0100: Yume
[Note: A darker look at what I started here.]
Blood. There is blood on my face. My hands, my hair, even my shoes are stained crimson. Her blood.
She is lying there, seemingly unconscious. Her long hair (oh how I have envied those golden locks of hers that could entrance even the hardest man) lies in disarray, stained crimson by blood. Her blood, not mine. That lithe body of hers, which taunts men in their dreams, is gone now, buried under the masses of bruises she now sustains. Only those eyes (ah those brown eyes like chocolate they say, but all my poetry's gone) are still alive now, asking a question I need not answer anymore. It was answered already with this, milady.
Wipe up the liquid before it dries, dearest; it would be a shame if your beloved saw you like this: bloodied, beaten, and broken.
By my hand, dearest, not anyone else.
"Why?" Plaintively, her voice carries over the noise, the beer party not a room away from us. "Why do this?"
Silly girl. Must I repeat myself? I tell her this, and tears fall down those lovely eyes, rolling down her blood-stained cheeks. Chikuso, even I am affected by those eyes.
"Why?" She is broken, her voice barely a whisper now. "You have everything. Why do this?" She is looking past me now, raising her head up for heaven to answer her. "You were so nice before."
It is different now, child. "I may have won the battle, dear, but you have won the war." I walk away now, leaving the blood to dry, the last flicker of life in those eyes of hers to fade away.
Why, you ask.
He loves you. Even with whatever I do with myself, with you, with the world, he loves you, the fool.
And I love him.
[Note the second: Yeeeouch. How the heck did this come by after watching Pokemon?]
Blood. There is blood on my face. My hands, my hair, even my shoes are stained crimson. Her blood.
She is lying there, seemingly unconscious. Her long hair (oh how I have envied those golden locks of hers that could entrance even the hardest man) lies in disarray, stained crimson by blood. Her blood, not mine. That lithe body of hers, which taunts men in their dreams, is gone now, buried under the masses of bruises she now sustains. Only those eyes (ah those brown eyes like chocolate they say, but all my poetry's gone) are still alive now, asking a question I need not answer anymore. It was answered already with this, milady.
Wipe up the liquid before it dries, dearest; it would be a shame if your beloved saw you like this: bloodied, beaten, and broken.
By my hand, dearest, not anyone else.
"Why?" Plaintively, her voice carries over the noise, the beer party not a room away from us. "Why do this?"
Silly girl. Must I repeat myself? I tell her this, and tears fall down those lovely eyes, rolling down her blood-stained cheeks. Chikuso, even I am affected by those eyes.
"Why?" She is broken, her voice barely a whisper now. "You have everything. Why do this?" She is looking past me now, raising her head up for heaven to answer her. "You were so nice before."
It is different now, child. "I may have won the battle, dear, but you have won the war." I walk away now, leaving the blood to dry, the last flicker of life in those eyes of hers to fade away.
Why, you ask.
He loves you. Even with whatever I do with myself, with you, with the world, he loves you, the fool.
And I love him.
[Note the second: Yeeeouch. How the heck did this come by after watching Pokemon?]