AN: In which our favorite bishounen angsts. Again. For the umpteenth time.
Disclaimer: If I owned, somehow, the series would be a lot different…
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He knew people that slept for the sheer enjoyment of being pulled into another world in their dreams.
Or rather, he used to know people like that.
The fact of the matter is that he was not like that. He hated returning to his room to sleep on a bed. He hated anything associated with sleeping—dreams, rest, tranquility, and all the like.
He didn't deserve sweet dreams.
He would never be able to rest.
He hadn't been calm and peaceful for a long time now.
Not ever since he joined the Count, in any case.
He hated sleeping. He only slept when, after working without rest, sheer exhaustion claimed his body and he fell into a semi-unconscious state.
At least, when that happened, he was far past the realm of dreams…or in his case, the realm of nightmares.
Although, even though he didn't sleep, he could still see the faces of those he couldn't save…of those that he killed. Faces that rose up to him in waves, threatening to engulf him in their horrified shrieks of pain. Soft wails that grew louder and louder, until it was a chorus of screaming, pounding in his ears.
He can still remember the first time he took someone's life. He came back to his room in Gaudium and promptly vomited in the bathroom. He remembered putting his hands under the scalding water, rubbing them vigorously with soap to try and get the blood stains out until his hands were raw.
After that, he gradually felt himself becoming more detached in his kills. But that didn't mean he was used to the sight of death…of blood…of pain…He would never get used to those sights. He would never get used to the sight of a child, screaming and crying, his parents' dead bodies lying around him, their eyes wide open and blank and staring into nothingness. Or of innocent children, their eyes closed and forever they would be, for he had acted like Death itself, sweeping down and murdering all with his white blade.
Sometimes he would lie in his silent room, quietly crying for those who had died, all curled up in a tiny ball, trying to drown out the cries of pain, trying to banish all the nameless faces of all he murdered.
He used to wish that it was all just a dream, and that he would wake up in his bed back home any moment, and see his mother and father and brother again…
But that was not the case. He knew now not to wish for such frivolities now.
After all…
There's no hope for the damned.
Owari
AN: No, Kumo isn't insane. He's just…tormented. And he has a guilty streak a mile wide. Yeah. Just tormented…and stuff (Why is he always the target of our angst fics!)
