The following chapter contains a little blood. So be warned. And it's also
about Kikyo. Ok, let me get this through, Kikyo is my favorite female
character in the series, if you think otherwise then I'm fine with that.
But please, do not flame me because of my likes and dislikes. It's quite
immature if some of you have failed to noticed. Now on with the chapter.
Read and Review please.
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Chapter 2: Silence of the Stabs
The knife rose and fell, and it filled my heart with savage ecstasy. The blood pooled around us, and the crimson flow served only to fuel my fury. Would they ever shut up? Would they never shut up?
Even now, the blood burbled out of the wound, and they made choking noises, as though to tell me that I wasn't doing it right. That I'll never done anything right, and that I wasn't doing this right either.
The knife rose and fell, as I plunged it into them, over and over again, cutting their skin, destroying their features, eradicating any sign that they were any more than lumps of meat. It is justice, is it not? For they never saw me as anything more, either.
And still they gargled their disapproval. Their wounds lay open, exposing their innards to the elements, and yet still they made their noises, as if to say, you see, I told you it would come to this, helping them out, giving him ideas above his station,blah, blah, blah...
For years, their yowling has filled my ears. If it wasn't me, if was someone or something else. The homes were never made well, the village wasn't up to their standards, such and such was insane or corrupt if it wasn't one thing, it was another. And how do you explain to them that it is in the nature of the world to be imperfect? Oh, you dare not point out their own flaws, not if you don't want to hear about their sacrifices and their hopes, and your ingratitude and your failures. Of how you let them down when they had believed in you, and when they had staked so much in your success.
And yet, I was perfect. I was dutiful, and I never questioned. I never spoke my mind, though the serpents twisted and turned restlessly, the beast yearned to be free. I held my tongue; I swallowed my rebuttals, and listened patiently. Until now. Now, the blade speaks, and we all listen.
In and out, the knife flashes, gleaming now, not by polish but by blood. The knife dips in and out, stealing their lives, but not their voices. Not their voices, that bore into me relentlessly, easier than the blade. Why won't they leave me alone?
I can still hear them. I can still hear them, not an incessant buzzing, but individual words. I can hear them reminding me what a failure I am. I can hear them. I can hear them tell me how I've disappointed them. I can hear them complaining of how I've stained their clothes, of how much they had to word, and where they bought such and such, and how you can't even get love like that anymore, and they should like to see me find better hobbys, and they've had to sell so many of the other good ones to pay for my education and on, and on, and on.
There is but one cure. There is only one cure. The blade cleanses, the blade purifies. The blade will save me. The blade will protect me. The blade will silence their voices forever, even as my blood rushes to join theirs. Fitting, as it was always theirs.
Chapter 2: Silence of the Stabs
The knife rose and fell, and it filled my heart with savage ecstasy. The blood pooled around us, and the crimson flow served only to fuel my fury. Would they ever shut up? Would they never shut up?
Even now, the blood burbled out of the wound, and they made choking noises, as though to tell me that I wasn't doing it right. That I'll never done anything right, and that I wasn't doing this right either.
The knife rose and fell, as I plunged it into them, over and over again, cutting their skin, destroying their features, eradicating any sign that they were any more than lumps of meat. It is justice, is it not? For they never saw me as anything more, either.
And still they gargled their disapproval. Their wounds lay open, exposing their innards to the elements, and yet still they made their noises, as if to say, you see, I told you it would come to this, helping them out, giving him ideas above his station,blah, blah, blah...
For years, their yowling has filled my ears. If it wasn't me, if was someone or something else. The homes were never made well, the village wasn't up to their standards, such and such was insane or corrupt if it wasn't one thing, it was another. And how do you explain to them that it is in the nature of the world to be imperfect? Oh, you dare not point out their own flaws, not if you don't want to hear about their sacrifices and their hopes, and your ingratitude and your failures. Of how you let them down when they had believed in you, and when they had staked so much in your success.
And yet, I was perfect. I was dutiful, and I never questioned. I never spoke my mind, though the serpents twisted and turned restlessly, the beast yearned to be free. I held my tongue; I swallowed my rebuttals, and listened patiently. Until now. Now, the blade speaks, and we all listen.
In and out, the knife flashes, gleaming now, not by polish but by blood. The knife dips in and out, stealing their lives, but not their voices. Not their voices, that bore into me relentlessly, easier than the blade. Why won't they leave me alone?
I can still hear them. I can still hear them, not an incessant buzzing, but individual words. I can hear them reminding me what a failure I am. I can hear them. I can hear them tell me how I've disappointed them. I can hear them complaining of how I've stained their clothes, of how much they had to word, and where they bought such and such, and how you can't even get love like that anymore, and they should like to see me find better hobbys, and they've had to sell so many of the other good ones to pay for my education and on, and on, and on.
There is but one cure. There is only one cure. The blade cleanses, the blade purifies. The blade will save me. The blade will protect me. The blade will silence their voices forever, even as my blood rushes to join theirs. Fitting, as it was always theirs.