A/N: Yet another WK songfic! I guess I felt like writing a bit of Farf
(wait for it.) fluff and the song was in my head - I thought it worked.this
is the result. Please review!
Disclaimer: I don't own Weiss Kreuz, in this case I don't own Farfarello I'm merely borrowing him so some other poor bishie doesn't get tortured - at least he doesn't feel pain. I also don't own the first verse or the bridge of the song "Tourniquet" by 'Evanescence'. I sincerely hoping both parties who do own the aforementioned "things I'm borrowing" don't take offense and sue me - if I didn't enjoy your work/s I wouldn't write fanfiction about them/include them in fanfiction. (That and I'm broke at the moment.)
Warning: This fic is rated R for a reason, I felt it was too violent to be rated PG13+, if you might get offended by this fic please stop reading now - don't flame me please (I *have* warned you and given you the opportunity to stop reading). This fic also has some sacrilegious tones to it (it's Farf.) but if you find that offensive please don't continue to read. This fic may also contain spoilers regarding a certain Irish Schwarz member's past - if you don't know and don't want to know stop reading now. If you don't know and don't care about spoilers or if you already know what I'm hinting at and aren't offended by anything aforementioned - go ahead and enjoy my fic!
Tourniquet
Shadows slipped elusively through the room, painted silver in the moon's cast. The subtle hiss of the trees outside as the wind threaded its way through their boughs. They bend, forced in one direction by a pressing ghost hand before they snap back violently to screech past the dusty window- pane in the concrete wall alongside them. Inside the shifting-lighted room a figure sits against a wall, one leg curled up towards his chest, the other splayed carelessly before him. His eyes don't notice the trembling trees outside; their gaze lies downwards, towards the dapple lighted floor. He does not move.
The dancing shadows pay no heed to this silent statue on its canvas; instead washing it's gloomy hues over the figure's features. He remains oblivious. The smoky shadows seem to linger in the harsh scars that mark a once innocent face. A little boy lost behind a warrior's guise.
Silver hair shines frostily in the filtered, flickering moonlight through the dusty window; it's spiky peaks setting up a subconscious defense. Stay out of my thoughts. Slowly the lone figure moved. His head raises and the trees seem to screech and hiss louder, more violently. He pays no heed. His right eye holds the glitter of cool malice, the other - holds the prize of enraged self- mutilation. A scarred wreckage where the proud window to his soul once lay.
// I tried to kill the pain//
//But only brought more (so much more)//
His single eyed gaze is hollow, deadened by hatred. Who does he hate?
He hates silence. He hates loneliness. It leaves him to his own thoughts. His own mind is scarier than anything the world can throw at him. He feels no fear, not even the thought of his own mind and its buried secrets can hold him to the icy wall of fear. For no apparent reason his gaze hardens. It turns into a blood lusting glare. When he asks too many questions he must lose control - he can't hurt himself that way. Seconds pass as he hangs in limbo, suspended temporarily between the realm of feeling and the realm of numb. For one agonizing second he prepares to lock down, away from feelings and memories that have been held in agony for years, before the walls of sanity slip away.
// I lay dying//
//And I'm pouring crimson regret and betrayal//
He slowly reaches for the shining blade, lying previously undetected next to him. Grasping it around the blade as his panicked hands grope in the shifting light its deadly length easily slices the scarred flesh on his palms and scarlet fluid floods between his fingers to drizzle down the blade. He must feel. Has to feel something. Anything is better than those memories. His grip tightens around the maliciously gleaming knife in his hand. His golden eye, the one remaining portal to his soul, shows so many emotions in so much depth that it would drive any sane person who saw it to the brink of insanity.
The anger - ever present danced in varying degrees through the honey coloured depths. Hatred - at himself, at the world. At God. Fear - ever lurking in the darkest shadows, overridden by hatred, but still present. Longing, torn apart by fear and longing.
The dark liquid spilling from his hand pools near the hilt of the knife before dripping onto the dancing shadows on the floor.
//I'm dying, praying, bleeding and screaming//
//Am I too lose to be saved?//
//Am I too lost?//
The memories burst free and the pain sears the scarred figure as if the fires of hell had begun to burn and smoulder in his intestines. He screams but doesn't hear the sound, and the knife bites through his fingers to bury itself shallowly in the delicate bones. The wind screams with him and he convulses wildly, writhing on the floor as the dreaded, hated images boil up from the dregs of time to shred his heart.
A mother. Bleeding. The knife in his hand. No. That's a lie. God did it. GOD DID IT ALL.
//My God, my tourniquet//
//Return to me salvation//
Tears well up, seeping from the pool at his soul's core that has been dammed by the wall of anger and hatred. The knife hilt finds it's way into his blood drenched hand - pulling itself out of the ivory coloured bone. It slashes, without pain or thought of knowledge. Slicing at his naked arms, long slashes that trickle at first before creating rivulets of blood that cascade down his pale, shaking arms. He screams in pain. Emotional pain. The blood is too familiar. It scares him not. His own blood.
Another image, a child's scream ricochets through the caverns of his mind, a ghost scream from the past. The blood is no longer his own, it is everyone's. All the blood he has ever spilt - guilty, innocent, men, women, children - it all tumbles down his moon-tanned arms, beneath the whirling shadows of the screeching trees. He has sinned. He had to be good. He blamed God for everything. It was him. Not Him.
// My wounds cry for the grave//
//My soul cries for deliverance//
Saline tears, so long forgotten, twist themselves into the burgundy- shaded rivers running down his arms. His vocal chords are rasping, grating, bleeding. His mouth is filled with blood. No, their blood. Victim's blood. In absolute terror he screams again, the agony is worse than he ever imagined.
"It was God! It was God!"
Lies. He knows that he's lying. Lying is a sin. He has to be good. The pain intensifies as he screams his mantra to the unforgiving, uncaring shadows. Blood and saliva flecks his mouth, mingling with tears, spraying the ground before him. He slashes the shredded flesh of his arms again.
"It was God!"
//Will I be denied//
//Christ//
//Tourniquet//
With a final desperate scream he turns the point of the gore- covered knife towards himself, his bloody hands and arms blatantly accusing him. Insane and faced with his own cruelty. A little boy who desperately wanted to do Gods will, lost in hatred and loneliness. He gasps and the screaming stops as he starts to cough, splutter and choke. Fresh blood fills his mouth. The knife embedded in his throat, passing through his windpipe to create an ooze of red either side of his neck. His eye glazes and he falls to the floor where the shadows continue to dance over his motionless figure.
//My suicide//
A/N: Well that's another Farf piece out of the way. I really hope I haven't offended anyone - I tried to warn you on the contents, so please don't flame me - reviews would be nice though.^_^
Disclaimer: I don't own Weiss Kreuz, in this case I don't own Farfarello I'm merely borrowing him so some other poor bishie doesn't get tortured - at least he doesn't feel pain. I also don't own the first verse or the bridge of the song "Tourniquet" by 'Evanescence'. I sincerely hoping both parties who do own the aforementioned "things I'm borrowing" don't take offense and sue me - if I didn't enjoy your work/s I wouldn't write fanfiction about them/include them in fanfiction. (That and I'm broke at the moment.)
Warning: This fic is rated R for a reason, I felt it was too violent to be rated PG13+, if you might get offended by this fic please stop reading now - don't flame me please (I *have* warned you and given you the opportunity to stop reading). This fic also has some sacrilegious tones to it (it's Farf.) but if you find that offensive please don't continue to read. This fic may also contain spoilers regarding a certain Irish Schwarz member's past - if you don't know and don't want to know stop reading now. If you don't know and don't care about spoilers or if you already know what I'm hinting at and aren't offended by anything aforementioned - go ahead and enjoy my fic!
Tourniquet
Shadows slipped elusively through the room, painted silver in the moon's cast. The subtle hiss of the trees outside as the wind threaded its way through their boughs. They bend, forced in one direction by a pressing ghost hand before they snap back violently to screech past the dusty window- pane in the concrete wall alongside them. Inside the shifting-lighted room a figure sits against a wall, one leg curled up towards his chest, the other splayed carelessly before him. His eyes don't notice the trembling trees outside; their gaze lies downwards, towards the dapple lighted floor. He does not move.
The dancing shadows pay no heed to this silent statue on its canvas; instead washing it's gloomy hues over the figure's features. He remains oblivious. The smoky shadows seem to linger in the harsh scars that mark a once innocent face. A little boy lost behind a warrior's guise.
Silver hair shines frostily in the filtered, flickering moonlight through the dusty window; it's spiky peaks setting up a subconscious defense. Stay out of my thoughts. Slowly the lone figure moved. His head raises and the trees seem to screech and hiss louder, more violently. He pays no heed. His right eye holds the glitter of cool malice, the other - holds the prize of enraged self- mutilation. A scarred wreckage where the proud window to his soul once lay.
// I tried to kill the pain//
//But only brought more (so much more)//
His single eyed gaze is hollow, deadened by hatred. Who does he hate?
He hates silence. He hates loneliness. It leaves him to his own thoughts. His own mind is scarier than anything the world can throw at him. He feels no fear, not even the thought of his own mind and its buried secrets can hold him to the icy wall of fear. For no apparent reason his gaze hardens. It turns into a blood lusting glare. When he asks too many questions he must lose control - he can't hurt himself that way. Seconds pass as he hangs in limbo, suspended temporarily between the realm of feeling and the realm of numb. For one agonizing second he prepares to lock down, away from feelings and memories that have been held in agony for years, before the walls of sanity slip away.
// I lay dying//
//And I'm pouring crimson regret and betrayal//
He slowly reaches for the shining blade, lying previously undetected next to him. Grasping it around the blade as his panicked hands grope in the shifting light its deadly length easily slices the scarred flesh on his palms and scarlet fluid floods between his fingers to drizzle down the blade. He must feel. Has to feel something. Anything is better than those memories. His grip tightens around the maliciously gleaming knife in his hand. His golden eye, the one remaining portal to his soul, shows so many emotions in so much depth that it would drive any sane person who saw it to the brink of insanity.
The anger - ever present danced in varying degrees through the honey coloured depths. Hatred - at himself, at the world. At God. Fear - ever lurking in the darkest shadows, overridden by hatred, but still present. Longing, torn apart by fear and longing.
The dark liquid spilling from his hand pools near the hilt of the knife before dripping onto the dancing shadows on the floor.
//I'm dying, praying, bleeding and screaming//
//Am I too lose to be saved?//
//Am I too lost?//
The memories burst free and the pain sears the scarred figure as if the fires of hell had begun to burn and smoulder in his intestines. He screams but doesn't hear the sound, and the knife bites through his fingers to bury itself shallowly in the delicate bones. The wind screams with him and he convulses wildly, writhing on the floor as the dreaded, hated images boil up from the dregs of time to shred his heart.
A mother. Bleeding. The knife in his hand. No. That's a lie. God did it. GOD DID IT ALL.
//My God, my tourniquet//
//Return to me salvation//
Tears well up, seeping from the pool at his soul's core that has been dammed by the wall of anger and hatred. The knife hilt finds it's way into his blood drenched hand - pulling itself out of the ivory coloured bone. It slashes, without pain or thought of knowledge. Slicing at his naked arms, long slashes that trickle at first before creating rivulets of blood that cascade down his pale, shaking arms. He screams in pain. Emotional pain. The blood is too familiar. It scares him not. His own blood.
Another image, a child's scream ricochets through the caverns of his mind, a ghost scream from the past. The blood is no longer his own, it is everyone's. All the blood he has ever spilt - guilty, innocent, men, women, children - it all tumbles down his moon-tanned arms, beneath the whirling shadows of the screeching trees. He has sinned. He had to be good. He blamed God for everything. It was him. Not Him.
// My wounds cry for the grave//
//My soul cries for deliverance//
Saline tears, so long forgotten, twist themselves into the burgundy- shaded rivers running down his arms. His vocal chords are rasping, grating, bleeding. His mouth is filled with blood. No, their blood. Victim's blood. In absolute terror he screams again, the agony is worse than he ever imagined.
"It was God! It was God!"
Lies. He knows that he's lying. Lying is a sin. He has to be good. The pain intensifies as he screams his mantra to the unforgiving, uncaring shadows. Blood and saliva flecks his mouth, mingling with tears, spraying the ground before him. He slashes the shredded flesh of his arms again.
"It was God!"
//Will I be denied//
//Christ//
//Tourniquet//
With a final desperate scream he turns the point of the gore- covered knife towards himself, his bloody hands and arms blatantly accusing him. Insane and faced with his own cruelty. A little boy who desperately wanted to do Gods will, lost in hatred and loneliness. He gasps and the screaming stops as he starts to cough, splutter and choke. Fresh blood fills his mouth. The knife embedded in his throat, passing through his windpipe to create an ooze of red either side of his neck. His eye glazes and he falls to the floor where the shadows continue to dance over his motionless figure.
//My suicide//
A/N: Well that's another Farf piece out of the way. I really hope I haven't offended anyone - I tried to warn you on the contents, so please don't flame me - reviews would be nice though.^_^