Why?

You don't even deserve an answer, you filthy harlot.

You have corrupted the minds of those I love, invaded and destroyed what was not yours, and challenged my power for too long. There is no word for the depths of my loathing for you. I would sooner kill you than have you stand before me and debase my importance with that naively hopeful look on your ugly face.

But here you stand, looking around nervously.

Without a word I walk toward you, and you open your mouth to spew some abomination of sound. Before you do, I brush past, catching a length of your hair in a balled fist. I continue without pause, working against the strain of pulling your head with me by the scalp.

We go out to the rose garden like this. You say stupidly, "What? What are we doing here?" I don't answer.

Instead, I grab your hand in mine - remind me to scald it later - and put a rose into your palm. I carefully curl your fingers around the stem, positioning them ideally on top of the thorns. Then, looking into your eyes, I press your fist tighter and growl, "You are not deserving. You haven't earned them yet."

I watch as your eyes widen and fill with sudden, stinging tears when the first of the thorns breaks skin, and many more follow. I watch as the dark, dirty, outsider blood runs along the rose's stem and drips onto the moist soil of the garden. And it is not enough.

I push you onto your stomach on the ground and, using a small, sharp knife, I cut the side of your shirt away, leaving your smooth back visible. I take the rose from your grasp and, in your own blood and on your own back, write four characters very carefully.

When I am finished, I wait for the blood to dry, ignoring you all the while. Eventually, you lift your face up and ask, "Is that all, Akito-sama?"

First, I kick you in the ribs for calling me the same thing as my ruined juunishi do. Second, I press down on your shoulder to keep you flat on the ground. Third, I show you my knife once more. And I hiss maliciously, "That was only the rough draft."

So, my left hand over your mouth to stifle your screams, I rewrite my message in even fresher blood, oozing unpleasantly from the cuts I make. The blade is sharp and does not hurt immediately, so I go very, very slowly.

When I stand back to look, I see that you are freely weeping, and smirk. I may have nothing left, but I am better than a filthy harlot.

The blood is drying, now, and I read over what I have written.

You love her more.

It is not a message for you. It is for them. The ones you stole from me.

"They weren't going to let you come, you know," I say, and you look up at me weakly, your spirit broken. "But it was the last command I will ever give them." I pull your head up by the hair, bending you backwards, and you don't cry out. Minutely, I cut the character for outsider into the flesh of your neck.

Then, I drop your head, stalk out of the main gates, and keep going until all the pain is forgotten and the only thing anyone remembers is a monster that felt nothing, that caused only pain and drove people apart.

I will die, now. I will die alone, all so that those I love will not.

Am I a monster for that?