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BLOOD & guts
kesshou uryou

far away, i feel your beating heart

A pair of plain hands is turned over, and over again, but there is no clarity born from the action. Just a blank stare at clean hands readied to be dirtied.

Hands are precious things, destined to hold other precious things. But they are rotting from the inside out, destined to be an agent of deception. We're all hypocrites, covered in sin.

And in truth, there is no place in this world, or any other, for those who can't dirty their hands. No single person alive can ever utter otherwise. People sleep at night by claims of justice, but in the end, hands are soiled. What filthy, disgusting, useful tools. We all send them to work. We must send them to work. Fools will be fools, and an excuse is as simple as that.

The mind, it is a powerful thing. But what gauges our conscience in daily life, what keeps us from killing one another without reason, may not be within common sense's reach. More than that, there is a heart that would be too burdensome to carry, too full of guilt to bear if we transpired against what morals have been set before us since birth. Terms and conditions that seem to be universal and as old as the land they inhabit. These laws that one must abide to at all costs…

Why is it then that different people have different sets? If there is no other way to live but to follow them, why are we all living so segregated, broken, and lost? We rely on our hearts without questioning. We are right. They are wrong. Fools never change.

It's such a disadvantage really, a terribly cruel weakness, to have a heart. But we can't live without one, physically and emotionally. Only some do. There's that question that always remains.

Do they really count?

They could quickly be filed away and the world could pretend they never existed. No hint of difficulty.

Then why hasn't it been done already? Some answers will never be found. The dark keeps the wise and the unaware alike within its lies and people will keep living without knowing what the light ever looked like. True, unperturbed light always remains to be so far, far away.

But the darkness, humans are familiar with the darkness. What do we call those without hearts? The Heartless, to where all are destined to go. And will broken bodies transcend to a derisory honorable title of higher rank. It's a joke. A nobody. A Nobody.

Is this getting anywhere? Probably not, but that means nothing's changed. Fools can go nowhere, and fools do not know they are fools.

But Nobodies know who they are. They are no one. They have no heart, no emotions, no feelings. They have never had such a blessing, such a curse, and they never will.

Roxas looks on in almost a trance, wondering how things had progressed this much. To go so far… Was there ever an end?

Naminé looks up from her reading. Only she isn't reading. Nothing makes sense anymore or maybe it never did. There are some pieces that have been lost to time, since the beginning of time. The picture will never be able to be seen clearly.

Ordinary people live with that. Nobodies do too.

There is fascination in the onlookers of the task that the heartless are performing. Somewhere in the back of their heads, everyone knows that this isn't what really happens. But how do they know that? Everyone sees something different to begin with.

And there is the terrible sound, a rip, a slicing, tearing, horrid rip, and Naminé and Roxas lean in closer, knowing they don't have to. But they want to see it all. Every last bit.

There is a reward for such light toil. There's blood splashing, pale skin, tan skin, maybe dark skin, does it really matter what kind it is? There's blood. Dammit there's blood. And it just never ends. There really isn't any stop to this.

A plunging, chilly, violating hand. That filthy hand. Through the guts, the bits and pieces. Roxas blinks and watches. Naminé is worlds beyond turning away. It is a quick motion, tearing through skin and guts and bones and splatters of blood.

What a beautifully destructive moment.

If there was a mirror, could a face any longer be distinguished on the hapless victim? Would they themselves be incapable of identifying their self? And what about the murderer? Could he or she have surpassed recognition in a splatter of concealing blood? But there is the very source of doubt. Is this really murder? There is the silence that hasn't stopped since a tongue could no longer scream out protests.

Answers can't always be found. Fools will always be ignorant or else they aren't fools at all.

The obscurities begin to subside, the dull, gentle thuds of what should have died out long ago is still going. Two pairs of eyes can't look away. It is fascination; it is awe. The heart, such a weak thing. It keeps going, going, beating, beating. It almost looks strong right then, but that is just a lie meant to entertain. The heart is full of them. So they've heard.

This unidentified person will never live again after this day. The heart is just pretending it can go on. It thinks it is allowed to. It is in need of someone to rectify its stubborn side.

And so it happens.

Quivering, unworthy hands reach out and grasp it and there's a tug, a sickening snap and then the heart's died out in one last beat in a foreigner's hand. Or were there two strangers?

Where did the blood come from? Roxas and Naminé can't remember the murder or the immoral one to have performed the act. They only can stare at a pool of blood and crimson stained hands. Don't those belong to them?

They didn't do it. They really didn't. They just partook in the allure of an unknown. A heart. But what was this heart laying in two pieces doing cradled in two pairs of hands?

Broken hearts don't need to be taken so literally. Has all morality fallen so low so fast? Was their no justice left?

No, that's not right. Justice had been the validation for what had occurred tonight. There was no punishable sin here. Just the natural. A heart had been lost today. What difference was there? They were lost everyday. Emotionally, physically. It was all the same.

Fools had no hope to become anything but greater fools.

Where did this blood come from? They stare at each other in question. Words lie on the edge of their respective tongues but nothing comes out except a silent understanding or maybe it's a silent misunderstanding, which doesn't need words in any case.

Today hands once tainted have been all over again.

But they swear they didn't do it.

almost human but i'll never be the same

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