[Week 8, Day 6] Dream | And Everything We Know is Falling
The first kill is the hardest.
No.
That’s bullshit.
Every kill is equally difficult. Movements may become mechanic, but every time you are the cause of someone’s last breath, that look of resignation in their eyes (if you’re so lucky), the collapse of flesh against the ground…every time this happens, a little part of you goes along with it.
And you wonder how much of it you can possibly get away with before you’re dwindled out. Before it sucks the last ounce of humanity from you, leaving the shell of something that could have been so fucking divine. Then again, you’ve never known much about limitations. The word itself is foreign, blasphemous. It’s what keeps you going, what prevents you from stopping and actually thinking about what you’re doing. Because it’s all part of a grander thing; something that when it ends, will have justified every filthy, fucked up thing you’ve ever done.
And maybe if you’re lucky, God will even forgive you. Unlikely.
But you’re on your knees anyway; forehead pressed to the cold, hardwood floor. And there are images of saints around you, colorful stained-glass windows, empty pews, no priest at the altar. Nothing but silence and your own murmuring. And it’s so loud here, where people once filled, where the walls purposely echo every sound as though to remind you that God does hear you. Hears you and reflects your words back at you to seep into the deepest part of your subconscious; to stew and be pushed down with everything else.
You know that God doesn’t live in this place. Always have known. But you come here anyway.
Crimson stains your palms; seeped into pale skin. It might be yours. It might not be. But it’s there, and you’re lifting your head from the wood, curling fingers into your palms. Clean. You just want them clean. But you can’t cleanse them in this place, and who the fuck were you to come here so tainted, anyway? All of the water is sacred, even the liquid not stored in thick glass basins next to the entrance. This is His house, and so even the fucking toilet water is holy. You wonder if the usual inhabitants are aware of this. That they’re pissing in one of God’s gifts.
Probably not.
A creak, and a small bit of cheap plaster separates from the ceiling, hitting your bare shoulder on its way to the floor. Crumbling, falling apart. And here you are, ready to let it all fall down around you. Waiting for it.
“You are being illogical.”
Head lifting, filthy hair falling into your eyes (everything is always filthy), you draw your gaze up to the oversized, ancient crucifix fastened to the wall behind the altar.
And wide, dark eyes stare back at you.
Of course, he would call you on this bullshit. After all, that’s what it is, isn’t it? You weren’t raised on it. You picked up a book one day out of curiosity and your soul has been damned ever since.
“I’ve missed you so fucking much.” Strained words escape your throat before you even realize that you’ve opened your mouth at all.
No.
That’s bullshit too, isn’t it?
Because you can’t miss something that was never there. Can’t miss something that you’ve created as a symbol in your head, worshiped as though it were life itself for no other reason than much needed fuel to get to the top. And oh, you fell from the top so very fast, didn’t you? Like the plaster, only it stopped; crumbled against the unforgiving wood, and you’re still plummeting.
No response.
Typical.
“My hands are filthy.” And maybe if you keep talking, he’ll have to answer eventually. Even while his wrists and feet are bleeding; thick liquid running over bare skin and dripping in lengthy droplets until they’re out of view. He should be dying. He should be dead. But he’s so awake. Awake and staring, and obviously isn’t interested in conversation, right now.
Anxiety. Shooting through your chest, your arms, and your fingers are tingling, quickly going numb. Numb is good, you tell yourself. You’ve trained yourself into numbness. But it’s not going well with this rapid heartbeat, dizziness forcing you to close your eyes.
Palms are sweating.
Blood is staining the floor.
You want to run.
Not yet.
“Do you forgive me?” Anxious, desperate words.
“It isn’t my place to forgive.” An expected response. Unacceptable, but not surprising.
Creak.
The cross is tipping, falling back. It’s going to crash into the floor. Going to tear this place down from the floor up. You know it. You’ve known it for what seems like forever.
Watch it break.
[A shallow breath, and Mello's eyes open calmly. He's still numb; probably will be for a while. The imagery is replaying in his mind; breaking apart and piecing itself back together as he stares into darkness, unmoving.]