Thirty Minutes - by Harukami
Hisoka is sometimes amazed at how time works.
Which is, he muses, blood dripping slowly from wrists, throat, eyes, it doesn't.
In years trapped in a basement, he grew used to letting time just pass by. His life sped up and hurtled him to his death. He could close his eyes for just a moment and it would be an hour. (Though when they passed by and whispered in their horror, that could stretch on for an hour too, in that single moment.)
And then death - it all happened too fast. He knew he was killed, but couldn't remember what happened. Not really. He knew he had a killer, and knew he had to find him. At any cost. If he had to be a shinigami, a psychopomp, do what they called the dirtiest job in the spirit world - that was all right. It was all right, really, if he could slow up time enough to realize what had happened.
He remembered now, and wished he hadn't needed to.
Still, even remembering, it seemed - fast. One would think that torture would take longer. But it comes to him in a succession of images: a red moon, a knife, a woman arching, a man with blood on his jacket, running, having his clothes torn away. Being pinned down. Raped. Cursed. Screaming.
The images pass by so quickly.
In reality, he has managed to figure out, trying to fit time to a schedule he understands, it was about a half hour from start to finish. Muraki didn't have too much time, after all, and he could remember the red moon - the placement of the moon. No more than half an hour, he concluded.
It didn't help. Something that changed everything. His death, his pain, enclosed in a half hour as he was enclosed in a lifetime's worth of basement. It should have taken longer.
He was dying, he realized. Again.
Locked up again.
History doomed to repeat itself. He counted the time since Muraki had brought his memory back. No watches, no clocks, and with his neck bound by a dead woman's hair, he couldn't look out the window. But his blood dripped rhythmically - 58, 59, 60. Another minute gone. A minute of his afterlife bleeding out on the floor. If he lost enough blood, enough minutes, that would be it, forever.
Somehow, it didn't hurt as much as he thought it would. Nobody would miss him. He was dead already to everyone but the dead. And nobody there would miss him.
Except perhaps -
A face, a memory of laughter, of violet eyes. He chides himself for the memory. He doesn't want anything to hold him here, especially not someone he'd known for such a small amount of time. It didn't change anything. That little time didn't change anything.
(It had always changed everything. Time didn't bind itself to what he wanted it to: reality.)
He believes a half hour has passed since Muraki bound him up to bleed to death (again). He believes he will die soon. (again).
For a moment, Hisoka thinks the sound of his name being screamed his his imagination. Why wouldn't it be? Why would anyone come for him? Why would such a small amount of time ever make a difference?
58, 59, 60.
"Tsuzuki..." he whispers back.
Hisoka is sometimes amazed at how time works.
Which is, he muses, blood dripping slowly from wrists, throat, eyes, it doesn't.
In years trapped in a basement, he grew used to letting time just pass by. His life sped up and hurtled him to his death. He could close his eyes for just a moment and it would be an hour. (Though when they passed by and whispered in their horror, that could stretch on for an hour too, in that single moment.)
And then death - it all happened too fast. He knew he was killed, but couldn't remember what happened. Not really. He knew he had a killer, and knew he had to find him. At any cost. If he had to be a shinigami, a psychopomp, do what they called the dirtiest job in the spirit world - that was all right. It was all right, really, if he could slow up time enough to realize what had happened.
He remembered now, and wished he hadn't needed to.
Still, even remembering, it seemed - fast. One would think that torture would take longer. But it comes to him in a succession of images: a red moon, a knife, a woman arching, a man with blood on his jacket, running, having his clothes torn away. Being pinned down. Raped. Cursed. Screaming.
The images pass by so quickly.
In reality, he has managed to figure out, trying to fit time to a schedule he understands, it was about a half hour from start to finish. Muraki didn't have too much time, after all, and he could remember the red moon - the placement of the moon. No more than half an hour, he concluded.
It didn't help. Something that changed everything. His death, his pain, enclosed in a half hour as he was enclosed in a lifetime's worth of basement. It should have taken longer.
He was dying, he realized. Again.
Locked up again.
History doomed to repeat itself. He counted the time since Muraki had brought his memory back. No watches, no clocks, and with his neck bound by a dead woman's hair, he couldn't look out the window. But his blood dripped rhythmically - 58, 59, 60. Another minute gone. A minute of his afterlife bleeding out on the floor. If he lost enough blood, enough minutes, that would be it, forever.
Somehow, it didn't hurt as much as he thought it would. Nobody would miss him. He was dead already to everyone but the dead. And nobody there would miss him.
Except perhaps -
A face, a memory of laughter, of violet eyes. He chides himself for the memory. He doesn't want anything to hold him here, especially not someone he'd known for such a small amount of time. It didn't change anything. That little time didn't change anything.
(It had always changed everything. Time didn't bind itself to what he wanted it to: reality.)
He believes a half hour has passed since Muraki bound him up to bleed to death (again). He believes he will die soon. (again).
For a moment, Hisoka thinks the sound of his name being screamed his his imagination. Why wouldn't it be? Why would anyone come for him? Why would such a small amount of time ever make a difference?
58, 59, 60.
"Tsuzuki..." he whispers back.
