Um, well… I wrote this way, way back when I was doing Raw Horizon. I wanted to experiment a little with sort of abstract pieces and first person. At the time, I didn't really like it, so it wasn't posted. But I just remembered it and when I went back and looked again, I decided it wasn't actually all that bad. So- with a little prodding from Neko, so y'all should thank her for this- I decided to post it.
It's very strange and pretty short, and I name no names. There are four, erm, characters, shall we say. I'll let you figure out who's being referred to as what.
Disclaimer: Dun own Jak II. Darn. Wonder if Naughty Dog would sell it to me for twenty bucks and smelly gym sock? Hm… probably not. Le sigh.
Warnings: Nothing much here. A couple bad words. Angst and implied shounen-ai. But that's not exactly something you need to be warned about.
I tried to kill the pain
But only brought more
(So much more)
I lay dying and I'm pouring
Crimson regret and betrayal
I'm dying, praying, bleeding, I'm screaming
Am I too lost to be saved?
Am I too lost?
- 'Tourniquet' by Evanescence
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It is angry.
This is nothing new – it is always angry. It is the very essence of anger, the embodiment of an impalpable emotion. It thrives on anger, on hate and vengeance and pain. It has a mission: to hurt the one who wronged it. Who created it. Because it did not exist… before. Before pain. Before anger.
Before this.
This… this is Me. This is what I Am. I Am hate and vengeance and pain. I Am anger. And I hate it. I wish I weren't. I have a shell; a shell that covers Me and presents the illusion that you believe is real. I don't let you know that what you see isn't really me. It isn't really Me. But I wish it were.
I wish that I were like before.
Am I making sense? There's no one to hear me, but am I making sense?
If I told you what I Am, would you understand?
If I showed you what I Am, would you be afraid?
It is Me. I am not me. It's taking over me. It's taken over. I'm already gone. I was gone when he came for me. He thought he was saving me. He was too late. I'm too lost to be saved.
But that's beside the point.
It is angry.
It is always angry, but today, it is furious.
Today, it strains to be in control. Normally it doesn't care. Normally, it waits. It waits until I lose control, and my anger overrides my judgment, and then it takes over. But today, it wants control, and it wants it now. Our mental war is painful, strenuous- it's tearing me apart inside, but I'm not giving in. It hates me, and I hate it, and neither side is losing.
I can't help the fact that the scars of the battle are showing. I'm in pain. I can't be completely stoic all the time. No one can. Except maybe you.
The fact is: someone's bound to notice. I know you will, once I enter your line of vision in all of, oh, thirty seconds? You won't say anything, or acknowledge me, or do shit, but you will notice. He'll notice, too. He always does. I can't hide it from him- he knows me too well. What he doesn't know is that I wish he would keep his mouth shut about it. But that's just the way he is. And I guess I'm kinda used to it.
Once he jumps down to the tabletop and finishes ranting at you about some nonsensical crap, he'll turn around and see me. Yup, there he goes. He's looking at me funny.
He's noticed something's wrong.
He couldn't see my expression from his casual perch on my shoulder, but now that he's standing in front of me, he can see it. He sees the twisted expression of pain. I hate that expression. It tells people what's really going on inside me. Why do you think I always act so caustic?
He asks me what's wrong.
I don't answer.
I don't want to talk. I hate my voice. When I speak, it is harsh and cold and taunting. It is angry. A constant reminder of Me. Words are meaningless. Just because we can talk doesn't mean we should. I was happy before, even though I couldn't talk. Now I can talk, and look at me. I'm not even myself anymore. I fight a bitter battle for consciousness and control of my own mind, and if this is what talking gets me, then I was better off mute. I have nothing to say anyways.
Just one thing. One tiny phrase, but I'll never tell you. I'll never say it, so what does it matter? Why do we say so many pointless things, so many hurtful things, but we never say the few words that are important? The few words that matter? The few words… that would ever actually mean anything to someone. Those words. They're never said. And I'm just as bad. Talk about hypocritical.
You've noticed, too, that something's wrong.
You show no concern, but you've noticed. And you worry. I can tell. Everyone worries about me. I don't know if I should be pleased or offended. Do you even know why you worry? You're right to be afraid… for me? Of me? Do you know?
No. Of course not.
Even he doesn't know. My best friend. We've been through thick and thin together. Someone asks, "What is trust?" and people point to us. We know everything about each other. He tells me all of his secrets, and I tell him all of mine.
Except this.
He doesn't know what I see. And neither do you. No one knows. And I'll never tell.
I'll never tell you how I see blood, blood and darkness and death. How I crave that blood. How I see him in the dark, orange coat covered with blood and grime and other fluids that probably should have remained inside his body. How his sleek fur is matte and how his eyes are dull, lifeless, and never to see again. I'll never tell you how I see you, lying there, bleeding, dying, entombed in darkness just like me. And I'll never tell you how I see it – I see Me – standing over you with blood on its claws, death on its lips, and darkness in its eyes.
It wants that.
I want that.
I want your blood on my hands, and it scares me, it scares me no end.
It hates you.
This is why it wants control today. It wants to kill you now. Because it hates you. It hates everything, but it hates you the most.
Don't you know why?
Don't you know that I love you?
I love you. I love your determination, your conviction that everything will be all right in the end. I love your resolve to fight for the greater good. When I fight, it's out of fury and a need for the settling of scores; it's a release. You fight because you believe this city can be a better place. I used to understand that. I think I want that understanding back.
I love your willpower. I love the sound of your voice. I love how you act so tough. Stoic bastard. I'm not fooled. I hear you cry at night. It's the only thing that keeps my own tears at bay.
And I think… I think that you love me back. But you'll never say anything. You're too proud. And I won't say anything. It's so hard to fight this internal battle with Myself. It wants to kill you so badly. If I say something and I'm wrong, and you reject me, then… I'm scared I won't be able to hold it back any longer. I'm scared I might one day wake up and find your blood on my hands.
So you keep on acting indifferent and stoic and perpetually pissed and keep on stealing glances at me when you think I'm not looking. And I'll keep on being the tortured angry renegade and keep on stealing glances at you when I half hope you're not looking and half hope you are.
But the fact is I love you.
And it hates that.
It would kill you in an instant if it could, just to hurt me. It loves to hurt me. Now you're its number one target.
But I won't let it.
I won't let it hurt you.
Not today, not ever.
So it is angry.
It is always angry, but today, it is furious.
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Um…. Yeah. So that's that. Please leave a review! I don't mind if you tear it to shreds it as long as you tell me what's wrong with it. Constructive criticism is a blessing.
One more thing: I'm, shall we say, hosting a contest! Anyone who's interested can enter, and the deadline is September 1st, so you've got plenty of time! The guidelines are linked in my profile; for some reason I can't post the link here. Please make sure you follow the guidelines for the challenge, and feel free to join the forum if you want to, although it's not required for entering the contest. We have a lot of fun over there! ::glomps DarkMistress for creating it::
Thanks for reading!