Author's Note, part 1: Why does Shizuo fight?
Author's Note, part 1b: Sorry for the concussion, Shizuo. I figured you wouldn't get "deep" about your life if you weren't sporting one.
X is for X-Ray(s)
"Shi-zuo!"
The person known by the aforementioned name grinds his teeth loudly. He is not in the mood to deal with Simon right now. When is he ever, really? When is anyone ever in the mood to deal with Simon?
"Come have some sushi, Shizuo! Friends should eat sushi! It's cheap, and it's fresh!"
Another word. Just one more word out of your mouth and I'll give you a fucking reason to call me friend.
"Why is Shizuo ignoring me?"
"FUCKING HELL!"
Out comes the caution sign, screaming as it is torn from the ground. Through bloody mist, a distant part of Shizuo's mind notes the irony.
"Stop. FUCKING. Talking to me. Do you FUCKING understand me?"
"Uh oh. Fighting is bad, Shizuo."
"FUCK! FUCK YOU, FUCK THIS"—
His vocabulary is reduced word by word as his humanity is quickly stripped away by the anger. Shizuo is becoming a beast again, becoming a God. But with the coming of the strength is the going of the intelligence, and Shizuo fails to remember who he's fighting against.
Simon is a pacifist. That is true. But he's also a human. He'll defend himself when some six feet plus of pure rage comes barreling at him with bared teeth and clenched fists and a signpost for good measure. It's his right to, really. Anyone would, standing in Simon's shoes. But while "anyone" would get flattened, Simon…
To his credit, Simon doesn't kill Shizuo. Shizuo deserves it, that's for sure, but Simon holds back, because he remembers how angry he was in his youth, in the harsh air of Russia. So he forgives Shizuo, even while breaking Shizuo's arm. That should be enough to stop him; it would be enough to stop anyone else. But Shizuo just roars in pain and goes berserk, goes feral, goes out-of-his-mind crazy, and Simon is confronted with absolutely irrational madness, the living mess that is Heiwajima Shizuo. So Simon keeps going, and keeps forgiving Shizuo in his mind while cracking his ribs, bloodying his forehead and reducing him to a mess, the kind Shizuo's not used to being in because there are truly few in this city who can match him in a street fight.
Afterwards.
Shizuo is almost unconscious, and the pain just keeps coming. It's bad this time, he thinks. Worse than it usually is. After all, he's the one lying on the ground, isn't he? Is he on the ground? He can't really feel it. Is all that blood really his? Where did Simon go? Why are there people taking pictures? Fuck them. Fuck them all. He'd get up and kill them, but something tells him that would be a very bad idea. His head hurts. A lot. Everything is kind of fuzzy and a little strangely colored, and he's pretty sure Shinra told him that means something… something bad or something. It started with a 'c'. Shinra told him not to get one. Get what? What was it? What is happening, again? Can we slow down and start over, please? Replay, replay, replay. That conversation. The fight. This day. My fucking existence.
And so on, and so forth. Shizuo groans a little. Fuck my life, he thinks. Fuck it all. Let's go to Hell together. Let's crash and burn and die. The pain continues to smash into him, coming down in shitloads, and his thoughts drift off again. His eyes close and open and shut again, his eyelashes like butterflies kissing the blood on his damaged face.
He opens his eyes wide.
"Hello, Shizuo."
"Shinra…"
The fucking doctor is leaning over him. He's not on the street, somehow. They are in a white room. Shinra's operating room. It is more familiar to Shizuo than his own house. The x-rays line the walls like portraits of his humanity. They mock him. Quiet clicks sound as Shinra puts his operating instruments down on a table.
"Why am I always doing this for you?" Shinra wants an answer. He gets—
"Concussion," says Shizuo.
"What?" Shinra turns around.
"That's what it was. A concussion."
"You have one," affirms Shinra carefully, unsure of what Shizuo is talking about. "Among other injuries." Brokenness. Of many types.
Silence.
"Shizuo?"
More silence.
"Why do you do this to yourself?"
No answer. Shinra turns to look. Shizuo is unconscious again. He sighs, and gets back to work patching up his wreck of a friend.
When Shizuo dreams, it is of violence.
He is eight. Kasuka just ate his pudding. The refrigerator is picked up, and then he's underneath it in a way different than he intended. I don't need family, thinks Shizuo as the refrigerator crushes him.
He is eleven. The kids at school just called him a freak. The desk goes flying through the air, and he goes flying in the other direction. I don't need acceptance, thinks Shizuo as he hits the floor.
He is fourteen. The girl he was dating was cheating on him, after all. The statue hits the air, and he goes flying to the floor. I don't need love, thinks Shizuo as he goes down.
He is sixteen. Izaya's face is in his own, fucking again, and that's all the reason he needs. The vending machine goes flying through the air. I don't need pity, thinks Shizuo as he watches Izaya stagger.
He is twenty. The reporter goes flying through the air and Shizuo is panting, smiling, angry and happy and everything else. I don't need questions, he snarls, and returns to Tom's side while Tom shakes him by the shoulders, tells him to look at me, look at me. Calm the fuck down, Shizuo.
He is in the room again, and again, and again. All different rooms, but all the same. A single, glowing x-ray of his broken arm-bone sits on the wall. It stares him in the face. He stares back at it, fascinated by the blue and white and black regions of it, representing what is broken inside him. In his twisted dreams, the photos multiply and multiply—ankles, legs, hip, wrist, shoulder, collarbone, fingers, ribs— until they form strange patterns. Pictures of frailty. Patterns that reveal to him nothing—useless pieces of shit— and ask him, instead, what is wrong with you? Why are you always breaking yourself? What is this anger? Are you human?
Who, thinks Shizuo. Gives. A fuck? It's my damn body. I'll do with it what I like. If it breaks, I'm the one to break it.
"Unless Simon does it for you. You idiot."
He hadn't realized he said the last part out loud. He must be awake again.
"You're the one who attacked him. It's really your fault, Shizuo. But you don't care, of course."
Shizuo doesn't say anything. The x-rays are glowing in his face, asking questions again.
Author's Note, part 2: The world may never know. :D Shizuo's great, isn't he?