I... have...
Not the foggiest as to what I was thinking when I wrote this.
To be honest, I wrote this months--maybe half a year ago. I came across it, liked it, and then improved on it. So now I want to submit it, so here it is. This is probably my first horror ever. I want you guys to hate my guts if you hate my guts for writing this, because I know I deserve it.
Disclaimer: I don't own Rockman, and I don't own corpses. Please, okay, thank you.
Read and review after please.
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The world froze in an intolerable silence, as a massive crowd of mourning men and women perched themselves upon the stone slabs that lead to the land where soil had turned its darkest, and not for the better of any plant, weed and flower alike.
In the instance of morbid tears and rage swirling around the group, dressed in the darkest colors in their drawers and closets, a cold body awakened for less than a single moment that one could beat their heart, and slept again for a permanent eternity. What occurred at this time, nobody could predict, nor could sense. Pulled from the body was the soul that mumbled as it lay upon the landscape of the neatly stone lathered fields.
Stirring, his head lolled to the side, feeling the spirit of the grass gently brush at his cheeks, awakening him, beckoning him into consciousness. Eyes heavy, he opened them and a massive blur of black, green and a rueful orange flickered before him.
"Wet…wht ithis…" His lips nibbled at the air, weakly moving as he sluggishly got onto his knees, leaning on his forearms. His eyes did not deviate from the lustful orange light that seemed hot and filled to the tip with rabid hatred and blinking sorrow. Trying to move, he could not; he felt no feeling in his knees and below. Thoughtless of what could've subdued him, he did the next option that any creature or man would have resorted to; he crawled.
Reaching a slender closeness towards the heat, he pulled a violently shaking hand up towards the lights that seemed to seizure as he got closer. The light crackled heat at him, as if screaming not to come. The black blurs at last identified as figures, jumped as the light snapped, and a number burst into sobs of deeper lament.
It was hot and reeked of ash.
Fire; yes, it was fire, the spirit thought proudly.
The flames grew as his sight improved, towering over him. It did little to his confidence, and did not make him falter. Thus he pulled himself upon the slab of stones the fire stood defiantly upon. Head sliding to the top, the first sight that he found was black. A black that melted, perhaps wax or things of the sort, either way, he reached toward this black thing that lay engulfed in flames. It had curves and worn out patterns in them, ruined by the intimidating heat. The spirit smiled at himself, and opened his lips, whispering.
"Here I stand before a corpse." He turned to the side, and eyed the blur that morphed into people. They were still nothing but figments of a painting poorly done, but he could see. "And these are the bloodline and affiliates." He nodded, and crawled upon the stone, carefully avoiding the body, disrespectfully eying every part of it as it burned. The flesh had begun to peel and sizzle, the bone was charred. This is wrong, he thought. This is much too strange, but something begged him to keep moving, and thought was all that he needed.
He closed his eyes and his fingers brushed at the collarbone, exposed in the fire as the last bits of the buttons melted away. His fingers trailed up the neck that was nearly nothing but ash, should he press heavily, it would fall apart. His hands cupped the cheeks of the deceased.
"Who is the object of said kindred's attention?" He gently mumbled as his eyes slid open. The savored moment of identification had shattered into pieces, when he had done what urges beckoned him to. He fell aback, and into the grass heavily, hands in the air. The very head he had held only moments ago in his hands crumpled and caved, but what he had seen would remain in his memory for the eternity he had been thrown into. Opening his eyes in the flames that hugged him and the body that much closer, he saw the horror that every creature could possibly fear.
The eyelids licked away by the flames, leaving ash on what it had shielded, he was reflected with eyes, wide, eyes dead and ruined. He met eyebrows charred and silver hairs in flames, lips torn and bleeding dry, pieces of the face within the mouth, teeth smiling back at him. All these things, the hairs, the eyes, the nose, the lips…
The smile…
It was his.
The spirit gasped in terror, as he realized everything hat he did moments ago, all the things he touched, all he saw, he never did. He didn't do. He couldn't have, he never will.
He is dead.
"Enzan-sama…"
He turned his head around swiftly as he heard a voice that echoed in his ear, and acknowledged as familiar. It called his name, full of longing and lament that seemed to circumvent tears. His lips shook, and his eyes watered as he locked them upon dimming ones. Once what he remembered as sun-yellow, he found glazed in bronze, dulled by tears he resisted for what seemed like days. He desperately clambered towards the mourner, stopping at his feet. Resting himself on his knees, his hands hovered obsessively over the man's legs, hesitant to touch.
As if knowing he had recovered, he pushed himself up, to his shaking legs. He looked up, into the face that saw through him. Yes, it was him. It was definitely him.
"L-look at me…" his restless self sputtered. Hands yearningly over his cheeks, but dared not touch. "Look at me. I'm right here… It's okay… I'm right here…" his lips curved into a hapless smile, not sure who he was trying to comfort. Suddenly, a rush of hostility took him over, as the eyes he gazed into slid shut, and head lolled down. The one before him shook and gasped and whined.
"I can't believe you're…"
"NO! I'M RIGHT HERE! BLUES, LOOK AT ME PLEASE!" He shrilled, high and terribly ear piercing, ducking his head under the taller man's, voice shaking, hands in seizure, and throat sore. He felt his lungs being crushed, and breathing hoarse. "Please…" he whispered, tone high and quiet, and drowned out by the crackling of the flames that held him back. "I'm not dead… please don't say I'm dead."
I'm not ready to die yet…
Mouthing out words, he wrapped his arms around the man he needed dearly. Obsessive, he bore his eyes into the ones shut in front of him. "Open your eyes," he pleaded, "open them for me…"
Knowing they wouldn't open for as long as he was there, he pressed his forehead against the other's, and felt him shiver.
Blues was nauseous.
His dead eyes widened in that instant, and felt a jolt pierce through his chest, his eyes lolled and he staggered, a new voice swelling in his head. It hurt; it gagged and strangled his mind. He couldn't scream, and he choked, feeling a heat rush over him. Too much… he thought, IT HURTS! It was a miserable pain, it was icy cold, and dug into his body. It was hot, and pulled at his hairs. Unbearable, he suffocated.
'Give in' it told him.
'There is nothing for you here…'
Bittersweet 'Nothing's and 'surrender's stabbed him every which way, and it coaxed him into something he couldn't remember, but knew too well. It overwhelmed his senses, his feelings, and emotions.
His sanity…
Suddenly…there was nothing.
His limbs dropped, and dangled between the spaces of thick, humid air. Like a puppet on strings, he slowly lifted his head.
He sighed, "Its okay," he giggled at last. He wrapped his arms tightly around the taller man, and felt delight as he touched him. It was a pleasurable relief, but something was wrong with it.
It was terribly wrong.
"You won't open your eyes… Never open them; never open them again if you wish." He smiled coldly, voice wavering. He brushed the silver locks away, and a cold wind blew just seconds before. "My Blues… ha…" Slowly, he erased the distance between their lips, and gingerly planted an illicit kiss upon the man that lived on the other side.
Never again…
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His head jerked back and his posture regained. Blues shook with a fear and his stomach churned, head spinning. He held his head as he stumbled. A hand grasped his arm as he regained his balance. He moaned as he turned around to see the emerald green eyes of a boy, placing his other hand on his shoulder.
"Are you alright?" he asked concernedly. It took him a moment to process as the words jumbled in his mind, and he shook his head no.
"No…" he grumbled, "I think I need to throw up." And he thus darted out of sight.
"B-Blues!" he stammered. The fellow mourners only gave him a single glance. "Uh… Blues, uh…" He turned his gaze towards his operator, supported by the aquatic-haired soldier at the arms, red-haired Navi assisting. Laika gave him a glazed look and nodded. With that, he went in pursuit of the ill Navi.
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"Blues!" he said bluntly, an inessential statement that echoed in the corridors of the funeral house. He turned the corner when he caught the sound of hollow coughing and gagging. He went quickly to his side, and rubbed his friend's back. "Are you oka—"
"ARE YOU FUCKING KI—" He choked and retched, voice echoing, head buried below the seat. Rockman patted his back, awkward in the situation. He felt somewhat inert, his arm being the only part of his body in motion.
"It's… I…" What could he say? There were no words to say at the moment, there was nothing. Thus, he continued to comfort Blues in the only way he could for now, letting the scent of burnt everything overwhelm their senses.
There was a cold silence as Blues slowly came to a halt, and was left panting for air. It went completely quiet after a while, and he just rested over the marble rim.
It reeked of bloody vomit.
Rockman paid no mind to the set, mind blank, eyes trailing along the silver locks that ran down the red Navi's back. He frowned; they were duller than usual.
A murky red-brown swam before Blues, as much as it disgusted him, he couldn't look away. There was something in there; there was something sickening in there that he couldn't look away from. It was cold, it reeked, and it decayed.
It was death.
It registered.
Enzan is dead…
Blues raised his head, and gazed coldly at the tiled ceiling, listening to the running pipes, the dripping taps, and his own breath. He whispered weakly, voice dry and cold…
"… What am I going to do…?"
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After reading it over for the hundredth time, I remembered when I wrote this...
It was after my uncle's funeral, and I listened to the song by Evanescence. I wasn't Emo, but I was pretty upset.
Thanks for reading. I'll post the next chapter next week I guess. Reviews are appreciated!