The Human Condition
Disclaimer:
Firnheledien: Sanzoo!!!!!!!
Sanzo: Get away from me you baka onna! *fires gun*
Firnheledien: Waaa. . . I can't own Saiyuki or Sanzo.
The whisper of cold steel over living skin is comforting. Its bruising touch stings; yet, it is the only thing keeping me sane. Smothering the demons within and without.
Spite claws at my head. Devouring my senses with a feverish intensity.
So it begins.
The screams first. Blooming in a keening filigree that sears the landscape of my mind. They wrack me with a poisoned certainty. I hear each one, their individual tintinnabulation all too clear. I can only clutch at my temples, as their anguished peal strangles me.
Then the raw white skin. With that tautness so dear to death. Across throats-wrists-faces. Possessed by sickening perfection that mocks the living.
The ghostly grasp around my neck eases. But for a breath.
In stealing life, I sustain my own. The gun is just a prop. I murder without having to touch living skin. A bloodless sort of killing; without the honour of a bloodbath. Meant only for those who detest the warmth of life-and yet hunger for it.
Escape? The bullet lies ready in the chamber. Ready-to relieve myself of this human condition.
Bodies. Strewn like twisted marionettes in a grotesque show; dropped by some careless child. All silent in their bloody cradles woven by a violent hand.
Mine. The same hand that unravels the Creation that is a myth. The gods are dead to me as I am to them.
The whisper of cold steel against living skin is comforting as I wait for the morning: still trapped within this human condition.
Disclaimer:
Firnheledien: Sanzoo!!!!!!!
Sanzo: Get away from me you baka onna! *fires gun*
Firnheledien: Waaa. . . I can't own Saiyuki or Sanzo.
The whisper of cold steel over living skin is comforting. Its bruising touch stings; yet, it is the only thing keeping me sane. Smothering the demons within and without.
Spite claws at my head. Devouring my senses with a feverish intensity.
So it begins.
The screams first. Blooming in a keening filigree that sears the landscape of my mind. They wrack me with a poisoned certainty. I hear each one, their individual tintinnabulation all too clear. I can only clutch at my temples, as their anguished peal strangles me.
Then the raw white skin. With that tautness so dear to death. Across throats-wrists-faces. Possessed by sickening perfection that mocks the living.
The ghostly grasp around my neck eases. But for a breath.
In stealing life, I sustain my own. The gun is just a prop. I murder without having to touch living skin. A bloodless sort of killing; without the honour of a bloodbath. Meant only for those who detest the warmth of life-and yet hunger for it.
Escape? The bullet lies ready in the chamber. Ready-to relieve myself of this human condition.
Bodies. Strewn like twisted marionettes in a grotesque show; dropped by some careless child. All silent in their bloody cradles woven by a violent hand.
Mine. The same hand that unravels the Creation that is a myth. The gods are dead to me as I am to them.
The whisper of cold steel against living skin is comforting as I wait for the morning: still trapped within this human condition.