| Do Not Wait For the Final Judgment.; ...It happens every day. Single Post. | |
|---|---|
| Tweet Topic Started: Jan 24 2014, 04:49 PM (196 Views) | |
| Czernobog | Jan 24 2014, 04:49 PM Post #1 |
|
Best Influence.
|
It had rained last night. A light drizzle, but enough to send him scuttling deep into his sleeping bag, wracked by coughs. His food had run out, and he had destroyed the snares he had left. It would be useless not to: he was unable to kill something innocent just to eat, as the rabbit had taught him. But that also gave him hope. If he wasn't able to kill a rabbit, then he wouldn't be able to hurt anyone, would he? Right? The more he thought about it, the more he realized that there was a part of him that was comfortable with hurting other people. It wasn't a big part, nor did it desire to cause harm. He just realized that a part of him simply didn't care. The people who walked by him on the street had their private sorrows and joys that he would never be able to see or hear or feel, they had a rich and meaningful inner world, where they were the protagonist of their own story. But knowing that didn't help him care. He pretended to. He tried to convince himself that he did. But all he really cared about, he realized, was himself. So he had practiced ways to smash open people's defenses, and learn their secrets, and fiddle around with their inner workings. He liked the feeling he got when people trusted him. When they leaned on him. Their reliance made him feel as if he weren't broken. Even if they looked at him with pity and confusion, they came to him for help, and that meant that he wasn't just a boy with a shattered skull and a scarred brain. He wriggled out of the sleeping bag and put on his boots. He unzipped and then wrapped the sleeping bag around his shoulders, and emerged from the makeshift tent. The sky was low and gray. It looked heavy and wet, and the air had the bite of winter in it. On this mountain, he would die. He considered the idea, and found it fitting. He didn't particularly think he wanted to die but, then again, he had never put much effort into keeping himself alive as more than a knee-jerk response to impending death. Everything he did that involved forethought, planning, examining the situation, approaching it thoughtfully and carefully...if there was any risk at all, he took it upon himself and stood up to it. He brewed the last of his tea in the metal bottle, shaking it and hearing the tea ball clatter around inside. Drinking it down, he paused. The last of his provisions. Gone. Well, that was that, then. He tossed the bottle away and glanced around. Where had the lightning bug gotten off to? He hadn't seen the tiny automaton -- the last material thing he had to remind himself or Toru -- since it began raining. He hoped that it hadn't gotten damaged. Rain seemed to wash everything away and leave him alone so often. --frightened eyes slipping under-- He remembered his mother's death, less than a kilometer here. They had been crossing a narrow defile, toward a small that they had seen, hoping to get out of the rain. There had been a crack, and a small avalanche, and the world was awash in water. The owners of this land had made a pond by damming a small stream, and the excess water from the rainstorm had caused the dam to overflow, then to break. They had been inundated. His mother had pulled him up and pushed him to solid ground then tried to reach out and climb after him. The branch that she was holding on to -- that had anchored her as she pushed Naoya up and out of the water -- gave way, and she was swept away. He hadn't even reached out for her. He had been too frightened. He just watched as her frightened eyes slipped under the dark water rushing past. They had found him six hours later, shivering and suffering from hypothermia. He had almost died of pneumonia. His mother had died of blunt force trauma as much as the drowning. He hoped it had at least been quick. And everything had been different after. His father grew distant and focused on work, and Uncle Shin came to live with them. His uncle, whom Naoya didn't even really know how to speak to anymore. He had been bright and funny before they found out about Naota Imoto's pancreatic cancer, a genetic defect that Shin and Naoya both most likely possessed. A timebomb spiraled tight in close to the substance of their being. His uncle hadn't been the same after that. Upon Naoya's return, Shin was distant and hard-nosed about everything. He wanted to leave the legacy of a clean city behind if nothing else. If the shadows didn't get him, the a rogue persona user would; if the shadows and the rogue persona users didn't get him, the hoods would; if the shadows and the rogue persona users and the hoods didn't get him, the water would; if the shadows and the rogue persona users and the hoods and the water didn't get him, the winter would; if the shadows and the rogue persona users and the hoods and the water and the winter didn't get him, the cancer would; if the shadows and the rogue persona users and the hoods and the water and the winter and the cancer didn't get him, then madness would; if the shadows and the rogue persona users and the hoods and the water and the winter and the cancer and the madness didn't get him, loneliness would; if the shadows and the rogue persona users and the hoods and the water and the winter and the cancer and the madness and the loneliness didn't get him, something else inevitably would. If death would come anyway, why not look for it and get it out of the way? That was it. He wanted to die. His shadow had told him that he wanted to be punished, but it was wrong, it slanted things. He sipped his tea: he wanted to die because everyone did, and he had caused so much pain and discomfort that it was inevitably his turn. He had just been too stupid and brain-damaged to realize it. The noose was there. He couldn't, though. He told people he was going to try to get better. He had to try, for his friends and uncle, if not for himself. He wasn't worth it. They were. But, still... The noose was still there. Naoya finished off his tea, and then chucked the metal bottle as far as he could down the mountain. He wrapped himself tightly in the sleeping bag, and sat beneath the tree from which he had hung the rope. It was time to begin. He began to breathe evenly and deeply. He closed his eyes. He straightened his back. It was time to begin. He was going to wrestle this thing inside of him. It would break him, or he would break it, but it wasn't going to wait. It was time to begin. |
![]() |
|
| 1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous) | |
| « Previous Topic · Out of Town · Next Topic » |
| Track Topic · E-mail Topic |
2:38 AM Jul 11
|






2:38 AM Jul 11