I thought that this fic was over, and then I found this on my computer. Oh well. It's really, really done this time. Promise.
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Kill me.
Kill me as you would a wretched animal, some pathetic thing already dying in the garret of a street. I know there must be pity behind your fear - oh yes oh yes, you fear me. I know, I can see it through the sickly emerald of your eyes, the same way I can see the disgust in His blue. Fear and hatred; so strange to think that I'm enough to inspire such in higher souls. I don't deserve His focus, or even yours, despite...
I don't know. I don't particularly even care anymore, beyond the cold ring of a pistol's mouth pressed up against my forehead. It's the same place His gloved hand first touched me, forty long years ago, as He pushed away the voices that had overtaken my mind. Such a delicate touch, perhaps similar to the feeling of a bullet exploding through my skull, quieting the dust behind me with blood. A fitting end. Blood to blood dust to dust and death to death. I whisper it with all the soft command I can find within me.
"Kill me. It's easy, all you have to do is pull the trigger..."
He refuses me again, with an edge of panic in his voice that makes the corners of my mouth turn up. He's slipping at last. If it were in my nature to do so, I would laugh in delight. Finally, I'll be dead. He will be pleased, and His brother's salvation
(damnation)
will be secured. I've been waiting for this since I was first spat out of my whore mother's body, since the voices first crept in through my infant ears, since He first deigned me worthy of His blessing. Pull the trigger, Vash the Stampede; give me hell so He can have His heaven.
/"So, why do you exist, human?"/
To die, of course. I am the crucible, the death that will bring the broken back together. Ironic, then, that it must be me, the one who will never be whole. Or holy. Or loved.
Only used.
Kill me, Vash, so that my life won't come to nothing.
And maybe then I can find my place in the heart of a heartless being.
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Kill me.
Kill me as you would a wretched animal, some pathetic thing already dying in the garret of a street. I know there must be pity behind your fear - oh yes oh yes, you fear me. I know, I can see it through the sickly emerald of your eyes, the same way I can see the disgust in His blue. Fear and hatred; so strange to think that I'm enough to inspire such in higher souls. I don't deserve His focus, or even yours, despite...
I don't know. I don't particularly even care anymore, beyond the cold ring of a pistol's mouth pressed up against my forehead. It's the same place His gloved hand first touched me, forty long years ago, as He pushed away the voices that had overtaken my mind. Such a delicate touch, perhaps similar to the feeling of a bullet exploding through my skull, quieting the dust behind me with blood. A fitting end. Blood to blood dust to dust and death to death. I whisper it with all the soft command I can find within me.
"Kill me. It's easy, all you have to do is pull the trigger..."
He refuses me again, with an edge of panic in his voice that makes the corners of my mouth turn up. He's slipping at last. If it were in my nature to do so, I would laugh in delight. Finally, I'll be dead. He will be pleased, and His brother's salvation
(damnation)
will be secured. I've been waiting for this since I was first spat out of my whore mother's body, since the voices first crept in through my infant ears, since He first deigned me worthy of His blessing. Pull the trigger, Vash the Stampede; give me hell so He can have His heaven.
/"So, why do you exist, human?"/
To die, of course. I am the crucible, the death that will bring the broken back together. Ironic, then, that it must be me, the one who will never be whole. Or holy. Or loved.
Only used.
Kill me, Vash, so that my life won't come to nothing.
And maybe then I can find my place in the heart of a heartless being.