Author's Note: Thank you so much for the review, burryk! I'm sorry, though, to keep you waiting for a…dissatisfying chapter:
This chapter's a bit short. Blame it on my illness and my writer's block !!
Anyhow, look for no humour in this piece…I was in a melancholy mood, and couldn't think of anything funny to write…
By the way...any hints on how to make spaces and indetations and symbols appear on the screen would be greatly appreciated! (I'm sick of the 8 spaces on the spaces bar ). Once again, I don't own DMC/DMC-related thingies.
Chapter 5: Why now?
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An air of somnolence hung over Dante, but he could not feel asleep. No, not like this: feet dangling over the arms of his favourite, but worn, chair; clad only in black shorts; shivering in the cold 'living room/office' of Devil Never Cry. His back was aching in the cramped position, but he couldn't muster any strength to get up and change position. Furthermore, Trish's complaints had decided to take residence in his ears, and he couldn't get them out. Her angry protests rang on and on in his ears (long after the owner had left to sleep in her cozy, warm bed upstairs), denying him of any sleep.
All this torture, because her blood had soaked through the linen, and worse, into the mattress. She didn't have a right to complain about cleaning up, oh no, because it was she who soiled his sleeping place up. However, complain she did. Obviously she had never heard of the terms "clean up", and "fairness", in the Underworld.
Dante also cursed himself for his negligence. He lived alone, had always did, so he needed at most two pairs of bed lining. Conversely, ever since Trish moved in, Dante neglected to buy another sheet. And there was also the problem of the wet mattress…the man guffawed dryly.
A flash of blood-soaked hair shot through Dante's mind.
He shook his head. Yes, the only reason he couldn't sleep was because of that damned woman.
Beautiful blonde hair, painted with crazy patterns of crimson.
Dante lurched up in his seat, almost falling over.
Another flash of memory: a soft spoken voice, gentle, but laden with pain. "Dante…"
"No." the half-demon stood up, refusing the image to take place in his head. 'No, dammit, leave me alone." He failed.
Three words, spoken in a ghostly whisper: "I love you…"
One glistening tear. Then another. And another. Finally, the dam broke, and Dante found himself helplessly clutching at his eyes, refusing to cry, un-acknowledging that he was. Broad shoulders silently heaved. Tears as hoary as his hair spilled, turning golden in the weak candlelight. "Why now, mother?"
A shadowy figure watched him for a long time, from the darkness. Dante was too deep in his grief to even notice it. The figure, wrapped in sable fingers, turned back, hair reflecting aureate for a split second before being devoured by the blackness.
"If tears could talk, what tales would they tell?" The form soundlessly climbed up the stairs, wishing it had enough courage the approach the halfling, and comfort him.