I don't want to have a heart.
I don't want to feel.
I only wish to exist.
Taking only the needed amount of breath to live for a day, so I can choke during the night, and miraculously revive in the dull morning.
Sometimes I succeed, in this ritual, of merely living, but other times, I'm distracted by the damned beating in my chest.
Its pulses sending waves of feeling and weakness throughout my blood, and utterly, rendering me vulnerable, to anything, and everything.
I'm only human, I say, to comfort myself when the guilt of what havoc my emotions wrought comes upon me, but that isn't enough.
Because I know that isn't the reason I succumb to these bouts of highly perceptive senses, the real reason, which try as I might, to ignore, so I can become the hollow shell I need to become, is because of a pair of striking navy blue eyes, and the dangerously alluring coldness exuded by them.
Even when I write at night, especially when I write at night, and the hungry hands of the Sand Man are grabbing for me, and my eyes are almost sealed with his special Sleeping Sand, my heart seems to be most awake in this dead hour, and begins to mockingly beat, louder, and louder, and with each beat, it rings and sounds, forever reverberated in my numb ears, spreading the maddening noise to every part of my body until, I, nearly napping, am jolted from my slight reverie with a jolt, surprised and angry at the wretched evil thoughts my heart had seeped into my unconscious mind.
Thoughts of glinting metal.
Thoughts of a certain slender frame.
Thoughts of...
Yuu.
In a fit of anger, I bring my right hand across the desk I was previously writing on, and the papers, suspended in air, begin their soft descent to the floor, while the ink and quills litter the ground already, ready to stain the pure and unsuspecting parchment.
A beastly growl escapes from my lips, as I clutch and claw at my chest, trying to rip the Devil Heart from my body, so I can hold it in my hands and see for myself the Black that I expect it to be, since it tortures me so.
Shreds of the shirt I was wearing fall to the ground around my feet, becoming martyrs of this raging war within me, along with the discarded rolls of paper and the carcasses of the quills.
My blind rage subsiding into a brooding tempest, I heave a sigh, and hold my hands close to my face.
I see the red of my own blood and the pale of my own flesh beneath my nails, and I feel a sinking feeling in my stomach.
I drop my hands down to my sides, disgusted at myself, and looked down at my bare chest.
Scratches, deep groves in my skin, were apparent, and they seemed to make some mindless criss-crossed pattern.
Frowning I watched mutely as a few drips of blood slid down my chest, and to the floor, from one of the cuts.
I wanted to shout and scream, but I was too tired.
In a resigned manner, I bent over and began picking up the fallen things from off my floor, all the while my mind, ever teeming, began to churn the same words over and over in my head, until it became a perverted chant for me to muse whilst I began to feel regret for my brief madness.
I did it again.
I bled for my sins again.
Yuu Kanda being my sin.
And the scars, my sacrifice.
My burning need to be apathetic, the God I slave away at the numerous altars for.
Why can't I purge myself from a sinner, to a saint?
I haven't suffered enough yet, that's why.
And my God Apathy, isn't willing to lend a merciful hand.