Yami No Matsuei Fan Fiction ❯ Abakareta Sekai ❯ Abakareta Sekai ( Chapter 1 )

Abakareta Sekai



The first flame of the day, a neon blue flicker between my cupped hands, as I light my cigarette and take a drag, mouthful of smoke and early morning. A young couple is sitting on the table across mine, arguing. His voice has risen and quavers on the last words. He saw her taunt the waiter with a smile, he says, she makes love to other men with her eyes, her breasts curve under the flimsy material of her blouse, obscene outlines of lust. A cheap slut, he calls her, deserving to get herself raped one day.

She gazes down, long hair trailing over the breakfast leftovers, she says nothing and it winds him up further, the silent admittance of her supposed guilt. Jealousy is green, I know it as I know all my colors, jealousy is a film of green that tints his vision. And now, perhaps, he can see her like that, as he secretly wants her, as she should be one day, a body sprawled on a filthy back alley, half-hidden behind the garbage cans, one shoe on, skirt ridden up, panties around her ankles.

I watch the coffee shop melodrama unfold, entranced, my forgotten cigarette burning itself to death on the ashtray.

He stands up to leave; she grabs hold of his arm, desperately, like the drowning hold onto floating pieces of shipwreck, fighting for dear life. She is weeping; streaks of mascara across her cheeks. It was all for him, everything she has ever done, just for him to like her, the satiny dresses, the heels, the clouds of perfume. Please, please.

She can't see his face, but I can. He looks content.

Not that he hates her, make no mistake, he loves his little cherry sweetheart. He can never leave; never walk out of the door and into a life without her. Her despair is the proof that she can't either and he smiles knowing he's not alone, the only fool standing exposed and vulnerable in the mess of his need. He managed to hurt her, it tastes good, and every one of her tears is another peaceful hour of sleep for him at night, in the warm, solid ring of her body.

You call me a monster and wish me dead, but I only wish you were here, so I could show you, so that you'd understand, that's there's nothing more human than the desire to wound the one you love. I'm just honest about it.

Sometimes I see you in the morning, walking down the street, oblivious to my existence, a Styrofoam cup of coffee steaming in your hand, an absent-minded smile etched on your face. And I see you as I want you, as you should be one day, with my tongue in your mouth, my nails digging red path across your back. My belt is wrapped around your throat, and tell me, can't you feel it, the bite of the buckle, metal teeth sinking into your Adam's apple? Your skin is gift-wrapping and I long to open my present.

I remember the morning I first met you, that static peace of the church. The light, filtered through the latticed windows, drew patterns on the floor. And you, the all pervasive you, your presence soaking into everything.

I love churches but have no appetite for priests, their death tastes like their Communion, papery and empty. One of them kept looking above my shoulder as his eyes glazed over and his mouth filled with blood, probably expecting the Judgment to fall on my head, like a guillotine from the heavens.

Sometimes I see you in the afternoon, walking down the street, still oblivious but frowning now, trying to decipher the new riddle, another bone yard uncovered, another maimed body found in a ditch. Your arm curls protectively around your partner's reluctant shoulders, Hisoka, that old murderchild of mine. A sea of heads floods every corner, people streaming out of shops and offices, ties loosened, make-up smudged, a whole day's sweat soaked into the back of their collars. You try to merge with them, become invisible, but your figure stands out, unable to attune to the collective rhythm of the crowd.

Those puppets of meat, they can never be like you and me, they walk on different paths than ours, they speak in different tongues. They push against you but fail to touch you; they look at you but fail to recognize you, your skin, your scent, the wings missing from your shoulders.

I've kept you busy lately, zigzagging on the massacre trail of my presents for you. Bodies sucked dry, so that the limbs can snap like twigs, eyes taped, hands bound behind their backs, and a maid washing blood off the hotel walls. I bought a whore last night, she had bleached blond hair, she had I LOVE YOU stamped on her panties. The glitter on her face lost its luster and came off in my hands. She didn't struggle much. Somewhere in the vacuum of her skull, there was a longing to sever the ties with that worn-out body of hers. I kissed her, because she had no hope left.

A bloodied stump, her torso. It's the greatest love story ever told, the romance between flesh and bone. The way the one clings to the other, devoted, protective, hopeless, as I scrape the pieces clean with my knife. I pulled the teeth out to delay the police identification, but forgot the possibility of breast implants; those wondrous mutations of vanity come complete with a registration number.

It probably surprises you, the fact that my kills have nothing of the elegance and precision of my surgeries. But only life can be art, death is a raw necessity.

Sometimes I see you at night, walking down the street, a different person entirely. Shoulders hunched, avoiding the places where the merry crowds gather, to drink and eat and dance to music that makes the hearts race and bodies go eager and hot, burning coals. Is it me that you fear at night, or the darkness and the dark others?

Do you remember your old self? Little boy blue, running pursued between the tall stumps of grass, tripping into the mud, bruises on your chin, spit on your hair. There were only the fireflies to comfort you, glowing starts, minuscule galaxies, constellations of buzzing phosphoresce, the only luminous possibility of your childhood and your night. But there are no fireflies in the city; the noise and stench of humanity have chased them away.

Double doors creak open and shut in your way, sour scents of alcohol, the electric neon signs of the bars and clubs splinter the night, and you shrink away, receding into another black.

Yes, at night I like you best, but it's morning now, early morning as I stub out my cigarette and gather my coat. Sometimes you walk down the street at this time of day, always oblivious to my presence as I follow behind; fingering your photograph in my pocket, thumb over the sepia face of your despair.

In the bottom of the shallow pond, an unseen piece of glass, transparent in the transparency. Every time you drink, you reach a little further into the waters, a little deeper, until one day it cuts your fingers, vengeance of a forced anonymity. You bleed and bleed.

Every day, you and me, walking down this street. Every day I come a step closer, my breath moist at the back of your neck, as you still delude yourself with the naïve certainty of my death.

The lovebirds at the corner table have made up finally, he holds her now, murmurs sweet nothings in her ear. He tells her how much he wants her, he wants her plump little hands around his waist, he wants her face curve up into a smile when she looks at him.

And soon I'll tell you how I want you; I want your hands hanging limp when I cradle you in my arms, I want your face go pale when I promise you flowers.

You won't struggle much. I'll kiss you, but you never had much hope to begin with.

The end