Obsessions
(volume eight, Tokyopop translation dialogue used)
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Terror is addictive, that intricate web of fear and hate that flows up inside of people and takes over their every thought until all they can do is viciously react. I like seeing fear and hate on the faces of others - it's always pleasurable to be there in that moment when someone else recognizes the bestiality in their own nature.
It annoyed me that Rei denied his beast, culturing some pitiful mask of morality and so-called humanity. Logically, to free the beast from its self-imposed cage, I simply had to kill the jailer, and the fact that Kira - sweet, fragile, wonderfully easy to mold and break - was already so very tempting merely made it that much easier. To rid him of her presence would serve double-fold: he would be at liberty to become wholly cruel and my pagan god again, and I could make her mine through the breaking of flesh and vein.
Too few people realize that the deepest of sexual bonds, that which possesses the body and mind entirely, is the act of murder. A bond lies between killer and victim, something more than the shallow mating of bodies; a lover can separate from his or her loved one and take countless more, forgetting that first and the others to follow, but killers can only take so many lives and for each victim there is only one murderer.
The principle is beautiful, isn't it? That I could save him from the shreds of misguided ethics and at the same time forever join precious, delicate Kira to myself.
I hate her and want her more that she has escaped; I can claim him at any time, but she is something rare, something I haven't seen in anyone but myself, a long time ago, and she is different, even, from my own fragility. I could hurt her, save her, break her, ruin her and destroy her mind as I so wished, but it was not until the rooftop that I could finally attempt that brutal, bloody joining: she was kind to me, surprising me with her offers to help me, watch over me. I would have killed for her - craved to kill for her when the mindless boy struck her - but she did not let me. He did not let me.
How odd that she would come to me in the place where they keep me safe from the world, or the world safe from me - one or the other. I really shouldn't be surprised - she keeps doing irrational things like this, trying to talk to me - but I still am, and it's uneasy for me to see her again, nervous, frightened, placid, accepting. We are alike, I know, and I wanted her to understand me, but at the same time I cannot grasp why she would willingly return to meet one who has tried to kill her. Perhaps she's insane, too.
That thought is amusing, and I wonder what it would be like to share room with her in the psycho ward.
Two chairs, facing one another, and she is already sitting in one, fingers clasping tightly in the silky fabric of her skirt: a palm print, as quietly sophisticated as her pale shirt and that long reddish hair of hers. She looks pretty, and anxious, and overwhelmingly fragile, but even when I see her, soft and radiating an air that whispers how easy it would be to claim her beautiful life, I hear her telling me I could never change anyone.
Bitch; angel; pounding, obsessing temptation.
"How are you?" she asks tentatively, eyes tilted down to hide under the pale rings of her eyelashes. She fears me, and God it's disgusting how much I want to be her, have her be me, that complexity that no one seems to understand - borderline between homicide and sex, a musky want to score her, because to bleed is to love.
I smile, my most peculiar, gentle smile, knowing how odd it will be to her and craving the confusion I expect from her. "All right," I murmur as dismissively as possible, slouching a little in the chair as my feminine features grow more strangely gentle. "I'm bored, but getting by." The pulse is leaping in her throat, quivering under the smooth expanse of her neck, and my fingers twitch, remembering the slender, soft feel of her skin under my hand.
"You look pretty good," she continues, insisting on adding more niceties as she cautiously lifts her eyes. My fingers twitch again; she's such a temptation, a delicious, awful temptation with her bittersweet nature, and I want to feel the warmth of her skin along my palms again.
I think my hands are hungry for her.
"I'm okay." Another smile, feeling my pale hair coiling around my cheeks, and my eyes lid slightly with cold amusement, knowing distantly how strange it must be for her to be confronted with duality: masculine and feminine, cruel and weak. I can see the confusion, the fear, playing in the back of her eyes, crossing her delicate features, and I begin systematically killing my emotions.
I cannot afford to lost control.
"Did you already confess to Rei?" All that is left are the basest of emotions: cold awareness, cruelty, and that peculiar homicidal lust she drags up within me. I feel a dagger of perverse pleasure spear through my chest when the look of unease lances over her face, even more so when she glances, unsure, at the camera. "Don't worry. It's only recording images."
Her emotions show clearly on her face, every time one speaks to her or glances toward her in subtle question; indecision and fear color every flickering trace of emotion on her features, but I see no signs of distrust. How brave she is, and so very stupid, I think too, and at the same time it is that much more enamoring to know she feels nothing unpredictable, that she trusts me – not to be kind, of course, in the pitiful, weak way she defines the word, but rather that she trusts me to be…evil, is that it?
"I told him," she barely manages a whisper, fisting her fingers tight into the slick folds of her skirt. My fingertips are itching, burning and wanting eagerly; her pulse is dancing, whirling, and I'm hungry. "Everything."
"Really," I say, and I feel a surging wave of – jealousy? anger? – break through my coldness for a moment, and I grapple internally to force it back, reclaim my calmly sick persona. I cannot tell which I am angry over – his having her, or her having him – and so I smile a coy twirl of my lips. "It seems like everything's going well. Did you come all this way to let me know that nothing can break the bond between you two?"
If I had killed her, she would be mine; we would be joined in the bond of blood and pain, and death, and I would have every perfect moment blazed inside me: her kindness, her empathy, her fear, her anguish, that beautiful symbiosis of eyes bright with kind life in my mind while her vision glazes and dims…but I never forged that bond.
Bitch.
And she keeps speaking to me, and I answer with my own methodical rationale, knowing full well that she only speaks to me because she desperately needs to tell me that I am wrong, to hear me tell her that her happiness with Rei is real. I want to hear her tell me she is wrong, that the bitter world of hatred and hopeless existence I dwell in is reality.
I do so love that expression of crumpling faith in her face; it's satisfying, as though to see her focusing every bit of her attention on me is completing an appetite I did not fully recognize.
But it seems as though my fingers are still rather hungry.
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Thanks to all reviewers. :]