~God's Eyes Must Be Blue~
Chapter 2: Fascination
By: Kohaku no Ramen
~Author's Note~ Erm... Well there is a whole lot of ranting in this, but it makes sense if you think about it. The purpose of this story is to create the mental path he took to be able to sustain some form of sanity by the time Griffith came under his wing. There tends to b ranting when a human uses a form of dissociation as a defense mechanism. Bear with me!
I awoke on the filthy stone floor the next morning. My body hurt. I touched my lip with the back of my dirtied hand, suspecting the others beat me after I fainted. If there was blood, it had long since dried and any scabbing was indiscernible beneath my begriming glove.
I used my hands to force my worn body into an upright position and groaned. There was a dull twinge of pain in my shoulder. That's what comes of sleeping on that dreary grey floor, I suppose. I rubbed it with the hand opposite and, the black film covering it passing onto my brown shirt.
The motion was forced to cease as I remembered what happened. Slowly, gingerly, I turned my eyes upward. The base... the slab... an arm. They hadn't bothered to take his body away. I tensed as nausea passed its warm, sweating hand through me. My legs hardly held fast as I tried to stand. It took several bruises before I was able to successfully put my weight on my feet, my legs regained the strength lost in distressed slumber.
His corpse had to be covered. Even a criminal deserves to rest peacefully. No crime should keep a soul from crossing over comfortably. I don't think so at least. I glanced once again at him. It was so strange. I tried to free myself from the gaze, but I couldn't. The body intrigued me.
The face I thought was fat when I fears beheld it had expanded to obesity. The entire form was inflated. The color had passed from fleshy beige to yellow and was now continuing to morph into a hue of purple. Why did it change like this? I've seen the canvas bags that held dead men. I've even beared witness to the organs they removed from victims. But neither was as interesting as the full frame of the decaying.
My eyes quivered as I scanned over the mass, some of it stained black with blood and death bile. I didn't feel sick this time, yet my stomach still churned. What was this emotion? Something I hadn't experienced since beginning my work here. Elation. Inquiry. I wanted to touch it. How strange it must feel! My heart fluttered with curiosity. My head began throbbing, but not in pain. It was occulting the mad currents of wonder that it sent through me, giving me a chill. I reached forward with my trembling hand.
One touch couldn't hurt. It was all in the name of exploration, a human wish to know.
Inches away, I hesitated. A flash of doubt seared my skull, burning my ears. I don't know why I hated myself in those few seconds. I hated my sickly body, my black eyes, my sudden fascination. "It was perverse to think these things," I scolded. "You cannot touch a dead man, let him be."
The feeling faded quickly. I was desecrating nothing. You can only sin by defiling what is holey. What is holy about a soulless body? An empty shell? It was the proof he once lived, but was no herald to the man he was. I wonder what he did, who he was. He would so be forgotten, though, and the worms would mangle and destroy the meat. What could my fingers wreak upon this cadaver that compares to that?
I drew my hand away without touching. I heard the laughs of the fellow dungeon-men. My body stiffened and my widened eyes shifted about the room. My heart was racing. I felt frightened, a fear derived from shame that filled my spirit. It was as if those men were able to hear my thoughts, that they had come to punish me for my sinful musings. With a cry, I began to run. A stone found its way to the middle of my path and I fell, scraping the side of my face on the granite. I emitted a sound resembling a whimper, getting to my feet.
The smell I had grown accustomed to now burned my eyes and my nose. The reek of the rotting prisoner, his blood, my blood. It was only amplified by the stench of urine and vomit that remained no my personage. I needed a bath. I grit my teeth and took my leave of that tomb.
I felt I had shared a casket with that man. I envisioned myself upon that cold bed, contrasted by the burning of metal pressed, prodded, and impaled with it. I screamed and threw my hands over my head as if that were a sign to force the image from my mind.
He was free now, though. That must be comforting to those that knew him, those that he left behind.
I passed the men walking to the place from whence I'd just come. They yelled at me, shielding themselves as I barreled down the corridor. I didn't care. I just wanted to clean myself.
To me, it took far to long to reach the washroom we were allowed to use. It was a wooden confinement built around a well. I slammed the door as I stumbled in and struggled to light the lamp. It was accomplished, at length, and I tripped over the dented tin basin on my way to the well.
I drew up the water and, bucketful after bucketful, I filled it nearly all the way. The water wasn't clean enough to drink, but it served its purpose here well enough. It served my purpose well enough.
I took off my loose leather shoes with my feet as I lifted the tunic over my head. Upon noticing the ease of this multi-task, I realized I needed new shoes. The thought was a relief. I didn't have the burning thoughts, the self-hatred, for that moment. Getting out of my soiled pants was a relief, a much needed pleasantry.
I sat in the water, rubbing my hands tighter furiously to peel away the caked on feculence of blood and dust. The water soon grew brown as the muck was transferred to it. I was forced to get out and change the water.
I knelt in the fresh set with my hands against the bottom. I stared at myself. I know that the reflection was distorted, but I felt it could be no more hideous in reality. Hair hung in the creature's visage. Sticking to that rough, peasant's skin. A portion of the cleansing liquid I was in dripped from the slick tresses. The pointed crooked nose that adorned the monstrous face. I stared back at my own deep-set, black eyes, shining with fear and disappointment. It was detestable.
I wonder if a soul looks like a reflection. The psyche of a man is so similar to that image. It is calm at one moment, treacherous the next. It is warped and shattered by the smallest pebble, the most miniscule drop of water. Does my soul has a face. Or is it just a shapeless entity, a concept more than a tangible thing?
As I pondered, a shadow grew beside the image for which I held such aversion. The round shape formed lips. They were small, thick but spanning very little lengthwise. When I saw a bulbous nose take shape, I became ill again. When blue eyes stared back, I shrieked. I fell out of the basin, spilling the water that extinguished the lamp on the floor. I got to my knees and prayed, crying as I did so.
"Forgive me! Oh god, forgive me! Haunt me no longer I beg of you!" I called, not knowing if it was aloud or not. "I beg of you..." I added, my voice weakened by the torrents of tears. I fell forward, my hands over my head.
Swiftly my stinking shirt was pressed to my skin once again and I left. I needed new clothes. I needed a new life. How could I last here forever? But I knew that was irrational. I was never going to leave this place. I'll forget this someday, won't I? I'll be able to put it from my mind. I swore to myself there that I would never again allow myself these feelings. Each of them ranging from the sickness, to the curiosity, to the guilt. I kept true to that. I did for the next 2 years.
Chapter 2: Fascination
By: Kohaku no Ramen
~Author's Note~ Erm... Well there is a whole lot of ranting in this, but it makes sense if you think about it. The purpose of this story is to create the mental path he took to be able to sustain some form of sanity by the time Griffith came under his wing. There tends to b ranting when a human uses a form of dissociation as a defense mechanism. Bear with me!
I awoke on the filthy stone floor the next morning. My body hurt. I touched my lip with the back of my dirtied hand, suspecting the others beat me after I fainted. If there was blood, it had long since dried and any scabbing was indiscernible beneath my begriming glove.
I used my hands to force my worn body into an upright position and groaned. There was a dull twinge of pain in my shoulder. That's what comes of sleeping on that dreary grey floor, I suppose. I rubbed it with the hand opposite and, the black film covering it passing onto my brown shirt.
The motion was forced to cease as I remembered what happened. Slowly, gingerly, I turned my eyes upward. The base... the slab... an arm. They hadn't bothered to take his body away. I tensed as nausea passed its warm, sweating hand through me. My legs hardly held fast as I tried to stand. It took several bruises before I was able to successfully put my weight on my feet, my legs regained the strength lost in distressed slumber.
His corpse had to be covered. Even a criminal deserves to rest peacefully. No crime should keep a soul from crossing over comfortably. I don't think so at least. I glanced once again at him. It was so strange. I tried to free myself from the gaze, but I couldn't. The body intrigued me.
The face I thought was fat when I fears beheld it had expanded to obesity. The entire form was inflated. The color had passed from fleshy beige to yellow and was now continuing to morph into a hue of purple. Why did it change like this? I've seen the canvas bags that held dead men. I've even beared witness to the organs they removed from victims. But neither was as interesting as the full frame of the decaying.
My eyes quivered as I scanned over the mass, some of it stained black with blood and death bile. I didn't feel sick this time, yet my stomach still churned. What was this emotion? Something I hadn't experienced since beginning my work here. Elation. Inquiry. I wanted to touch it. How strange it must feel! My heart fluttered with curiosity. My head began throbbing, but not in pain. It was occulting the mad currents of wonder that it sent through me, giving me a chill. I reached forward with my trembling hand.
One touch couldn't hurt. It was all in the name of exploration, a human wish to know.
Inches away, I hesitated. A flash of doubt seared my skull, burning my ears. I don't know why I hated myself in those few seconds. I hated my sickly body, my black eyes, my sudden fascination. "It was perverse to think these things," I scolded. "You cannot touch a dead man, let him be."
The feeling faded quickly. I was desecrating nothing. You can only sin by defiling what is holey. What is holy about a soulless body? An empty shell? It was the proof he once lived, but was no herald to the man he was. I wonder what he did, who he was. He would so be forgotten, though, and the worms would mangle and destroy the meat. What could my fingers wreak upon this cadaver that compares to that?
I drew my hand away without touching. I heard the laughs of the fellow dungeon-men. My body stiffened and my widened eyes shifted about the room. My heart was racing. I felt frightened, a fear derived from shame that filled my spirit. It was as if those men were able to hear my thoughts, that they had come to punish me for my sinful musings. With a cry, I began to run. A stone found its way to the middle of my path and I fell, scraping the side of my face on the granite. I emitted a sound resembling a whimper, getting to my feet.
The smell I had grown accustomed to now burned my eyes and my nose. The reek of the rotting prisoner, his blood, my blood. It was only amplified by the stench of urine and vomit that remained no my personage. I needed a bath. I grit my teeth and took my leave of that tomb.
I felt I had shared a casket with that man. I envisioned myself upon that cold bed, contrasted by the burning of metal pressed, prodded, and impaled with it. I screamed and threw my hands over my head as if that were a sign to force the image from my mind.
He was free now, though. That must be comforting to those that knew him, those that he left behind.
I passed the men walking to the place from whence I'd just come. They yelled at me, shielding themselves as I barreled down the corridor. I didn't care. I just wanted to clean myself.
To me, it took far to long to reach the washroom we were allowed to use. It was a wooden confinement built around a well. I slammed the door as I stumbled in and struggled to light the lamp. It was accomplished, at length, and I tripped over the dented tin basin on my way to the well.
I drew up the water and, bucketful after bucketful, I filled it nearly all the way. The water wasn't clean enough to drink, but it served its purpose here well enough. It served my purpose well enough.
I took off my loose leather shoes with my feet as I lifted the tunic over my head. Upon noticing the ease of this multi-task, I realized I needed new shoes. The thought was a relief. I didn't have the burning thoughts, the self-hatred, for that moment. Getting out of my soiled pants was a relief, a much needed pleasantry.
I sat in the water, rubbing my hands tighter furiously to peel away the caked on feculence of blood and dust. The water soon grew brown as the muck was transferred to it. I was forced to get out and change the water.
I knelt in the fresh set with my hands against the bottom. I stared at myself. I know that the reflection was distorted, but I felt it could be no more hideous in reality. Hair hung in the creature's visage. Sticking to that rough, peasant's skin. A portion of the cleansing liquid I was in dripped from the slick tresses. The pointed crooked nose that adorned the monstrous face. I stared back at my own deep-set, black eyes, shining with fear and disappointment. It was detestable.
I wonder if a soul looks like a reflection. The psyche of a man is so similar to that image. It is calm at one moment, treacherous the next. It is warped and shattered by the smallest pebble, the most miniscule drop of water. Does my soul has a face. Or is it just a shapeless entity, a concept more than a tangible thing?
As I pondered, a shadow grew beside the image for which I held such aversion. The round shape formed lips. They were small, thick but spanning very little lengthwise. When I saw a bulbous nose take shape, I became ill again. When blue eyes stared back, I shrieked. I fell out of the basin, spilling the water that extinguished the lamp on the floor. I got to my knees and prayed, crying as I did so.
"Forgive me! Oh god, forgive me! Haunt me no longer I beg of you!" I called, not knowing if it was aloud or not. "I beg of you..." I added, my voice weakened by the torrents of tears. I fell forward, my hands over my head.
Swiftly my stinking shirt was pressed to my skin once again and I left. I needed new clothes. I needed a new life. How could I last here forever? But I knew that was irrational. I was never going to leave this place. I'll forget this someday, won't I? I'll be able to put it from my mind. I swore to myself there that I would never again allow myself these feelings. Each of them ranging from the sickness, to the curiosity, to the guilt. I kept true to that. I did for the next 2 years.