Heaven and Hell
Sometimes, out of morbid curiosity, he thought about Heaven.
He wasn't the delusional madman they all took him to be; he knew just as clearly as the rest that his ties to the land of the holy were utterly nonexistent, but it served as a terribly amusing way to dwindle away the hours.
It didn't matter that he'd never see the place – he didn't like God anyway. Those angels did pique his interest though—so pretty, with their harps and halos… would they sing for Him? Would they bleed for Him?
Maybe someday he'd catch one.
But though they were supposedly "free" after the fall of Estet, Crawford held his leash just as tightly now as the Elders did, and, as before, bloody rampages were strictly forbidden.
Leaning into his straightjacket with a malicious grin, he began to count the holes he'd stabbed into the clean white walls, imagining the things he'd do with his very own angel.
It wasn't all bad. He had learned patience, to a degree, and Crawford did allow him just one pleasure.
On Sundays, he was free.
You awake? Schuldig's mental "voice" crept into his mind gently, cautiously, probing with a reluctance that was entirely unlike him.
Pondering the ways of the telepath, too, brought Berserker hours of amusement. He knew that the cocky redhead loathed dipping too deeply into the gruesome thoughts he entertained, so he didn't respond. Only concentrated harder on the images of bloodied angels, broken necks suspended in air with glistening harp strings.
Fuck! Stop that, you psycho! Shaking his mane of flame-colored hair fiercely, as if trying to dislodge the image, Schuldig burst into the room, shooting its occupant a deadly glare. He pulled the padded jacket open with a single swipe and stomped out, eager to be finished with his little chore. A golden eye followed him as he left, and scarred lips crinkled with amusement.
Pulling an assortment of knives and daggers from a pocket, he stalked into the living room, perching upon a couch to prepare for the day ahead.
The industriousness paid off; the daggers were suitably sharpened before daybreak, and he still had time before mass. But he hadn't had breakfast yet; he licked his lips.
Fresh blood flowed down the sharpened edges of his favorite knife, and he lapped it up gingerly, not wasting a drop. It wouldn't be long until his favorite part of the day…
Church bells rang.
A scarred man with cropped white-hair ascended toward the pedestal, smiling crookedly.
The thin, robed minister backed away, gibbering mindlessly all the while.
He unveiled his impressive collection of knives and daggers, all sharpened and clean.
"Wh-what do you want? What are you doing??" the pale minister stuttered, realizing his assailant's intent, "Sinner! If you carry through, He will not have audience with you in Heaven! S-stop! S-stop now and save your soul!"
Cold, sharp steel lodged itself into warm flesh, covering the blade with blood once more.
"It's okay," he smiled, cruelly, "I think I'd like Hell better anyway."