Life is Sweet, Murder is Sweeter
Chapter one:
Without a sound or movement he stared into the black sky, his expression cold and unfathomable; each second that passed brought him closer and closer to embracing that void, of languishing comfortably in its sorrow—that was all he cared for in life, feeling depressed, feeling the emptiness consume him with his hollow existence.
The hollowness that comes when one kills to love and loves to kill; each breath he took he breathed for this emptiness to embrace his heart—this nirvana to envelop his soul so that he could be pure enough to feel the full intensity of emotion when it did strike. Only by being numb did he find he could appreciate when beauty did scar his heart, when perfection did strike against his acceptance of impurity in the world.
This did not mean he did not feel happiness, he did—only…each time he felt happiness poison his heart circumstances always changed drastically to bless his soul with despair. He enjoyed it, it was the closest to masochism he would ever allow himself to feel—he preferred upholding his sadism as his standard, and he strived each day to fulfill his lust for dominance and suffering.
The dominance and suffering of others that is.
Slowly he breathed in the pure, stale air of oblivion, pangs of sadness gripping his heart—heart? Did he have a heart? No, not the muscle associated with humans—that was just a nucleus of energy for his demonic body. Neither did he have a conscience-heart bleeding with emotion—he allowed himself so few feelings, so few cares about others and himself that he doubted such a thing existed. He knew others boasted, described, and ridiculed about such a thing existing for them, but he didn't care enough to even bother thinking of it.
He never thought about his actions—except about how to do them without causing physical suffering for himself, while causing torrents of pain for others. He never thought if his actions were wrong or right—what is wrong and right but the decisions made by one and followed by a whole? What is sin except the failure to do what others dictate you should do even as they refuse to comply with their own demands?
What purpose did a conscience serve in a world ruled by the strong, and where everyone else tried to overthrow those above them?
"There's none. There's no purpose for conscience, same as there's no purpose for anything really—everything's for gratification, and even that sometimes doesn't matter." His voice shocked him—or would've if he cared, he didn't, he just continued staring at the engulfing blackness above him.
Gratification didn't matter when the moment you got it you wanted to lose it to gain it again—a continuous, futile cycle that depressed him each time, but he followed it religiously. It was the only thing he could count on—the only thing that gave his life meaning.
"Meaning…life…." He ran his fingers through his long, silky black hair, the coldness enveloping him inside and out—he wanted to feel passion again, wanted to gratify his desires, but he had no desires to gratify. "No…there is one thing I want."
Feeling a cruel smile form on his lips, a wild light lit in his eyes—red and glowing.
"Kurama…." He licked his lips, the adrenaline rushing through his as he thought of the red-haired, emerald eyed demon, the beautiful face on the lithe body. He wanted to touch the fox-demon, wanted to savor the sight of his defiant glare, listen to the beat of his heart as fear rushed through the fox demon's lithe form.
He wanted to kill the beauty, kill and feel the warmth of the rosy flesh leave, see the blood drip from angry wounds, and watch the magnificent body shudder as death claimed it. He wanted to feel the intimacy that murderer and victim shared, his hands covered with the blood of the one he desired—the uplifting rush of taking the life of someone you cared about would be like a euphoric drug pushing him above ecstasy.
The ultimate gratification, the ultimate fulfillment of lust and pleasure—to kill the fox-demon would be the greatest high he could ever feel.
It would also be the greatest low—killing those he favored made him depressed even as it excited him, and the intense emotional agony he felt became more addictive each time he felt it. He couldn't live without feeling depression; same as he couldn't strive in life save to feel pleasure from the gratification of his lusts.
"Kurama, even after death you haunt me." He purred as he closed his eyes to a more complete darkness. "I see your face every time I close my eyes, and each second I stare into the void before me."
Sighing he waved his hand through the air, his eyes shining at the explosions resulting from the gesture—exploding his bombs, listening to the sharp bang resounding through the emptiness became his only pastime since he found himself in this place. A purgatory, caught between life and death—not wanting to fully embrace either.
The void in front of him led to death, while somewhere behind him held the door back to life—a door lost to him, lost and locked against him lest he should try to regain his life. He refused to go forward into death, knowing well enough that the judges of the next world would try to hold him to a ridiculous standard. He would be condemned, damned to suffer through the tortures the feeble minds of Spirit World could think of.
They didn't realize he made himself suffer each day—he thrived on suffering, his purpose for being was self-suffering—that and watching others writhe in pain. One couldn't know true pleasure unless one knew true pain—he lived by this decree since the moment he discovered consciousness. It was the only thing he knew to be unchanging.
His desire to suffer was why he stood between the doors of life and death, refusing to budge even as the darkness tormented him with memories of his life and scenes from his future in death.
He also stood so he could see Kurama's face and remember how close he got to tearing that sweet life from that delicate body—he wanted the fox-demon so much it nearly drove him insane.
Keeping his eyes closed he tried to image the fox being in front of him, tried to imagine his caress, his cry of surrender—his scream of pain.
"Kurama…." He purred once more, turning around to face the path that led back to life—grimacing at the blinding light that greeted him.
He hated light, it made him feel peaceful so he detested it—he preferred the darkness, the cold, unyielding blackness that held him in suspense and wonder over his fate. Still he stepped toward the shining light toward life, shielding his eyes from its radiance as he struggled not to look back at the darkness.
"Kurama, I'm coming to find you—I'm coming to kill you."
A/N: End chapter, please review—should I continue this?