He's staring at me. Blink. Again. He stares and stares. Blink. I feel
a tear slide down my pale, hollow cheek. Sure enough, he's crying. His once
lively, merry eyes have darkened from a mischievous violet to their now
soulless black. His complexion is too white and his hands - my hands - are
thin, the skin stretched tightly across delicate bone. His once soft and
silky chestnut braid is undone and matted. Oily, it hangs limply down his
back, and his bangs shadow his eyes. He opens his thin, thin lips and
whispers a single word, "Hiiro..." I feel my throat tighten and his face
and bedroom blur, and I know he's trying to hold back a sob.
When did it become like this? He hasn't even glanced at me for so long. His clothes weren't that rumpled, ever, and his room isn't as tidy as he likes it. He reaches a hand out and our fingertips touch. I want to make him smile, to laugh with him again; I want him to really live again. My stomach is shrunken - he hasn't eaten for days. Blink. He turns away and I can examine his back without him suspecting that I'm more than what I seem. His vertebrae are knobby and glaringly obvious - the protrusions cast shadows on his scarred skin. Long, purple bruises and puffy red welts criss- cross his back. He has never completely healed from the horrors inflicted upon him by those soldiers. He recalled it to me when he escaped. He cries out in his sleep, too. He hadn't evaluated the possibility of tight security, not having been aware of the secret operation based there. He and Hiiro were captured almost instantly and, after an unsuccessful interrogation, tortured mercilessly.
"It was worse than anything on L2," he whispered brokenly to me then, back in his room. He had been picking pieces of glass out of his arms and legs. "Much worse. But I bore it. Shinigami has to be able to look death in the face and win, ne?" His chuckles turned to coughing and then to sobs. He pulled another shiny piece of glass out and I caught a glimpse of his blood- caked face. The bruise on his forehead seemed to pulse, and his lips cracked open every time he spoke. "Hiiro..." he choked. "Oh, God, Hiiro!" he screamed, slamming his fists onto the floor and driving the piece of glass he was clenching further into his hand. "He was always so timid, unsure of himself when dealing with emotions. I earned his trust and he finally opened up to me. He offered his body and soul to me and I took them and loved him." He broke off, his voice thick with emotion. After a long stretch of silence, "I took him once, gently. And they - those OZ bastards - they ripped it from him again and again! Oh, God, his screams...! And blood - there was so much blood. And you, you couldn't do anything, Duo, 'cuz the same thing was happening to you. But you wouldn't scream. No, Duo, you wouldn't give them that satisfaction, would you? They took enough from Hiiro - God, they took his soul out. God. God... is this the blessing you bestow upon me with Sister Helen's last dying wish? To kill everyone I love?" He was screaming by then, his voice hoarse from crying and ripping the sounds painfully from his raw throat. Tears streamed down his cheeks. "Why Hiiro? Why? Why...? Why..."
He passed out then, I think. I look at him now and know that he's remembering, too. "Why..." he breathes, his body trembling. He doesn't look at me. "Why..." I glimpse something shiny in his hands, hidden almost completely from sight. Duo, what are you doing? I gasp. Duo, that's a knife. It's sharp! Duo? Duo, stop it! You're scaring me. I watch in terror as he raises the dagger above himself, poised to strike. Duo, no! Swiftly, silently, he plunges the knife into his heart. I feel as if I'm being torn shattered, as if every mirror in the world - my windows into existence - is suddenly smashed. My scream is cut off as I wink out of existence. Duo's reflection.
Note to the readers: Hi all! I'm dragging out my old stories and posting them. I figure that, if I haven't the time to create new plot lines right now, the next-best thing is to share some of my old things, right? This is from my Angst period. ^^; Comments are appreciated, especially concerning my old writings versus my new. Criticism will be laughed at, then seriously considered, and most likely agreed with. Remember, these are old! I may be editing a few sentences as I write, but they are remain mostly intact from when I was thirteen.
When did it become like this? He hasn't even glanced at me for so long. His clothes weren't that rumpled, ever, and his room isn't as tidy as he likes it. He reaches a hand out and our fingertips touch. I want to make him smile, to laugh with him again; I want him to really live again. My stomach is shrunken - he hasn't eaten for days. Blink. He turns away and I can examine his back without him suspecting that I'm more than what I seem. His vertebrae are knobby and glaringly obvious - the protrusions cast shadows on his scarred skin. Long, purple bruises and puffy red welts criss- cross his back. He has never completely healed from the horrors inflicted upon him by those soldiers. He recalled it to me when he escaped. He cries out in his sleep, too. He hadn't evaluated the possibility of tight security, not having been aware of the secret operation based there. He and Hiiro were captured almost instantly and, after an unsuccessful interrogation, tortured mercilessly.
"It was worse than anything on L2," he whispered brokenly to me then, back in his room. He had been picking pieces of glass out of his arms and legs. "Much worse. But I bore it. Shinigami has to be able to look death in the face and win, ne?" His chuckles turned to coughing and then to sobs. He pulled another shiny piece of glass out and I caught a glimpse of his blood- caked face. The bruise on his forehead seemed to pulse, and his lips cracked open every time he spoke. "Hiiro..." he choked. "Oh, God, Hiiro!" he screamed, slamming his fists onto the floor and driving the piece of glass he was clenching further into his hand. "He was always so timid, unsure of himself when dealing with emotions. I earned his trust and he finally opened up to me. He offered his body and soul to me and I took them and loved him." He broke off, his voice thick with emotion. After a long stretch of silence, "I took him once, gently. And they - those OZ bastards - they ripped it from him again and again! Oh, God, his screams...! And blood - there was so much blood. And you, you couldn't do anything, Duo, 'cuz the same thing was happening to you. But you wouldn't scream. No, Duo, you wouldn't give them that satisfaction, would you? They took enough from Hiiro - God, they took his soul out. God. God... is this the blessing you bestow upon me with Sister Helen's last dying wish? To kill everyone I love?" He was screaming by then, his voice hoarse from crying and ripping the sounds painfully from his raw throat. Tears streamed down his cheeks. "Why Hiiro? Why? Why...? Why..."
He passed out then, I think. I look at him now and know that he's remembering, too. "Why..." he breathes, his body trembling. He doesn't look at me. "Why..." I glimpse something shiny in his hands, hidden almost completely from sight. Duo, what are you doing? I gasp. Duo, that's a knife. It's sharp! Duo? Duo, stop it! You're scaring me. I watch in terror as he raises the dagger above himself, poised to strike. Duo, no! Swiftly, silently, he plunges the knife into his heart. I feel as if I'm being torn shattered, as if every mirror in the world - my windows into existence - is suddenly smashed. My scream is cut off as I wink out of existence. Duo's reflection.
Note to the readers: Hi all! I'm dragging out my old stories and posting them. I figure that, if I haven't the time to create new plot lines right now, the next-best thing is to share some of my old things, right? This is from my Angst period. ^^; Comments are appreciated, especially concerning my old writings versus my new. Criticism will be laughed at, then seriously considered, and most likely agreed with. Remember, these are old! I may be editing a few sentences as I write, but they are remain mostly intact from when I was thirteen.