Chapter 5

The fetid stench of the air lingered humidly over a one man wooden cell block. For Kira, it was a hellish night, but it had become the norm. The vile and dirty room he found himself in could not have been bigger than five paces wide and five paces long. A scarce amount of pale light shown through the wooden boards and beams of the cramping ceiling, barely signaling the light of the moon. He was bare from his waist down to his waist up. He had thinned considerably yet grown with muscles. Overworked and underfed, his bones ached while his skin became blotchy with patches of blood and fresh wounds. His bare feet became as calloused as his hands that shook violently, but not of his own will.

Two dried rivers of tears lined his cheeks. The dirt on his face almost covering up the wounds. His eyes darkened with a lining of a matching blackish purple under them. The wounds on his back stung like the lashings he took from a jitte had just happened recently. It was quite a while since he received a routine punishment--just before he had been fed once for the day. Everyday was like this. The doshin guards took pleasure in hearing the screams that came from the lashings. Repeated beatings from the weapon seemed to exaggerate the pain tenfold as if he were being beaten by ten guards at the same time.

The stark room was repulsing but peaceful save for the flies that buzzed around. The quiet night almost seemed too endearing for his awful stay. The snotty mud that his feet indulged in seemed to slop within the passing of the days. He had no idea how long he had been held captive. He was too tired to think what day it was, which hour of the beast it was, where his clothes had gone. His eyes trailed in and out of reality. He was looking at nothing while looking at the darkness at the same time. His head was hunched over while his hands fell limply into the mucky floor that was his bed. He could not even feel the hairs on his back, he was frightened and broken to the point in which almost nothing mattered.

His position soured his back enough for him to shift into a posture of the lesser of two evils. He released a deep breath of emptiness as his shaking hands dug into the sloppy earth to steady himself. With a difficult and long struggle, he managed to place his head on the solid stone wall to his rear. He gazed at the small trails of light that passed through the cracks of the roof. His feet balled in with his body, unable to stretch from the tininess of the room. He wondered why he was still living. Why he was still breathing. Why he was still struggling. He didn't want to go through it anymore. He was tired of this life. He was shamed of death and cheated out of glory humiliatingly by his captives. He faintly remembered that day when his life had changed.

He had beaten quite a few samurai that day. He could still feel the wounds from the swords, spears and arrows. The same trickle of blood was there. He had not known how much of the crimson liquid had seeped out of his small body.

A blonde man nearing his middle ages drew his sword up. Kira did likewise only ungracefully. There was no strength left in his body as he became desperate. His other hand searched the hilt of his wakizashi. Immediately the other samurai with a darkish grey kimono realized what he was doing and charged in. Effortlessly he batted Kira's sword away as his hand grasped the hilt of the small dagger, preventing him from doing the unthinkable. With much effort, Kira had managed to throw the samurai off balance enough with a desperate shove and made for the dagger. He grasped in his weary hands and pointed it straight at his throat. The blonde soon recovered. He smiled amusedly and menacingly at the same time as he swiftly delivered a blow with the blunt edge of his sword to Kira's neck, knocking him out. The blonde grasped the boy with one hand, steadying him up and not letting him fall towards the earth. He sheathed the small dagger back, taking a quick look at it.

By the time, Yzac had come to he noticed most of his men were staggering onto their feet. He looked around to see a familiar figure carrying another familiar figure.

"Commander Rau Le Creuset . . ."

"Ah Yzac. We will be heading back now, please watch over this boy."

"Nani?"

"Do not kill this boy. Understand?"

"B-but he has lost! He should kill himself."

"You have lost as well Yzac," the silver-haired samurai almost popped a vain until Rau spoke up, "now, now. You need not be angry. He is no samurai. . . At least not yet. . ." A cynical chuckle escaped his lips as he tossed the boy into the unwelcoming arms of the silver-haired samurai.

Kira sighed. He no longer wanted to think about the fuzzy past. His head spun on its own already. He was tired. Hungry. Sad. Alone. And his hands were still shaking. He couldn't bear to look at his hands. He had recently done the unthinkable. He could not forgive himself. But he knew he just had to see his life through. There was something that he couldn't put his mind to, but some thing had wanted him to live.

A familiar cynical chuckle broke the boy from his reverie.

He looked up to find someone he did not want to see or ever see.

"Kira-kun. It is that time again."

"Rau . . ." Kira whispered while looking at him angrily.

"Now, now, Kira-kun."

A cynical chuckle escaped his lips once more as he brought out his weapon of choice. It was the jitte.

By the end of the night. Kira had become bruised once more. His skin marked with fresh new wounds. His eyes teared once more. Fresh trail of crimson liquid leaked from his forehead. The wounds and tears had not hurt him. Rather it was what he had done that had hurt him. Alone in the darkness of his cell he was crying silently. Wishing he was dead.

The light in his eyes was fading. He was dying.

Unbeknownst to him, a pair of sympathetic crimson eyes peered down onto his shriveled up form.