Hello! *waves* how are you all? This is… dum de dum… a Farfarello character
piece. I decided to write it because it seems to me that most people
portray Farfie in a very one-dimensional way. He is either a God-hating,
knife-licking, giggling lunatic or a magically sane person who thinks the
way everyone else does, but had a fixation for blood ^_^
I'm hoping this offers a bit of a different perspective on our resident psycho… please read and let me know if you like it ^_^
Oh… *runs back* almost forgot the disclaimer! Not mine, belong to Koyasu- sama, very sad all this, but on with the fic, ne?
A hand connects sharply with my face. Of course, strictly speaking, I can't FEEL it, but I've been through it enough times to know what it's like. An instant of numbness, a quick feeling of swelling, and then the pain hits. Hits so hard that you can't concentrate on anything else for an instant. I almost miss it sometimes… it hurts, yes, but at least it's interesting.
Some compare the pain to a "thousand red hot needles". Others like to say it feels like a sledgehammer.
Me? I say it feels like a sadistic ex-boxer's fist has just connected with my nose. I've never really been one for poetry.
Too late, I realize that someone is rather impatient with my contemplation. Apparently I haven't responded enough to the first punch. You'd think Brad would get tired of hitting such an unresponsive target, but I suppose I'm sort of like a very realistic punching bag. Go figure.
And they call ME insane.
Really, a psychologist would have a field day with all of us. So many problems, so little time to diagnose before being chased out of the apartment fearing for your life. He'd probably start with Nagi… he looks innocent enough. His distaste towards society would probably be a technique for shutting himself off from the world so he wouldn't have to risk being injured if he lost someone he loved. Brad—that would be the medical jargon for what the rest of us have already figured out. A stickus up his rectumus, probably…
Our little psychologist friend would have a lot of fun with Schuldich. First he'd diagnose the man's constant hallucinations. Imagined telepathy? No, normal people might understand that one. Better cloak it in a nice euphemism… a falsely created vision of communication without sensory perception. Much better. Caused by… childhood tendencies towards overactive imagination, which were reinforced by a (fill in the blank) traumatic experience. Poor little Schu-schu's imaginary friends just got a little too real…
I'm frighteningly good at this. I suppose I have gotten a lot of exposure to their ways of reasoning. After all, I am…
Uh oh. Got lost in thought again. I think I might have missed a few violent assaults on my person… at least two to my head, judging by the blood staining my once-blindingly-white suit. Damn. Well, more laundry for Nagi or whoever it is that washes our clothes. Better get out of here… I walk into my "room". A cell, of course, since it gives them a feeling of comfort. Like I can't possibly get out of this straitjacket.
Well, resuming our previous train of thought, now this lovely little psychologist gets to me. Now the really big scary words come out. Psychopathic. Deranged. Insane.
They use a lot of words to describe me. Nobody really knows what they mean, though. Insane? What is sane? I see the world in a different way, but a little of that is a good thing. Who draws the line? Where does creativity end and insanity begin? Where does our comfortable euphemism switch from positive to negative?
You know why they really lock me up in here. They are afraid of me, yes, but not for the reasons they claim. I mean, they are assassins. They do deal wit violence fairly often. They don't exactly run from a fight.
No, they lock me up for another reason. Because they see themselves in me. They see that the only difference between me and them, the only thing that makes them "sane" while I am "insane", is the little wall inside them that tells them to stop, that they should not obey their desires. Who has never wanted to do what I do? Never wanted to simply let themselves go, do what they feel like? Society demands that we don't. So they don't. But I'm not afraid. I don't hide that dark voice inside me, don't fear the place that burns at the core of my body. I don't refuse to give in to my desires, don't fear the thought of simply being, not worrying about what I should do, what they want me to do. I can reach into the flame burning in my heart and dive in, swimming in the fire without being burned. I accept my desires, I live as myself. And they don't. And they fear me, and they envy me. But they can't admit that they want to be like me.
So they lock me up here in this room, and they say that I am wrong, a danger to society. Because it's easier, you know, to label something, to put it into a convenient box with well-defined edges. To say that it is wrong, dangerous, a menace to society. Much easier. So they do, and they fool even themselves. Even they don't know that the reason for their actions isn't fear. It's envy. Maybe even a little love, perhaps admiration for the way I move, cat-sleek and graceful, as though I am always in control. Or always out of it. They like both equally. And perhaps there is no difference. Yet they hide from this. Because it does not fit into their world where they are right. They ignore this truth, because truth has no place if it goes against comfort.
Then again, maybe this is not truth. Maybe it is just the insane ravings of a lunatic madman. Or maybe it's both.
I'm hoping this offers a bit of a different perspective on our resident psycho… please read and let me know if you like it ^_^
Oh… *runs back* almost forgot the disclaimer! Not mine, belong to Koyasu- sama, very sad all this, but on with the fic, ne?
A hand connects sharply with my face. Of course, strictly speaking, I can't FEEL it, but I've been through it enough times to know what it's like. An instant of numbness, a quick feeling of swelling, and then the pain hits. Hits so hard that you can't concentrate on anything else for an instant. I almost miss it sometimes… it hurts, yes, but at least it's interesting.
Some compare the pain to a "thousand red hot needles". Others like to say it feels like a sledgehammer.
Me? I say it feels like a sadistic ex-boxer's fist has just connected with my nose. I've never really been one for poetry.
Too late, I realize that someone is rather impatient with my contemplation. Apparently I haven't responded enough to the first punch. You'd think Brad would get tired of hitting such an unresponsive target, but I suppose I'm sort of like a very realistic punching bag. Go figure.
And they call ME insane.
Really, a psychologist would have a field day with all of us. So many problems, so little time to diagnose before being chased out of the apartment fearing for your life. He'd probably start with Nagi… he looks innocent enough. His distaste towards society would probably be a technique for shutting himself off from the world so he wouldn't have to risk being injured if he lost someone he loved. Brad—that would be the medical jargon for what the rest of us have already figured out. A stickus up his rectumus, probably…
Our little psychologist friend would have a lot of fun with Schuldich. First he'd diagnose the man's constant hallucinations. Imagined telepathy? No, normal people might understand that one. Better cloak it in a nice euphemism… a falsely created vision of communication without sensory perception. Much better. Caused by… childhood tendencies towards overactive imagination, which were reinforced by a (fill in the blank) traumatic experience. Poor little Schu-schu's imaginary friends just got a little too real…
I'm frighteningly good at this. I suppose I have gotten a lot of exposure to their ways of reasoning. After all, I am…
Uh oh. Got lost in thought again. I think I might have missed a few violent assaults on my person… at least two to my head, judging by the blood staining my once-blindingly-white suit. Damn. Well, more laundry for Nagi or whoever it is that washes our clothes. Better get out of here… I walk into my "room". A cell, of course, since it gives them a feeling of comfort. Like I can't possibly get out of this straitjacket.
Well, resuming our previous train of thought, now this lovely little psychologist gets to me. Now the really big scary words come out. Psychopathic. Deranged. Insane.
They use a lot of words to describe me. Nobody really knows what they mean, though. Insane? What is sane? I see the world in a different way, but a little of that is a good thing. Who draws the line? Where does creativity end and insanity begin? Where does our comfortable euphemism switch from positive to negative?
You know why they really lock me up in here. They are afraid of me, yes, but not for the reasons they claim. I mean, they are assassins. They do deal wit violence fairly often. They don't exactly run from a fight.
No, they lock me up for another reason. Because they see themselves in me. They see that the only difference between me and them, the only thing that makes them "sane" while I am "insane", is the little wall inside them that tells them to stop, that they should not obey their desires. Who has never wanted to do what I do? Never wanted to simply let themselves go, do what they feel like? Society demands that we don't. So they don't. But I'm not afraid. I don't hide that dark voice inside me, don't fear the place that burns at the core of my body. I don't refuse to give in to my desires, don't fear the thought of simply being, not worrying about what I should do, what they want me to do. I can reach into the flame burning in my heart and dive in, swimming in the fire without being burned. I accept my desires, I live as myself. And they don't. And they fear me, and they envy me. But they can't admit that they want to be like me.
So they lock me up here in this room, and they say that I am wrong, a danger to society. Because it's easier, you know, to label something, to put it into a convenient box with well-defined edges. To say that it is wrong, dangerous, a menace to society. Much easier. So they do, and they fool even themselves. Even they don't know that the reason for their actions isn't fear. It's envy. Maybe even a little love, perhaps admiration for the way I move, cat-sleek and graceful, as though I am always in control. Or always out of it. They like both equally. And perhaps there is no difference. Yet they hide from this. Because it does not fit into their world where they are right. They ignore this truth, because truth has no place if it goes against comfort.
Then again, maybe this is not truth. Maybe it is just the insane ravings of a lunatic madman. Or maybe it's both.