A/N I'm sooooo sorrrryyyy that I've been gone. You really have to forgive me. See, I have a legitimate excuse. My father...was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, he's definitely going to die from it, too. Since these have been such rough times, I haven't been as active with my writing as I should be. It's a sad time, but I really need to start writing again, I miss it. I've been getting all your guys' reviews and I wanna thank you so much. Luckily, I have an amazing girlfriend, and friends that have been getting me through this. Even my little brothers have been helping. So thanks you guys, your review mean so much to me!
Children are crying, people are dying.
A man walks alone, the scent of blood and death surrounding him. Nobody knows his story, nobody understands why he kills. The side of his face is marred, his eyes scarred by lost emotions. His teeth are gritted with every step he takes, he can feel their eyes. He can feel their whispers.
That's why he kills.
He kills for revenge, he kills because people hate, think he's ugly. He kills for the whispers, the taste of sweet blood. And tonight, he kills for pain.
A certain house, plain and naked, surrounded by a cut yard and freshly trimmed trees. A knife in his hands, trembling with them.A cold breeze snakes through the yard, goosebumps tear through his body. He gnaws at his lip, before slowly, stepping forward.
He feels as though his body is constructed of lead. He can't breathe, his throat and lungs are water. He approaches the door, and it grows, shrieking for him to turn away. He reaches out, touching the handle, and strikes back with a hiss. His hand is hot. Burning and.
(Mygodithurst
somuch
whyisthishappening)
a memory hits him, broadly across the face. He stumbles back with the sudden force of it, falling to his knees, tears in the smoldering sapphires. He stares at the door, one eye unseeing, the other watering. He touches his marred face, digging his short, blood caked nails into it.
He doesn't feel it,
(why am I so numb?)
he doesn't feel anything, but the aching pound of his liquid heart. He can't hear his own screams of pain, only the ripping noise of air entering and exiting his lungs. His mouth bleeds, ruby liquid trickles down his chin, staining his bare chest.
(like blood on snow. What is snow?)
The knife in his hand has cut the skin, more blood stains the doorstep of his best friends house. His best friend, his worst. Enemy. He's screaming words of hate, slamming his fists against the door, mangling his hands, cracking bones.
(I dont know you anymore. Why have you changed so much? I loved you. Bastard.)
Words in his mind shriek and tangle.
(who am i? who are you? what is love?)
He hears them, but they're becoming distant, as though he's holding a cup over his ears. In reality, he's deaf now, blood trickles from the hole in the side of his head. There's too much pain, he can't feel it.
(my whole body. .)
His hands are trembling, his body spasming. He's choking on his own blood, on the liquid he drinks to survive. His eyes are wide, horribly blue against a red background. Unseeing. The world around him is black.
Distantly, a door opens. He can't hear anything, but makes out a strangely familiar shadow. He writhes against oncoming death, yes, this is who he came to see. To kill. A demonic smile rips across his features, blood and vomit explode from his mouth.
(touch me. Youanimal.)
He can feel hands on him, like a fire against his icy skin. They're gloved, and the air around him is scented with tobacco. He's screaming nonsense words, he's so far gone, so on the brink. A sudden adrenaline rush, his hand thrusts upward.
A scream resounds in the night, falling on deaf ears that are grotesquely listening.
A brilliant waterfall of red shoots forward. A sudden weight is on the dying man. He coughs, another mouthful of disgustingly sweet, pitch black blood and, with a sigh, he's dead.
(goodbye, moon.)
Matt's body writhes, a grotesque dance of the dying man.
He doesn't understand, why would Mello do this? He knew the man wasn't stable, but still, this was a bit far. The red head can accept that he's dying. It's something he's always wanted. Death. A beautifully dark escape.
He lights a cigarette with shaky, blood-soaked hands, pressing it to his mouth, permanently open in a silent scream. The nicotine touches his lungs, his nerves, soothing him. He closes his eyes, the cigarette touching the back of his throat, and then sliding back on a roller coaster of blood. He doesn't feel himself choking.
(children are crying, people are dying)
He takes a deep breath, his last breath. He holds it for a moment, savoring the sweetness of oxygen. He will miss it.
(tight squeeze, cold breeze, now you've got the shiveries)
He lets it out, his body settling, the last of the blood trickling around a knife with its owners initials. Tomorrow, only one body would be found, the knife still grasped in a vice like hold.
A/N (again): I just confused myself. But I love it! Let me know what you guys think. I love you all! :)