Digimon Fan Fiction ❯ Memoirs of a Tortured Soul ❯ Crimson Script ( Chapter 1 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: Chibi Chocolate 
Some secrets are better left under wraps...
Anime/Manga: Digimon Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Psychological / Supernatural | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 10.08.2002 | Pages: 2 | Words: 3.0K | Visits: 162 | Status: Work In Progress
Some secrets are better left under wraps...
Anime/Manga: Digimon Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Psychological / Supernatural | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 10.08.2002 | Pages: 2 | Words: 3.0K | Visits: 162 | Status: Work In Progress
Author's Note: Sorry for the long-overdue-ness of this chapter. Hope it's up to scratch! No warnings, 'cause I'll just give the whole plot away, but be sensible: If you're really sensitive about emotional and psychological abuse, GO AWAY AND DON'T READ THIS! [realizes that she has just scared most of the audience away] Uh...
I'm going with the timeline of Ken and Daisuke's being 15 in 2002. Bear in mind that Ken's still young and naive when he writes most of this...
This chapter seemed to suck big-time when I proofread it, so it's gone through the 'writer's blender'. If you've already read it, I haven't changed the plot or general storyline, but there's just a lot more filling out of explanations and the like.
Special thanx to Eriya, Your New Best Friend (cool name ^_^)and Shizuku for putting me on their favourites lists!
Disclaimer: Digimon and all the characters therein are the creative property of Toei and their associates. This plot isn't. Nah nah! ^_~
=#=#=#=
It was days, actually, before Daisuke had a chance to more than glance at the notes and letters in the box. Between his private grieving and the lavish funeral, he was afforded little time to do any of the many pressing things on his schedule. The most trying moment had been the breaking of the news to the rest of the Digidestined: Daisuke had not even come to terms with the stark reality himself at that point. The reactions had varied greatly, from Miyako's tearful outburst to Takeru's solemn, expressionless disbelief. Ever the thoughtful one, Hikari had flung herself at Daisuke; mumbling a string of regrets, comforts and apologies as he allowed himself to cry in her embrace. Even Jun, horrifyingly unsympathetic as she usually was, had at the very least kept out of his way.
Daisuke hadn't gone to school for the remainder of the week. Mooching in bed whenever he wasn't eating or absolving himself, he could barely stomach the thought of entering the classroom to take his place alongside a seat that no longer had an occupant. Or to walk onto the soccer pitch, wanting to pass the ball to the ever-reliable central striker, only to have it roll away unheeded, unstopped. Or to stroll by the corner cafe without stopping to buy his favourite ice-cream. He remained in the hazy miasma of self-pitying regret; the maelstrom of tears and what-if's and half-blurry memories, for the better part of four days.
And then, that night, and only to shelter himself from the ceaseless nightmares, he decided to begin his reading.
Gory images of dark violence had dominated his dreaming mind, trying to fill the holes in his knowledge of Ken's death. Nobody knew, in any degree of certainty, what had happened that fateful night. Suicide, the chief inspector had told him; but for Daisuke that wasn't enough, wasn't the full truth. They didn't know Ken. How could he have told them that the brunette would never have taken his own life? Daisuke knew, without a shadow of doubt, that it wasn't 'just' suicide.
But, he had asked himself often over his four day hiatus, what had it been? Common murder? Or something darker? That was what he had promised himself, and Ken, to find out. That was why he was prepared to read the letter.
Daisuke shifted to reach under his bed. Extracting the box, he was relieved to find that Jun hadn't discovered it. He stared at it in a moment of uncertainty, feeling almost as though his name, emblazoned on the cover, was staring back, challenging and chiding him at the same time. The lid slid open soundlessly with his decision to continue the quest of unearthing the truth. The mass of partially folded, partially crumpled papers greeted him ominously.
He read over Ken's note. The warning seemed much more potent now, in the core of a nightmarish darkness lit only by a feeble bedside lamp. It only managed to compound his irresolution. To Daisuke, it seemed an almost blatant disregard for privacy to read the private memoirs. But then he remembered the unlikely - no, unbelievable - stroke of chance: the discovery of the box, almost as though fate had directed him to this moment. What had brought him to find it? The very thought sent an icy shiver down his spine. Even to the boy who disbelieved superstition and fanciful ghost stories, there seemed to be some higher power at work.
Quickly, Daisuke shook the fanciful reverie from his mind. Immediate justification for his lapse in the logical evaluation of the situation sprang to his mind: he was just sleep deprived, and the horrid nightmares were just compounding his unsettlement, enlarging his superstitious fears. There was no 'fate' guiding his actions: what a load of nonsense!
He hastily pulled out the first envelope from the left in some personal proof of his bravery. It occurred to him, for the shortest of moments, that the middle of a lurid night was not the best time to be reading something that even Ken considered distressing. But his foolhardy nature won over any doubts, and he slowly unfolded the first letter. The script was neat, though smeared in places, as though the hand that had written it had accidentally slipped and smudged the ink. Daisuke noted the date with interest: Six years past, and Ken must only have been about nine at the time. The reflection brought a lump to his throat.
Pushing aside all other thoughts, he began reading.
May 12, 1996
Dear Me,
I shouldn't be up at all right now: it's 2 in the morning but my nightmares are keeping me awake again.
I heard from somebody that the best way to express your feelings and problems was to write them all down in a diary. That sounded a little strange to me, but I decided to try it. I'm writing this letter to nobody. Or actually, to myself (big difference). That way, I won't have to, or really be able to, lie about what I'm really thinking. I hate lying, but sometimes it's the only way that I can protect myself from everybody who doesn't understand me. Or just everybody, period.
I've always wondered about feelings and emotions. Sometimes, they are your worst enemies because if somebody knows what you're sensing, it makes you vulnerable to attack. It's hard to hide the way I feel about some people because it always reflects in my eyes, how unfair is that? Especially for me, who's so sensitive in the first place. Just another thing to hate, I guess.
But when you're weak, you're forced to become strong to survive. And determined. I think I've come up with a method that protects me pretty well: I don't let myself feel anything in the first place. That way, it's impossible to get wounded. I think I'm becoming really good at being blank: the last time I tried it, when Mamma was yelling about something again, I hardly even wanted to cry. I was just a bit angry, but that's okay. It makes me kind of unattached to myself, but it's better than being aware of my inner pain the whole time. I think the best description for me is 'cynical'.
I always have to remind myself that I'm luckier than some. Not having to be aware of most emotions makes life a whole lot simpler. For example, how can it be that you can love somebody and hate them all at the same time? It makes no sense to me that you can have two feelings that are both so strong and so different in your heart at the same time without you getting sick. Is that why people have heart attacks, because they can't sort out their emotions?
I've tried hard but love and hate just seem to stick to me. I'll have to make more effort to stop allowing these two into myself. But it's really difficult when those are the ones that I was brought up on: being stupid enough to let myself love some people, then getting betrayed, then hating them; then starting the whole vicious circle again. How idiotic am I? I should have learnt better by now. Kill love and then there can't be any hate. Simple as that. What good is love anyway when it doesn't even last long enough to really be there? There's always such a fuss about it, but to me it's just a word that means anger and hate are just around the corner. Maybe, some day, somebody will be able to explain all this to me. For now, I guess I'm stuck in a whole lot of love/hate relationships. More hate than love, of course.
Take my brother, for instance: Osamu, the wonder child of the Ichijouji family. I love him because he is my brother. Logical. I can't not love him, that's the rule for every member in a family, 'written in stone' or something like that. But the feeling is so hollow inside me that it's virtually just a corrupted reflection of my jealousy and anger and hate. It's like my soul isn't comfortable in my body; It doesn't seem right. Somehow, I know that I shouldn't be feeling so much hate, that it's not my fault or anything. But I do. I can't help it. Is it a bad thing to hate your brother?
No. Not when I have so many reasons to do it.
Whenever Osamu is around it's like I become invisible, or like I suddenly don't belong to the family. He's older, smarter, more athletic, and has more friends that I can even remember. I guess my parents don't have anything to remember me by: what good am I whan you have the perfect child already? I feel like a mistake. Momma is always so proud when Osamu gets another A for his schoolwork, like she hadn't expected it or something; or when he gets chosen to play on the first soccer team. As far as she is concerned, Osamu couldn't put a foot wrong.
If only my parents knew how wrong they were. Not that they would believe that their darling little child could ever do anything less than angelically perfect. I wish I could pull off his shiny halo and show everyone the devil horns hiding underneath. I have one reason to despise my brother that nobody knows about, that no one is allowed to ever hear about. I'm even scared to write it down in case sombody reads this. So if anyone is reading this, don't tell anyone. Especially not my parents, please?
It always happens after the lights go out, and the silent shadow of Osamu slips into my room. Sometimes I try to block the memories of what happens after that, but it doesn't always work. It didn't work yesterday. I can still feel my brother's hands all over my body, touching me in ways and places that I know they shouldn't. I can taste the musky smell of his body in my mouth, in every corner of my senses. Even now, I can still hear his warnings and threats echoing in the silent room, daring me to go against them. He said that he would kill me if I ever told anybody. Somehow, I know that he would do it. I tried being blank, but it was much too difficult and I cried again. It seemed like a test for my, and I knew I had failed. I'll try harder next time.
I hate myself for being so weak. I'm afraid of him, afraid of the dark that brings painful and horrible memories. But that fear also somehow fuels my hate; that's not unreasonable, is it? My secret hate, that just keeps expanding each day, is probably the only thing that keeps me alive. It's like the determination to survive even though everything is against me. The hate's almost grown into a whole, separate being; ready to burst out of my body when it gets a chance. It's my tool. And I'm going to use it.
Now I really have to go to sleep. There is something that I'm more afraid of than my brother, and I think that it's myself. Or my negative feelings, at least. They also come at night, like a dark cloud hovering in my room. That's not a joke, I'm serious. It's like a ghost or an alien and I can actually see it. I don't really know what it is or why it's here, but I can feel it as plainly as cold water. It's like all of my hate and anger and jealousy and fear mixed into one bunch of black mist. It's growing denser by the moment, and I'd rather be asleep when it's fully formed. I don't know what it does while I'm unconscious, and I'd rather not find out. But I know I can ask it a favour.
I want Osamu to be gone. I want to stop having to hate myself. He is the reason for it.
Osamu must die.
How selfish of me.
Daisuke sat still, his rasping breath his only companion in the darkness. It took him a while to assuage his racing heart enough to fully believe the stark meaning of the letter. His entire being was shocked, unable to associate the foreign-seeming text to the familiarity of Ken.Was it really true that Osamu, someone of whom Ken had often spoken so highly, had been so cruel? Daisuke feared the answer to the question, dreading that he had only scratched the surface of the iceberg of truth.
But even more terrifying was Ken's emotional exposé, the way he had subjugated virtually any remaining traces of sentiment at that tender age. What other horrors had taken place to cause such a divorce of his thoughts and feelings? Daisuke was immediately teary-eyed again, wishing feebly that he could have travelled back in time to show his gentle Ken the true meaning of love: without betrayal, without hurt, no strings attached.
If only he had been made privy to these secrets earlier, could he have forestalled their tragic outcome? Would he have had the guts, or the stomach, to face the facts? He drummed his fist uselessly into the mattress, feeling wholly helpless and insignificant. Why, only now, had he finally been given the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and not a single opportunity to rectify his ignorance? It was as though a window had been flung open on Ken's most intimate thoughts, and the view outside was grim and colourless.
But it also offered Daisuke so many missing insights into his love's fragmented personality, insights that he had searched so vainly for. Was this the answer to more than just the question of Ken's death? The key to his life as well, perhaps? Daisuke didn't know whether to be grateful or horrified at the letters' mixed blessing.
But he couldn't judge the entire situation by basing all of his facts on a single letter either. Daisuke needed a more rounded understanding of the matter, and he had the source in his hands. With trepidation, he removed the second scrap of paper. Something slipped out with it, but he turned his primary attention to the note. He steeled himself, breathed in deeply, and focused his eyes on the script.
May 15th, 1996,
Osamu,
I am in shock. It all happened so quickly, finding out the news. Why didn't you see that car coming? Did someone push you onto the road? Or some thing, perhaps? I am the only one who knows the answer to that question.
It's an odd, although exhilarating, feeling to have power over somebody else's life. You should know all about that. Too bad that you were only in my shoes for a split second; they said you were gone instantly, but I'd have preferred for you to have suffered just that little bit. Imagine if the last thing that you had seen was my triumphant expression! You would have rolled in your grave for ages. But then, beggars can't be choosers. I should be feeling happy, but I don't.
I think I've forgotten how.
I thought my anger and hate would die with you, but it's just as strong as ever. Seems like you get the last laugh after all, turning my poor life into a misery. It's going to take years to erase all of your work. Was that you only goal, dear brother?
Everything is just so… empty. I hope you're happy.
Daisuke could barely contain his revulsion at the words. Comparing it mentally to the first letter, written only three days prior, the styles clashed so violently that he almost suspected that the second had not been written by Ken at all. Superstistion flaring again, he dared contemplate the possibility of something having taken over Ken, writing through his body. After all, nobody could be that emotionless. Could they?
He tried to dismiss the theory as the product of a rife imagination. He failed miserably.
Daisuke tried to logically organize his thoughts, but every minute lapse threw him back into the apathy and coldness of the written word. Ken must have blocked out any pangs of emotion that had surfaced at the death of his brother. Or, were there simply no pangs in the first place? The cinnamon-haired boy felt like a detective who had no evidence, not even a shred of a clue and no corpse, faced with a bizarre and entirely unlikely murder. He shuddered, quickly placing the paper aside, hardly daring to give it even a cursory glance.
He brought the second, wayward slip of paper into the light of his bedside lamp. Instantly, a wave of nausea rolled over him, more potent than any he had previously experienced, and he tried to will himself to drop it. But he couldn't. His stunned disgust had numbed his very senses and he could only stare in horror at the photo of a smiling Osamu.
A photo drenched in blood.
=#=#=#=
As I'm sure you know, reviews are the greatest motivational tools... ^_^
I'm going with the timeline of Ken and Daisuke's being 15 in 2002. Bear in mind that Ken's still young and naive when he writes most of this...
This chapter seemed to suck big-time when I proofread it, so it's gone through the 'writer's blender'. If you've already read it, I haven't changed the plot or general storyline, but there's just a lot more filling out of explanations and the like.
Special thanx to Eriya, Your New Best Friend (cool name ^_^)and Shizuku for putting me on their favourites lists!
Disclaimer: Digimon and all the characters therein are the creative property of Toei and their associates. This plot isn't. Nah nah! ^_~
=#=#=#=
It was days, actually, before Daisuke had a chance to more than glance at the notes and letters in the box. Between his private grieving and the lavish funeral, he was afforded little time to do any of the many pressing things on his schedule. The most trying moment had been the breaking of the news to the rest of the Digidestined: Daisuke had not even come to terms with the stark reality himself at that point. The reactions had varied greatly, from Miyako's tearful outburst to Takeru's solemn, expressionless disbelief. Ever the thoughtful one, Hikari had flung herself at Daisuke; mumbling a string of regrets, comforts and apologies as he allowed himself to cry in her embrace. Even Jun, horrifyingly unsympathetic as she usually was, had at the very least kept out of his way.
Daisuke hadn't gone to school for the remainder of the week. Mooching in bed whenever he wasn't eating or absolving himself, he could barely stomach the thought of entering the classroom to take his place alongside a seat that no longer had an occupant. Or to walk onto the soccer pitch, wanting to pass the ball to the ever-reliable central striker, only to have it roll away unheeded, unstopped. Or to stroll by the corner cafe without stopping to buy his favourite ice-cream. He remained in the hazy miasma of self-pitying regret; the maelstrom of tears and what-if's and half-blurry memories, for the better part of four days.
And then, that night, and only to shelter himself from the ceaseless nightmares, he decided to begin his reading.
Gory images of dark violence had dominated his dreaming mind, trying to fill the holes in his knowledge of Ken's death. Nobody knew, in any degree of certainty, what had happened that fateful night. Suicide, the chief inspector had told him; but for Daisuke that wasn't enough, wasn't the full truth. They didn't know Ken. How could he have told them that the brunette would never have taken his own life? Daisuke knew, without a shadow of doubt, that it wasn't 'just' suicide.
But, he had asked himself often over his four day hiatus, what had it been? Common murder? Or something darker? That was what he had promised himself, and Ken, to find out. That was why he was prepared to read the letter.
Daisuke shifted to reach under his bed. Extracting the box, he was relieved to find that Jun hadn't discovered it. He stared at it in a moment of uncertainty, feeling almost as though his name, emblazoned on the cover, was staring back, challenging and chiding him at the same time. The lid slid open soundlessly with his decision to continue the quest of unearthing the truth. The mass of partially folded, partially crumpled papers greeted him ominously.
He read over Ken's note. The warning seemed much more potent now, in the core of a nightmarish darkness lit only by a feeble bedside lamp. It only managed to compound his irresolution. To Daisuke, it seemed an almost blatant disregard for privacy to read the private memoirs. But then he remembered the unlikely - no, unbelievable - stroke of chance: the discovery of the box, almost as though fate had directed him to this moment. What had brought him to find it? The very thought sent an icy shiver down his spine. Even to the boy who disbelieved superstition and fanciful ghost stories, there seemed to be some higher power at work.
Quickly, Daisuke shook the fanciful reverie from his mind. Immediate justification for his lapse in the logical evaluation of the situation sprang to his mind: he was just sleep deprived, and the horrid nightmares were just compounding his unsettlement, enlarging his superstitious fears. There was no 'fate' guiding his actions: what a load of nonsense!
He hastily pulled out the first envelope from the left in some personal proof of his bravery. It occurred to him, for the shortest of moments, that the middle of a lurid night was not the best time to be reading something that even Ken considered distressing. But his foolhardy nature won over any doubts, and he slowly unfolded the first letter. The script was neat, though smeared in places, as though the hand that had written it had accidentally slipped and smudged the ink. Daisuke noted the date with interest: Six years past, and Ken must only have been about nine at the time. The reflection brought a lump to his throat.
Pushing aside all other thoughts, he began reading.
May 12, 1996
Dear Me,
I shouldn't be up at all right now: it's 2 in the morning but my nightmares are keeping me awake again.
I heard from somebody that the best way to express your feelings and problems was to write them all down in a diary. That sounded a little strange to me, but I decided to try it. I'm writing this letter to nobody. Or actually, to myself (big difference). That way, I won't have to, or really be able to, lie about what I'm really thinking. I hate lying, but sometimes it's the only way that I can protect myself from everybody who doesn't understand me. Or just everybody, period.
I've always wondered about feelings and emotions. Sometimes, they are your worst enemies because if somebody knows what you're sensing, it makes you vulnerable to attack. It's hard to hide the way I feel about some people because it always reflects in my eyes, how unfair is that? Especially for me, who's so sensitive in the first place. Just another thing to hate, I guess.
But when you're weak, you're forced to become strong to survive. And determined. I think I've come up with a method that protects me pretty well: I don't let myself feel anything in the first place. That way, it's impossible to get wounded. I think I'm becoming really good at being blank: the last time I tried it, when Mamma was yelling about something again, I hardly even wanted to cry. I was just a bit angry, but that's okay. It makes me kind of unattached to myself, but it's better than being aware of my inner pain the whole time. I think the best description for me is 'cynical'.
I always have to remind myself that I'm luckier than some. Not having to be aware of most emotions makes life a whole lot simpler. For example, how can it be that you can love somebody and hate them all at the same time? It makes no sense to me that you can have two feelings that are both so strong and so different in your heart at the same time without you getting sick. Is that why people have heart attacks, because they can't sort out their emotions?
I've tried hard but love and hate just seem to stick to me. I'll have to make more effort to stop allowing these two into myself. But it's really difficult when those are the ones that I was brought up on: being stupid enough to let myself love some people, then getting betrayed, then hating them; then starting the whole vicious circle again. How idiotic am I? I should have learnt better by now. Kill love and then there can't be any hate. Simple as that. What good is love anyway when it doesn't even last long enough to really be there? There's always such a fuss about it, but to me it's just a word that means anger and hate are just around the corner. Maybe, some day, somebody will be able to explain all this to me. For now, I guess I'm stuck in a whole lot of love/hate relationships. More hate than love, of course.
Take my brother, for instance: Osamu, the wonder child of the Ichijouji family. I love him because he is my brother. Logical. I can't not love him, that's the rule for every member in a family, 'written in stone' or something like that. But the feeling is so hollow inside me that it's virtually just a corrupted reflection of my jealousy and anger and hate. It's like my soul isn't comfortable in my body; It doesn't seem right. Somehow, I know that I shouldn't be feeling so much hate, that it's not my fault or anything. But I do. I can't help it. Is it a bad thing to hate your brother?
No. Not when I have so many reasons to do it.
Whenever Osamu is around it's like I become invisible, or like I suddenly don't belong to the family. He's older, smarter, more athletic, and has more friends that I can even remember. I guess my parents don't have anything to remember me by: what good am I whan you have the perfect child already? I feel like a mistake. Momma is always so proud when Osamu gets another A for his schoolwork, like she hadn't expected it or something; or when he gets chosen to play on the first soccer team. As far as she is concerned, Osamu couldn't put a foot wrong.
If only my parents knew how wrong they were. Not that they would believe that their darling little child could ever do anything less than angelically perfect. I wish I could pull off his shiny halo and show everyone the devil horns hiding underneath. I have one reason to despise my brother that nobody knows about, that no one is allowed to ever hear about. I'm even scared to write it down in case sombody reads this. So if anyone is reading this, don't tell anyone. Especially not my parents, please?
It always happens after the lights go out, and the silent shadow of Osamu slips into my room. Sometimes I try to block the memories of what happens after that, but it doesn't always work. It didn't work yesterday. I can still feel my brother's hands all over my body, touching me in ways and places that I know they shouldn't. I can taste the musky smell of his body in my mouth, in every corner of my senses. Even now, I can still hear his warnings and threats echoing in the silent room, daring me to go against them. He said that he would kill me if I ever told anybody. Somehow, I know that he would do it. I tried being blank, but it was much too difficult and I cried again. It seemed like a test for my, and I knew I had failed. I'll try harder next time.
I hate myself for being so weak. I'm afraid of him, afraid of the dark that brings painful and horrible memories. But that fear also somehow fuels my hate; that's not unreasonable, is it? My secret hate, that just keeps expanding each day, is probably the only thing that keeps me alive. It's like the determination to survive even though everything is against me. The hate's almost grown into a whole, separate being; ready to burst out of my body when it gets a chance. It's my tool. And I'm going to use it.
Now I really have to go to sleep. There is something that I'm more afraid of than my brother, and I think that it's myself. Or my negative feelings, at least. They also come at night, like a dark cloud hovering in my room. That's not a joke, I'm serious. It's like a ghost or an alien and I can actually see it. I don't really know what it is or why it's here, but I can feel it as plainly as cold water. It's like all of my hate and anger and jealousy and fear mixed into one bunch of black mist. It's growing denser by the moment, and I'd rather be asleep when it's fully formed. I don't know what it does while I'm unconscious, and I'd rather not find out. But I know I can ask it a favour.
I want Osamu to be gone. I want to stop having to hate myself. He is the reason for it.
Osamu must die.
How selfish of me.
Daisuke sat still, his rasping breath his only companion in the darkness. It took him a while to assuage his racing heart enough to fully believe the stark meaning of the letter. His entire being was shocked, unable to associate the foreign-seeming text to the familiarity of Ken.Was it really true that Osamu, someone of whom Ken had often spoken so highly, had been so cruel? Daisuke feared the answer to the question, dreading that he had only scratched the surface of the iceberg of truth.
But even more terrifying was Ken's emotional exposé, the way he had subjugated virtually any remaining traces of sentiment at that tender age. What other horrors had taken place to cause such a divorce of his thoughts and feelings? Daisuke was immediately teary-eyed again, wishing feebly that he could have travelled back in time to show his gentle Ken the true meaning of love: without betrayal, without hurt, no strings attached.
If only he had been made privy to these secrets earlier, could he have forestalled their tragic outcome? Would he have had the guts, or the stomach, to face the facts? He drummed his fist uselessly into the mattress, feeling wholly helpless and insignificant. Why, only now, had he finally been given the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and not a single opportunity to rectify his ignorance? It was as though a window had been flung open on Ken's most intimate thoughts, and the view outside was grim and colourless.
But it also offered Daisuke so many missing insights into his love's fragmented personality, insights that he had searched so vainly for. Was this the answer to more than just the question of Ken's death? The key to his life as well, perhaps? Daisuke didn't know whether to be grateful or horrified at the letters' mixed blessing.
But he couldn't judge the entire situation by basing all of his facts on a single letter either. Daisuke needed a more rounded understanding of the matter, and he had the source in his hands. With trepidation, he removed the second scrap of paper. Something slipped out with it, but he turned his primary attention to the note. He steeled himself, breathed in deeply, and focused his eyes on the script.
May 15th, 1996,
Osamu,
I am in shock. It all happened so quickly, finding out the news. Why didn't you see that car coming? Did someone push you onto the road? Or some thing, perhaps? I am the only one who knows the answer to that question.
It's an odd, although exhilarating, feeling to have power over somebody else's life. You should know all about that. Too bad that you were only in my shoes for a split second; they said you were gone instantly, but I'd have preferred for you to have suffered just that little bit. Imagine if the last thing that you had seen was my triumphant expression! You would have rolled in your grave for ages. But then, beggars can't be choosers. I should be feeling happy, but I don't.
I think I've forgotten how.
I thought my anger and hate would die with you, but it's just as strong as ever. Seems like you get the last laugh after all, turning my poor life into a misery. It's going to take years to erase all of your work. Was that you only goal, dear brother?
Everything is just so… empty. I hope you're happy.
Daisuke could barely contain his revulsion at the words. Comparing it mentally to the first letter, written only three days prior, the styles clashed so violently that he almost suspected that the second had not been written by Ken at all. Superstistion flaring again, he dared contemplate the possibility of something having taken over Ken, writing through his body. After all, nobody could be that emotionless. Could they?
He tried to dismiss the theory as the product of a rife imagination. He failed miserably.
Daisuke tried to logically organize his thoughts, but every minute lapse threw him back into the apathy and coldness of the written word. Ken must have blocked out any pangs of emotion that had surfaced at the death of his brother. Or, were there simply no pangs in the first place? The cinnamon-haired boy felt like a detective who had no evidence, not even a shred of a clue and no corpse, faced with a bizarre and entirely unlikely murder. He shuddered, quickly placing the paper aside, hardly daring to give it even a cursory glance.
He brought the second, wayward slip of paper into the light of his bedside lamp. Instantly, a wave of nausea rolled over him, more potent than any he had previously experienced, and he tried to will himself to drop it. But he couldn't. His stunned disgust had numbed his very senses and he could only stare in horror at the photo of a smiling Osamu.
A photo drenched in blood.
=#=#=#=
As I'm sure you know, reviews are the greatest motivational tools... ^_^