-_- Uh. . . yeah. Scribbled this out in a few minutes. Ken-slicing and
dicing himself. Enjoy,if that's your bag.
Disclaimer: I don't own Digimon.
Onwards!
DOG WHISTLE
The knife felt warm on my palm's skin, and for a moment I could pretend that it radiated its own warmth, and not the heat it had leeched from my body.
Well, knives do that. Especially if they've been pressed against the small of your back for eight hours. I'll tell you, being in school with that thing in a sheath under my stupid dove-grey uniform and trying to sit in a chair. . . I was afraid that someone would discover the blade, and then all my precious plans would just go all to waste.
I'm Ken Ichijouji, and my plans never go to waste.
All that day I sat, sweated, nervously clenched and unclenched my hands into fists as I waited for someone to try and give me a friendly slap, and the knife would fall out. Oh, they'd say, and I would hang my head like the good little boy I had always been. Ken, we didn't know you were so unhappy!
It would be like a friggin' movie, I tell you, and I'd get help and realise that life is worth living and the sun would set on a perfect little world.
What a load.
What a load, I thought, as I looked down on the impersonal gleam of the knife's razor edge, and a familiar sneer crept onto my face and settled down to stay. I could just see a slice of my reflection in that shine. My blue eyes, my dark hair that hung like a curtain, separating me from the world and everything in it, and my expression. I was halfway between a smile and a sneer, and the result was that I looked quite similar to the Kaiser. In fact, I wantedsomeone to find out how bad I'd been, how I hurt myself and how I hated myself. Maybe. . . maybe a movie could come true, right? For a second, I nearly dared to hope, before the flame guttered and died under the draft of reality.
It was too dark in my room.
I rose from my kneel in my room's centre, and stepped to the door to flick on the lights. It never should be dark when you damage yourself, it ought to be bright and full of life, just as you are leaving it. Besides, wouldn't seeing your blood drain out of your body be. . . romantic in a way?
I know I have problems now.
Blood draining--*romantic*?! But somehow the idea appealed to me on some basic level. Evil blood, dirty blood that surged and crept through my veins like a filthy, wild animal. I would tame it, show it that it stayed only on *my* behest. I was master here, and I would choose when and where that dog would leave.
Leafmon was in the kitchen, chugging something down. I would have no distractions as I set the blade against my forearm and began to slowly drag it upwards at my heart. Just as I had planned, the great Ken Ichijouji had planned, the skin ripped and tore, blood washing outwards like tears to try and heal the damage. Like an ocean straining against bindings, it broke free, and leapt down in a horrible, cleansing wave.
I smiled, my lips curvinf tightly against the pain as real tears flooded my vision. I ought to know this by now-the pain. They had never mentioned the pain in all those Psychology courses I'd taken. But it hurt, so much. I wallowed in it, like some kind of hippopotamus in thick African mud I wallowed in the pain, used to keep the flies, the annoyances of the real world, off my thin hide.
As long as I was in pain, no one else could touch me. I was in my own world where my emotions were expressed directly, without pretense, strictly for me.
Blood dripped down, onto my thighs.
Blood slithered down snakelike, tracing a soft red tongue across my pale flesh. Ken Ichijouji was alone with his creatures, and they heeded his silent screams and calls inside his polite apartment and neat room.
Only they, and nobody else.
. . . fini
Disclaimer: I don't own Digimon.
Onwards!
DOG WHISTLE
The knife felt warm on my palm's skin, and for a moment I could pretend that it radiated its own warmth, and not the heat it had leeched from my body.
Well, knives do that. Especially if they've been pressed against the small of your back for eight hours. I'll tell you, being in school with that thing in a sheath under my stupid dove-grey uniform and trying to sit in a chair. . . I was afraid that someone would discover the blade, and then all my precious plans would just go all to waste.
I'm Ken Ichijouji, and my plans never go to waste.
All that day I sat, sweated, nervously clenched and unclenched my hands into fists as I waited for someone to try and give me a friendly slap, and the knife would fall out. Oh, they'd say, and I would hang my head like the good little boy I had always been. Ken, we didn't know you were so unhappy!
It would be like a friggin' movie, I tell you, and I'd get help and realise that life is worth living and the sun would set on a perfect little world.
What a load.
What a load, I thought, as I looked down on the impersonal gleam of the knife's razor edge, and a familiar sneer crept onto my face and settled down to stay. I could just see a slice of my reflection in that shine. My blue eyes, my dark hair that hung like a curtain, separating me from the world and everything in it, and my expression. I was halfway between a smile and a sneer, and the result was that I looked quite similar to the Kaiser. In fact, I wantedsomeone to find out how bad I'd been, how I hurt myself and how I hated myself. Maybe. . . maybe a movie could come true, right? For a second, I nearly dared to hope, before the flame guttered and died under the draft of reality.
It was too dark in my room.
I rose from my kneel in my room's centre, and stepped to the door to flick on the lights. It never should be dark when you damage yourself, it ought to be bright and full of life, just as you are leaving it. Besides, wouldn't seeing your blood drain out of your body be. . . romantic in a way?
I know I have problems now.
Blood draining--*romantic*?! But somehow the idea appealed to me on some basic level. Evil blood, dirty blood that surged and crept through my veins like a filthy, wild animal. I would tame it, show it that it stayed only on *my* behest. I was master here, and I would choose when and where that dog would leave.
Leafmon was in the kitchen, chugging something down. I would have no distractions as I set the blade against my forearm and began to slowly drag it upwards at my heart. Just as I had planned, the great Ken Ichijouji had planned, the skin ripped and tore, blood washing outwards like tears to try and heal the damage. Like an ocean straining against bindings, it broke free, and leapt down in a horrible, cleansing wave.
I smiled, my lips curvinf tightly against the pain as real tears flooded my vision. I ought to know this by now-the pain. They had never mentioned the pain in all those Psychology courses I'd taken. But it hurt, so much. I wallowed in it, like some kind of hippopotamus in thick African mud I wallowed in the pain, used to keep the flies, the annoyances of the real world, off my thin hide.
As long as I was in pain, no one else could touch me. I was in my own world where my emotions were expressed directly, without pretense, strictly for me.
Blood dripped down, onto my thighs.
Blood slithered down snakelike, tracing a soft red tongue across my pale flesh. Ken Ichijouji was alone with his creatures, and they heeded his silent screams and calls inside his polite apartment and neat room.
Only they, and nobody else.
. . . fini
