Being As I Am
By Patience
Legal: Characters are the property of Koyasu Takehito and Project Weiß.
Warnings: Blasphemy, violent descriptions
Notes: I am just playing with something Yuki Scorpio translated from a mook on WKML.

The eyes of the LORD are everywhere,
keeping watch on the wicked and the good. 

When I was young, the sisters told me I would see the eyes as I rose to heaven.  These were the eyes of my Judge, and I would find eternal peace or damnation in His eyes.  I could never escape these eyes.  They would follow me, watch me, and He would watch as I sinned or as I did His work. 

When I realized the Lies, I thought the eyes were still there.  I would make these eyes cry.  Tears of blood would roll down the blissful, holy cheeks.  Angels would walk barefoot in the streams, hems of gowns stained crimson.  They would whisper of Lucifer and his fall.  They would see me as they had seen him, a Fallen One.

He had to watch as I made Him suffer as I had suffered.  I would make him cry for his families, the innocent lambs he fucked with.  They cried for His mercy as I slit their throats, warm blood staining my hands.  The stains were not permanent.  Blood washes clean.

O LORD God Almighty, the God of Israel,
rouse yourself to punish all the nations;
show no mercy to wicked traitors. 

I was not a traitor.  God loved me.  God is love.  I could hear the Last Rites and ascend to Heaven as if nothing had happened.  The Hell He put us through meant nothing.  We were all pawns to him, each good little Christian, sliding across the board one place at a time until one of His Knights came to cut us down.  It was His way. 

Before they placed me in the institution, I still went into His whorehouse and lit His candles, for my family.  I wanted to believe Him, some how.  Things were simple before their blood stained my clothing.  Blood does not leave cloth, only our hands. 

This flesh is far too temporary.  It holds nothing but our physical triumphs and losses.  It is removed with a flick of a blade and placed onto others, other places.  I thought The Lord intended it to be this way.  Our own stupidity could cause blood, but when my knife bit into the flesh of an altar boy, I was sinning. 

I was sinning repeatedly, watching his white robes become red, virgin blood staining my clothes.  Mary was a virgin for God.  Did their son make her bleed like this?

The boy's blood never washed from my clothes.  I can still see his stains on an old sweater in my closet.  It does not fit anymore.  The stains still taste of blood, faint blood mixed with laundry detergent.  Schuldig laughed at me when I licked it.

Let them think me the fool.  It makes them feel better; to think they are not so far gone as I.  Perhaps Schuldig knows the truth.  I try to play my part well.  I whisper blasphemy beneath my breath, whisper it to Nagi's ear.  I laugh when Brad prays, a stupid habit of his Christian upbringing.

I pity him.  I tried the prayers once, and, Brad, from one sinner to another: "My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: /Words without thoughts never to heaven go."

I used to pray in the Institution, and I would curse Him as I prayed.  My prayers were all wrong.  Sister Ruth would have cried when she heard them.  Jei was always so good at his prayers.  He could say a whole Hail Mary at four.  She liked to boast of me, even if Pride was a sin. 

However, I was not Jei now.  Jei did not want to kill the altar boy, the priest, or the little girl coming home from Sunday school.  He would have cried to see her mangled body left on the side of the road, intestines laced through a chain link fence.  He would not have liked to see her legs spread open, skirt flipped up.  Her knickers were white like the Virgin's skin.  Mud splashed on them when I left her.  That was her only stain.

Farfarello was a demon, and I suppose that was me.  I did not pick the name.  Brad did.

It did not matter who I was anymore.  I used to kill to hurt Him.  I would do my best to make Him weep.  I dipped Host into the blood of priests.  This was the body His son gave up for me.  I enjoyed the taste of iron, relishing it.  It would make me sick, but it made the Host have flavor.  The Son's blood was a toy to me.  One bottle of the blood over a priest's robe, and the man was screaming, writhing in front of me.  His skin would blacken, dying fingers pulling at the heavy robes.  He cried for mercy.  I gave it to him, unlike our Lord.

I jumped.

They found me in the burning church, stamping on the priest's body.  I did not see the flames around me.  I did not care, but they did.  They locked me away, pretty little psycho boy.  If you poked me, I would sing of God and His crimes.  I was a bird to them, and I beat my wings constantly.  I have scars from their clubs.  They had to beat their pretty bird down.  It hurt, to have them hit me.  I felt the pain.  I did not like it.

However, I did not complain, merely singing to Him about how He and His minions treat me.  Perhaps these were his bishops, lazy and ineffective.  Useless pieces, almost as useless as the pawn.  I sang as they beat me, screamed as they tried to put me in therapy.  And I blamed God.  His great eyes were watching me.

Schuldig thinks the great eye still haunts me, and I still want it to weep for my sins.  I want to laugh at him, but I do not.  I need to be the mad one.  I am the one that rants and raves and throws things about.

Jesus said, "For judgment I have come into this world, so that the blind will see and those who see will become blind."

For judgment purposes, I think Schuldig is far more blind than the white kittens.

He sees the great eye in my thoughts, but he assumes that those are my thoughts alone.  I am psychotic.  I have one train of thought like some hormonal teen waiting to pound a little girl into the ground, not caring about her screams and tears.  He thinks I am an animal.  To think beyond my little box of hurting God is not something I am prepared to do.  I must make that eye weep.

I must feel God's tears against my skin, and only then will I become sane.

But I know something Schuldig does not.

There is no eye, and I know there is no God.

This is what the LORD says about this people:

"They greatly love to wander;
they do not restrain their feet.
So the LORD does not accept them;
he will now remember their wickedness
and punish them for their sins."

I did not restrain my feet when they tied me down for the first time.  I killed an orderly, pressing his head against the window in my room until it shattered.  He was screaming, glass imbedded in his face, in his bright, bright blue eyes.  They were red with blood.  They wept at my sins like God would not.  They lamented my evil intentions as I grabbed a large shard and hacked away at him.  His clothing was grey, tainted.  Killing him was not like killing a virgin.

I was the one in white; I was the virgin this time.

His lungs were beautiful as they took the last few gasps, straining for life.  I stabbed one of them with the glass shard, watching the organ strain against the glass.  The doctors came in just as he died.  It was a beautiful death.  He was crying in the end.

They put me in a straight jacket then, and they only took me out to shock my body.  They liked to shock my body, angry eyes watching me as I fried beneath their little metal devices.  Jei McClain, you have done a horrible thing, you know?

I did not answer them, just listened.  My feet were not restrained anymore.

It happened the first night.  I was in the dark, tied down carefully.  We cannot have him escape.  Look at what he did to Thom.  He is a danger.  I smiled at their words, hoping God was weeping or shaking His head.  I wanted to see His eyes.  I wanted to watch His face as I sang for him, as pretty as I had done in mass when Sister Ruth let me canter.  I wanted to tell Him everything, and maybe God and I would reach an understanding.

So I sat up.  My body was below me, yellow eyes staring straight ahead.  The lights caught them, cat-amber in the night.  I watched myself, watched my chest rise and fall.  My lungs were filling with air, tasting the pollution, and then letting it back out. 

I touched my face, but I did not.  I could not feel the skin beneath my fingers.  I was beyond my body, but I was not dead.  I breathed.  I could feel my heart beat, but it was a pulse in what ever I was then, the thing beyond my body. 

I turned around the room, spinning.  It did not feel like spinning, but I was seeing things in a wonderful spin.  I wanted to see the eyes of God, the eyes of judgment, pain, and forgiveness.  But I saw nothing.  I raised my arms, or what felt like arms, high into the air, and I felt nothing.  It was empty of thought, feeling.

It was empty of God. 

I closed my eyes and sat down, back on my body, and then into it.  God was not outside my body, in a place I could not see.  He was not waiting to judge my soul, which is what I think left me.  He just was not.

I stopped singing.  I stopped praying.

They still shocked me.  They still wanted to punish me for what I had done to one of their own, and I hated them.  They were like me, just stuck here without a god or savior or a virgin.  They fucked the world up, and I fucked it up right with them, but they got to flip the switch and fry me on the inside.  They got to flip a switch and watch me writhe like a she-wolf in heat, howling for a fuck.

I stopped caring about their fucking machine after a while.  I would leave my body fry in that chair and stand behind them.  I would watch my body shake and twitch and fail, and I would hear their laughter.  I would watch them smile as they slowly, slowly killed me.  Just because they were on this side of the line and I was not, they got to be in charge.

Pain was not an issue anymore.  Their little machine fucked that right out of me.  My brain and nerves were fucked and frazzled before I had my plan. 

I killed them on Christmas, during my daily shocking.  I ripped my arms from the restraints when they turned away from me and attacked an orderly.  I was already bleeding, virgin blood staining the face of the man as I ripped away his nametag.  I stuck the pin in his eyes, laughing as blood sprayed on my face.  It felt good to watch him scream.  I looked at the pin as the other orderlies approached, the doctors huddling out the doors. 

The pin was a little bent, but it was shining in the light.  I placed my foot on the orderly's neck as he screamed, jumping down as if he were a priest.  The others approached, and I rammed the pin into my own eye.  The light went out, but they stopped, staring at me as if I had done something.

I liked that day.  That was the day before I was taken to see an American in virgin white, his glasses cold.  I could not see his eyes, and I did not care.  He took my file, and he took me, strapped to a cart and struggling.  A man with orange hair looked at me, and he laughed in the most annoying voice, and when I thought that, he laughed harder.

When I thought of ripped his voice box out from the pretty little neck and feeding it to a dog, he stopped laughing.

Furthermore, since they did not think it worthwhile to retain the knowledge of God, he gave them over to a depraved mind; to do what ought not to be done.  They have become filled with every kind of wickedness, evil, greed, and depravity.  They are full of envy, murder, strife, deceit, and malice.  They are gossips, slanderers, God-haters, insolent, arrogant, and boastful; they invent ways of doing evil; they disobey their parents; they are senseless, faithless, heartless, ruthless.  Although they know God's righteous decree that those who do such things deserve death, they not only continue to do these very things but also approve of those who practice them. 

And I liked Schwarz.  I liked when Schuldig stopped laughing or Nagi looked at me with wide, frightened eyes. 

But I liked to pretend for them, that I was really that mad that I blamed a fake god for everything.  I wanted to hurt him so much that I hurt myself.

"Farfie?  You want to come with me?"  Schuldig taps my forehead, blue-grey eyes annoyed.  He was talking to me.  "We're going to blow up a building."

I do not tell them that I enjoy killed, and I like the flow of blood.  I do not care for the taste, much, but I enjoy the feel of it sliding through my fingers.  I enjoy the shock, the disgust, and I love the look in the eyes of my victim when they see me hurt myself.  I like to play the part of a maniac.

"Will anyone be in the building?"  I look up at the ceiling. 

Schuldig takes that as me asking God something.  "Yes, lots of people."

I get up, pulling out my knife.  I like knifes.  The blood runs best with a knife.  "It will hurt God."

He smiles.  I want to smile back, laugh at him.  I would be content to kill him now.

Someday, someday, someday.  For now, I pull a strand of his fire hair from his head.  I think I will burn him alive when I finally end his life.  He should burn as his hair does now. 

Brad will die in his sleep.  I want to put glass in his lungs.  I hope he does not foresee it.

Nagi, I will kill swiftly.  I want to wear white as I kill him, as he will wear white.  I want us both to be virgins in blood.  But first, I will take those large blue eyes from his head.  I will let him hold his eyes as I slit his throat.  Then there will be pictures and I will leave them here, blood staining the virgin carpet.

And I will be as the Christian god. 

It is all the same; that is why I say, "He destroys both the blameless and the wicked."

Quotes: Proverbs 15:3, Psalm 59:5, Hamlet III.iii.101-102, John 9:39, Jeremiah 14:10, Romans 1:28-32, and Job 9:22.