Lost in Shadow, Lost in Light
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Hurray for wangsty titles. Basically a drabble-ish fic I wrote while in a bad mood, trying to write something Deep and Meaningful. Because that's what happens when I read really awesome darker fics, and yes I'm looking at you Chev.
Anywho. Future AU. Probably OoC, which bothers me. But kudos to those who know who it is (I think it's rather obvious, myself...)
Comments and critcisms always appreciated.
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It's dark.
Although, he does have to admit, that's no longer any surprise to him. But he still stops to recognize the fact. It's something he can't escape, and hasn't been trying to run from for longer than he cares to think about. There's something comforting in the darkness. Cold and clammy as it is, it's there and ever present, and he's known it for a long time now. Of course before, he fought it off tooth and nail, bit it back and prided himself in his ability to rise above it.
Now he's just tired.
So he lets the dark in, lets the shadows of his own making cover him as he slips through the shadows of reality. His targets never know he's there, he never truly knows he's there. He just is. Him, and his ever growing darkness.
He fights it, of course. He wouldn't be him if he didn't fight against it, rail against the things that try to control him. If he didn't force himself to be someone to be recognized and acknowledged. But the fights are less hectic, less frantic than they used to be. He knows he's losing, and his darkness knows it too. He can feel its smile, its breath cold as death as it laughs at him from beyond its barred doors. Can see the glint of triumph in those dark eyes every time he sleeps, every time he blinks.
It's painful, though. To know he's losing. His whole life he's been a failure, been knocked down, but he always got back up, would never admit defeat. But now he feels it growing, always growing deeper inside him, and he's tired and doesn't want to fight anymore. Doesn't want to do anything but let it happen. If he knows he's a monster, and everyone else does too, there isn't much point in fighting against it, in trying to keep himself sane for those who would have cared.
For those who did, and no longer can.
Because there's nothing left for him now.
His target doesn't even get the chance to scream as his windpipe is crushed in seconds, the body dropping still to the ground. There's not even a twitch.
Dusting his hands off on his pant legs, he turns from the kill, slipping silently into the shadows once more. They're comfortable now. Much more so than when he was younger and loud, when he felt the need to shout out his presence.
He doesn't feel that need now.
Things change, people change, they say. He's heard it hundreds of times. He's said it hundreds of times. But he's not so sure he wants to hear it, wants to say it, not anymore. Change brings wonderful things, yes, and he's seen it. Done it. Felt it.
But change brings dark things too, and he's seen more than enough that he doesn't want to see anymore. And the beautiful things are never enough to outweigh the bloody.
His darkness growls, laughs at him for that thought. Relishes in such things. It knows the agony those thoughts bring and it loves it, loves the torment and the torture and the sheer pain. That's how it's won so much, destroyed so much of the young man it inhabits.
Thoughts are painful things for those who just want to forget.
He runs through the shadows, hidden, hidden away where no one will find him or hear him scream for help. No one wants to hear that sound, no one wants to aide the monster that killed their loved ones. Like him, they'd rather forget. Leave it all behind, bury it away and never speak of it again. Lose it to the places where the shadows lie.
Where he sleeps, hidden away, and no one can help him or ease the tears.
His darkness laughs some more, forcing his lips into a distorted image of a grin. His teeth are sharp, like a wild animal's, and the darkness almost regrets the way it chose to kill the target—such a tactic was too clean, too human for its taste. It enjoys the scent of blood, he enjoys it, and together they walk through it, cleaving the path denied it for so long. A caged animal, once let loose, is never truly sane. Never truly free from its bonds.
The hunters never realize, though, and by then it's too late.
It jumps up onto the rooftops, silent as the shadows it needs, and runs on, never stopping; always out to find someone new to hunt. The long fingernails that so resemble claws dig into the thatch roof as itstalks its way across, keeping low, senses poised and ready for anything and everything.
It welcomes the challenge.
And he's tired, and alone, and so he lets his darkness have its fun, because there's nothing else left to him now.