Blood
By TK Date Blood…is such an odd thing…
It's our blood that gives us life. Without it we can't do anything. That makes it seem so simple, fragile, almost like life itself. The blood flows in our veins and keeps us alive. So…when it leaves we die.
Crimson sunsets have the tinge of death. Sanguine colors manage to lend themselves to the illusion that the very sky above us, the world around us, is dying. Sometimes, very rarely, but sometimes that red hue carries on into the night. Because the day has died its blood splashes across the moon's once pale face.
…I died on a night like that…
And then it was my blood that caused my own life to be unending. Sometimes I've stopped to contemplate the irony of it all. My blood, the thing that gave me life, gave me death, anguish, and suffering for those long years. I died because of something that brought life, because I saw the spilling of a victim's blood.
I wonder, what happens if your hands are tinted with blood after death. Teachings say that in death you are punished for the blood that stains your hands in life. But then…what happens when you stain your hands a red hue in death? How are you able to cleanse yourself? Why won't the blood come off?
It's still there, I tried to wash if off in the salt water, curling around my knees like the cold confines of a prison. I've tried to rub it off on my pants, smear it across the glass and metal walls surrounding me. It still won't come off!
My eyes are stinging now. Maybe my tears will be red with blood, it would be fitting, wouldn't it? But no, that's not what's tinting my vision in an odd pink hue. It's not enough that her blood has to stain only my hands. Now it's spreading…into the water…through the ship. Through this whole damned bloodstained ship. But they're all dead now. They've paid for their wrongs, their bloodstained hands. Except for him.
How much blood is on his hands? His porcelain white hands…they probably would no longer hold that same color if he were like me. If he could not wipe the blood from his hands.
I shudder as a memory resurfaces. His hands are soaked in blood. They were dyed deep crimson. That is how they cursed me. He is stained with blood, and now…so am I…
So…so…does that mean…that…I'm him. What I've turned into, what a shinigami is…nothing more than a heartless murderer. How…how could I let that happen?! He killed me…and now I've become him. It can't be happening. I don't want that to happen. I'm not like that! The only one I wanted to kill was him, all I wanted was my revenge! But did that mean that I…that this… Why did this have to happen?!
My hands are numb, I think I'm shaking. I think I can hear the gun hitting the floor, splashing into the water around my ankles. Is there something else here? Why do I hear shouting? Why do I hear…
Tsuzuki. Numbly I recognize him, silently I wonder how much blood is on his hands. But right now, I don't care. I'd be glad to be held with those hands, in those arms. So…maybe…it isn't wrong to be stained in blood. But that still doesn't wash hers from my hands. And it still doesn't keep me from turning into him, into a murderer…
I wonder if I'll ever be cleansed. If we'll ever be cleansed. If Tsuzuki's ever thought these things about the lives he's taken. Maybe that's why he doesn't stare at me for crying, why I almost thought I could see a bit of sympathy, concern flashing in those amethyst eyes. We'll be murderers together then, I guess. Murderers that will be dragged down into the depths of hell. But at least…at least it'll be together.
By TK Date
Vignette, Hisoka POV stream of consciousness angstfic. You might find a smidge of Tsuzuki+Hisoka if you look hard enough. Mixes manga and anime, spoilers for end of King of Swords Arc.
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