A/N: This fic is like a string of thoughts that go through Faust's head. Which is bound to be interesting ne? Rated for some language and for suggested and not actually violent violence.
…
Incomplete
My hand is so smooth. I can admire its absolute perfection, as it crunches into a fist, as it wrinkles at every joint of every finger. Can one really doubt the existence of a conscious designer, when this hand has so much power?
It is detached, and moves on its own, turning over and over, dancing in front of my eyes so that I can admire it. So smooth and so pale. The tendons move, close under the thin skin, tense and ready.
I can proudly say that both of my hands are indeed mine, and not a borrowed component from some other unfortunate and conveniently dead being. I know that not all my body is original, and I can always see the difference in shade of the skin on my chest. I can run my fingers over the scars, and they will never be smoothed down.
I am thankful for my body, and I am thankful for the parts unwillingly given to me by others. As long as my mind perseveres, I can live forever!
My other hand is occupied. It's occupied by a sizable syringe, filled with an almost evil looking liquid. Or rather, was filled. I'm so quick and efficient at this that I surprise myself! That strong solution is already spreading inside, disabling the screaming pain sensors. Fucking sensors.
It is truly ridiculous! Without these pain sensors, the body would still function! If anything I find them a hindrance This especially the case when one has a thorough of understanding on how to fix oneself when overriding ones natural functions at times result in, well, small accidents. I won't easily forget the (rather serious I am sure) concussion I received after hitting my head repeatedly against the wall, joyous like a child over the lack of feeling. This was after my first serious dose of morphine. The feeling was wonderful. Or rather, the sensation of quelled feelings was wonderful. I doubt I shall ever reach such a blissful state again. I'm destined for hell, and I understand this better than most.
I can still breathe, which is a good sign. I more and more regularly feel the effects of morphine poisoning, and the most unpleasant one is asphyxiation.
Not fun.
Especially when one is trying to keep standing through a whole fight. It's difficult to manage this dizzy and with the lactic acid building up like lead in your muscles.
I pull in the air in from my surroundings. Sighing comfortably, I search for a place to dispose of my syringe and the little jar the evil-ish liquid came from. I keep up my practices of cleanliness. A sterile syringe every time. Don't want to be spreading anything now, do I? Not that I really share my syringes with anyone. That would just be stupid.
I can feel how my feet are much colder than they should be. They're probably turning a little blue. I feel how a familiar aching pain has lodged itself in my heart; it throbs every time it beats. I fear that a higher dose of morphine may make my already slightly tattered body break down completely, so I am forced to acknowledge this one pain that will not allow itself to be clouded by a good solid dose of morphine. I have to admit that it's infuriating.
My mind takes in images from my immediate surroundings but doesn't react. My subconscious does a good deal to keep me from tripping over and running off cliffs in a fit of joy. It does a good deal, but not very well, as my unfortunate first experience with morphine shows. I still have that bloody scar.
My mental passivity is my weapon against the world. It's a funny thing; I can understand how my body works, but not really who I am. I can control the dead, but cannot bring them back as complete humans. They are never completely alive. That power isn't mine yet I guess. But I am definitely getting there.
The world is now changing around me, and yet I feel as if I am traveling straight through it rather than with it. Running is a metaphorically sounder word. A race against time when time can never end within itself…
Heh.
The same funny paradox that claims that one can be trapped within oneself, and yet you can't really be inside something that is you. In the same way that a box can't contain itself. Well, perhaps in some far off world where strange things happen, perhaps where the dead are waiting. Does it make sense that one can bring back something that is already falling apart? Perhaps that is why they continue to come back incomplete.
My little experiments.
I could never risk the most precious entity of the world. What if I were to break Eliza with these crude hands! They suffice for any other half-important dead something or other, but not for delicate and beautiful Eliza. What if the damage to her were permanent if I dared to try? No, I must first be sure. Scientific method you know.
I shall not allow myself to pursue this depressing matter any further. I have a fight to get ready for.
I know I can bring her back, I can imagine it.
If I can imagine it, I can make it true. Just like how I can destroy everything that I can touch. I can become the most powerful of shamans.
I will. I will destroy what needs be destroyed, for I have been granted the freedom to do so. The devil granted me that freedom when he finally crawled into the back of my psyche and nestled himself there rather comfortably.
And in the process ripped what was left of my mind apart. I meant that it was comfortable for him, not me.
I, in turn, will rip apart those who oppose me. I will use my hands, my very own hands and finish what I have begun.
Eliza will come back again, and she will be alive.
…
A/N: Excuse the random randomness of above fic. I know that it isn't very coherent, but don't forget, this guy's CRAZY which is wonderfully wonderful ! So he has an excuse, and so do I. So there.
"If I can imagine it, I can make it true. Just like how I can destroy everything that I can touch." Is actually a rearranged version of lyrics from the song "Marked" by Bad Religion. Apologies to Bad Religion. Good song though :P