesh. A metallic substance floods my mouth, enveloping and consuming me like the most dangerous fire. Your blood is more addicting than the most potent drug. The same elixir runs in rivulets down your neck, bleeding into the dark blue of your shirt. Your body convulses slightly as I pull back, pushing you to the ground. I pick up a fragment of glass and press it to your lips, prising them open. I pull out the wet muscle behind your teeth and hold it between my fingers.
You're looking up at me, terrified. You have no idea what I'm going to do, do you? That's what makes it so fun. Your fear is almost palpable. It's divine. The glass descends, creating a thin line of blood across your tongue. Again, this time deeper. I repeat this until the muscle is almost fully bisected, hanging from a shredded tangle of bloodied nerves. My lips descend upon yours and I bite down hard on the juncture where the front half of your tongue dangles. It finally severs and I spit out the bloody remainder, where it lies upon the dark stone floor. Your lips are closed once more, and blood wells up over them, spilling over your chin. I grab another shard, running my finger up and down the jagged edge.
"So you love me, do you? Well, you know what they say. Love is blind."
With this sentiment I plunge the fragment into your right eye, withdrawing and inserting once more; until all that's left is a mangled, gelatinous, masticated mess. I repeat this exercise with the left eyeball, this time endeavouring to gouge it from its socket. By this time you're screaming in unbridled anguish, your excruciating cries reverberate around the stone walls of the room.
"Does that feel nice, love?" I murmur the endearment into your ear mockingly.
"Well, I suggest you hold on tight, because it only gets better."
I stand up, make my way to the kitchen and search the draws. At last, when the desired item is procured I hurry back to the room in which you lie, where your pitiful shrieks still emanate from crimson lips. I smirk at you, though you can't see me. You look ghastly, bloodied hands clawing at the walls, searching desperately for something familiar which you can cling on to. I proceed towards you, knife in hand. It's a beautiful weapon, with a dark, ceramic blade and a deep red handle. But beauty is not it's only intended purpose. It can punish, too. Yes, I'll punish you for you insolence.
I bury the blade deep within your skull, before wrenching it out and embedding it once more inside the cranium. I can see a deep crimson pouring from the fissure, exploding from the rupture like the most beautiful waterfall and bleeding into orange strands. I place a single, harsh kiss upon your bloody lips, and with this last action, I address the silent room:
"I love you too, my precious Kyo."