[ii] never., softly slumbering, & a certain type of love
Title: Never.
Author/Artist: souleater411
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Hetalia
Pairing/s: None.
Theme: 120 - Don't scream.
Words: 595
Genre/s: Angst.
Warnings: Violence.
Worksafe: Yes.
Summary: Never scream, he thought. That's what he said to me. If I scream, I will be a disgrace. If I scream, my people will be shamed. But in the midst of pain, it is terribly difficult not to scream. [WWII Atomic Bombing, Japan.]
Disclaimer/Claimer: Axis Powers Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.
From the moment his boss had signed the papers and shook hands with the other men, it had been final. Another war. Already, he could feel his many years seeping into his bones, and he could do absolutely nothing back in revolt, firstly because it wasn't in his nature, and secondly because ones' country did not suddenly shift loyalties from their leaders. So for now, the Asian nation kept his head down, short bob hidden beneath his tidy white cap.
Day in and day out, he tried his very best to support his people in the midst of this nasty business. Every time he saw his old friends, he was forced to shoot at them, because his boss had now allied him with new 'friends'. The bullets flew and sometimes they hit him too, but he was never allowed to make even a peep. Dark eyes kept closing tightly, and he swallowed the bitter fluid gathered from a scrape on the lips, or from a stab in the stomach. Then, he'd be forced to dig it out himself, cringing the whole time, but he made no sound. Long, long ago, he recalled someone telling him that it didn't suit their kind. They were to bear everything, and not complain.
Japan merely sighed and carried on, transferring to different platoons every time he'd 'supposedly' died. It wouldn't do to have his people discover what he was, unless they simply had a keen insight.
But it all changed, that day. The man who had come over once upon a dream and forced him to expand his horizons, with dirty blonde hair and infectious smile--he was doing things like this now. It was a deadly quiet day today, so shortly after his other friends were starting to lose and surrender. That day, he felt worse than if he'd been physically shot. This was the pain of his actual body's suffering. His people cried out, and he felt the bile come from his throat at a break-neck speed. Bending over and throwing up, his dark eyes were wild with pain. A gash in his abdomen suddenly appeared and erupted in blood. He soon coughed that up too, in-between his gasps for breath. His heart raced, and his face broke out in sweat. He thought he might throw up again.
It hurt so terribly. Tears pricked at his eyes. And the back of his throat itched to let something out, but before it could come out, Japan furiously bit his lips. The pressure from the impact soon turned into piercing attacks on himself, the blood coming from his lips both internal and external now. Spit, sweat, and blood mingled when he tried to breathe again, one hand bracing himself on the ground, and the other clutching at his convulsing chest.
For hours, it burned. But he made not a sound other than the occasional sob. A scream had been trained not to come from his throat, and even in the edgy aftermath of such an attack, still he couldn't seem to find that scream erupting from his lungs. At long last, in the throes of pain and exhaustion, when he collapsed, something resembling the feeble cry of a small animal met his lips, and he hit the ground, the gaping, burning wound making him sweat even in his sleep.
Don't scream, Kiku. That man had spoken harshly. We never disgrace ourselves by screaming.
And as his dark eyes fell closed, and he curled up tightly in fear, only tears met the dirt, and not another sound left his lips.
Never.
...
Title: Softly Slumbering
Author/Artist: souleater411
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Pairing/s: None.
Theme: 433 - Sleepy death.
Words: 1359
Genre/s: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Family.
Warnings: N/A.
Worksafe: Yes.
Summary: The two of them just can't recall the last time they'd felt so at peace.
Disclaimer/Claimer: KHR! belongs to Akira Amano.
It was quiet, save for the pitter-patter of rain against the window. His soft brown eyes were glazed over as he continued to stare, but they were pulled back into focus when he heard the distinct sound of two pairs of leather shoes on the tiled floor.
"I haven't the foggiest idea what you're trying to say," A familiar voice. The old man on the hospital bed chuckled a bit to himself. "The Ninth isn't going to want to hear our argument either, so spit it out now, stupid."
"The reason we're here is so the Ninth can hear the outcome of our argument," This voice was easy to distinguish. It was certainly deeper than he'd recalled it in his memories--those of a child, and those of a young man in the midst of growth. "If you aren't going to be responsible enough to go in that room, I will walk in there myself." Timoteo smiled a little before coaxing his face into a more relaxed one of sleep.
They entered at last--a tall, dark-haired man sporting a fedora, and a slightly shorter brunette, both dressed in sharp pin-stripped suits. The lighter haired of the two smiled once they'd come to stand in front of the old man on the hospital bed before he bowed respectfully. "Ninth."
"Tsunayoshi-kun, please, call me Timoteo," He'd told the boy--no, a man now--hundreds of times, but he still had that air of Japanese courtesy to him.
"I'd forgotten, Timoteo-san," He laughed a bit, and the other man in the room seemed to snort. Through his crusty old eyes, he finally managed to recognize his best hitman and the boy's former tutor, Reborn. Absently, he wondered when that had happened, the baby either having gotten the curse lifted, or growing into an adult again. It was hard to say. Either way, it startled him. He'd seen the man in pictures, but he looked far more dangerous in real life. With a chuckle to himself, he figured it was a good thing that he was on his side. "Either way, Reborn and I just wanted to ask you something."
"And what's that, Tsunayoshi-kun?" As soon as he asked, taking the effort and labor to sit up by himself--Reborn and Tsuna had both offered to help him, he wanted to at least do something for himself.
There was a profound silence as the two men in front of him glared at each other, seeming to have a whole conversation with their eyes before Tsuna at last spoke again.
"If," He murmured quietly. "If, by some chance, I were to die, who would you want your heir to be?"
The old man was startled. "Are you worried about something, Tsunayoshi-kun?"
Reborn scowled, turning his head away from them. Timoteo stared at the young man before letting out a heavy sigh. "I don't know why you'd be so concerned, Tsunayoshi-kun...your guardians will take more than good care of you, I just know it."
He smiled sadly, his brown eyes distant. The old man wondered what he could possibly be so worried about. Although, he'd fallen out of the loop since he'd renounced his position years back, nothing could possibly be so terrible concerning the Vongola that their leader was worried about facing death before his predecessor. Finally, he sighed and spoke again. "If that's truly how you feel...I suppose that's for you to decide, Tsunayoshi-kun."
There was a certain silence as Tsuna turned to Reborn with a glint in his eyes. The hitman scoffed and turned away again, but Tsuna got down on one knee, joined their right hands (for it was where they both had kept their precious rings before the Tenth leader of the Vongola had them destroyed), kissed the elder's, and said a simple "Grazie," to the old man before smiling again, letting his hand fall, and nodding on his way out. In a trance, the Ninth listened to the two of them bicker until their voices faded to nothing.
Weeks later, when Reborn turned up dead, he grew concerned. Sure, Tsunayoshi and his gang were adults now--they certainly had a name for themselves in the mafia world. But it was dangerous. And from what he'd gathered, all the arcobalenoss were beginning to fall.
What had happened? Ever since he'd sent hitman to Japan years ago, he'd never left Tsuna's side for more than a day, and he came back unharmed. But the world around them was changing.
And then, only a month or two after that, Coyote came with terrible news. The brunette had walked right into a trap, leaving the Vongola without a leader, and, admittedly, more crippled than they'd ever been in the past.
They'd lost their status as the most powerful mafia family.
Amidst all this tragedy and sadness, the old man could feel his time running thin. He couldn't resume his position as leader of the family--his time was too short. Behind closed eyes in the midnight hours of the hospital, death crept in and laid heavy on his chest. Within a quiet dream, he happened upon a couple of unfamiliar faces--although he supposed that wasn't entirely true. They just appeared to be younger than he was quite used to.
"Pardon the intrusion," The blue-haired youth with a very distinctive haircut smirked a bit, leading the old man into a field where only one person was sitting on a little rock. "But Tsunayoshi-kun here absolutely insisted upon this before your pass to the next world."
He saw the young Tsunayosh of fourteen years, with eyes that seemed as old as his own and a smile just as benevolent. "Sorry about Mukuro. He's not exactly what you'd call tact at the best of times." The boy rose and walked over to the feeble old man, offering him his seat. "I figured that you, of all people, deserved an explanation."
The old man said nothing. He sat in a strange mixture of fascination, disturbia, and despair. So much had been going around him while he'd been fading, and no one had said a word. Tsunayoshi had been dealing with difficulties far larger than he had in his time, and for that he apologized, but the boy only smiled.
"It's okay." His smile was sad this time, though, and his gaze seemed far away. "You did what you had to do."
"And Reborn?" The old man had grasped most of what the boy had told him--that everything had been a plan. The younger versions of Tsuna and his guardians would be the ones to handle this crisis, mostly because the older ones didn't have the rings. They would work together with their insider, Irie Shouichi, to defeat this time's enemy, Byakuran. But the boy hadn't explained that.
He shook his head a bit. "In all honesty, Verde seems to have done something awful to them. But I can't say for sure. All I know is that...something in my gut tells me that he'll be back." Another sad smile.
"I'm sorry, truly," The gray-haired old man who lie in wait for death, and the boy that already stood on his doorstep stood face to face. "For everything."
"Don't be," Tsuna smiled, and this time it at least reached the edges of his eyes. He was drifting further and further away, more towards Mukuro and less towards Timoteo. "After all, I'm not dead. And it was one of your regrets, wasn't it? Giving me such a position at such a young age, I mean. I promise, I'll give my position to someone worthy, regardless of age. Just like you."
The man stared at him as he faded away, unable to say anything. He captured Tsuna's smile last, and then with one last heavy blink, he felt reality slam back, in the room of the hospital. Drowsy, he stared out of the window--raining again. With heavy breath, he laid back down and eased himself. It was over. Tsunayoshi had accepted his destiny and taken it to proportions he'd never known.
That night, in the dreary city, the cobblestoned paths laden with passengers, the hospital found another of its guests dead, but it was through his sleep and with a smile that he passed.
It was a night indeed with no regrets.
...
Title: A Certain Type of Love
Author/Artist: souleater411
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Permanent Curiosity
Pairing/s: None.
Theme: 326 - I loved you mommy, the day I killed you.
Words: 2063
Genre/s: Crime, Angst.
Warnings: Pretty sick-minded.
Worksafe: Ehh...
Summary: Really, I felt terrible. After all, it was all his fault in the long run.
Disclaimer/Claimer: All of this is from yours' truly's imagination.
I love my mother. Really, I do.
She's the always been the one who protected me, and understood my mannerisms. I guess you could say that my intelligence is a little above average, but she never seemed to mind the fact that I didn't get along well with children or adults because of it. In fact, she always tried to help me understand them more.
But let's face it. It's just plain impossible. I don't care that Johnny is in love with Susie, or that Franklin got a bruise from where he'd fallen off of the jungle-gym during recess.
All I care about is how they work. I guess you could say it all stems from when I was a little kid. I've always hated my father, except for one thing about him, and that one thing is that he's a watchmaker. I've always gotten to seem him fixing and making these really cool clocks and watches, but I was never allowed to touch anything. I wasn't allowed in his workshop at all, for that matter. Since I was born, my father has practically considered me the spawn of Satan. I mean, he hates it when someone actually puts up a plausible argument against him, and I was able to all the time, and not to mention, I came out the wrong build from the very start. Instead of being the little football-loving jock son he'd always wanted, I spent my afternoons indoors, flipping through pages of Science magazine and a whole reference book about Einstein's theory of relativity. It was impossible for us to properly communicate in my childhood, and that persisted through my life. But I still loved watches, and I was absolutely obsessed with them.
The fact that I liked to dismantle things was probably more out of curiosity than anything else. Haven't you ever looked at that complex toy and wondered how the manufacturers got it to work? I did every day when I was playing. So instead of just throwing it across the room and abandoning the endeavor, I stuck with it until millions of tiny pieces from toy trains, miniature robots, and extremely simplistic dolls were strewn about my room. My mother thought I was just going through some sort of rebellious phase, but honestly, I just wanted something to hold my interest for longer than an hour, for re-reading articles, magazines, and whole dictionaries over and over again was becoming quite mundane.
So, against my father's vehemently enforced rules, she plotted something that would certainly hold my interest for longer than hour--an extremely complicated pocketwatch, and it was all mine to do what I pleased with. She gave me an old tool set of my father's, and I set to work, doing it mostly when my father was too pre-occupied to wander into my room and see why I'd stayed in there for so long. It took a week, but I'd finally accomplished what I set out to do. I put the whole thing back together when I was done, and it worked once more, even though my father had tossed it into the junk pile. I took to stealing things from there more and more often in the future, but I soon tired of being able to dismantle a watch in an hour or less too.
I watched things pass by idly. Larger things held a vague interest to me soon enough. I moved on to the kitchen appliances. My mother grew exhausted of my efforts and eventually just let it happen, because apparently, everything seemed to work better after I'd tinkered with it anyhow. My father was furious, however, and after I'd done this to the oven, I was quite sure that I wouldn't live to see the day following his throttling of me.
But it wasn't enough. Imagine my surprise when I'd picked up an anatomy book from the library and realized that living things too had insides and a secret system, much like that of a pocketwatch's gears, that made them tick? I told my mother of my findings, and she praised my intelligence again. I thanked her happily, and from the window in my room, I kept observing those living creatures nearby--the dogs, cats, and the occasional hamster--but it was easy to see that the easiest one for me to catch and experiment on would be a bird, so I did.
I set the trap on a tree adjacent to the nest of the bird I wanted to catch. When the branch it was on became light from that bird taking flight, that trap released food on the ground, and I simply waited for it to go out, realize that food wasn't nearly as easy to find as it thought, and upon realizing there was food nearby, grab it. As I thought, it soon noticed on its return journey, and dived down to acquire the pieces of food the trap had dropped. However, when that bird landed, the trap soon followed, and it was my bird now, for it was caught in an extremely difficult cage to break. Luckily, I'd put a natural narcotic into the food for that bird, and I brought it back to my room. Taking crude tools from the kitchen that were similar to a surgeon's, but not at all, for they were not meant for the job, I dissected the bird into neat pieces, and I marveled at its insides. Such detail! Honestly, it was such a waste that they were not on display for all to see.
After that, I realize that I had become obsessed. I showed my mother, and she shortly retched, but did nothing more than lightly scold me. Rather than having my mother upset with me, I simply became more lucrative in my actions. Sure, the bird had been fun, but what about the rest of those animals? Soon, my neighbors had pets missing, but I was careful about what I did with them afterwords, and no one seemed to have caught on that I was experimenting in my backyard, and then walking out to a nearby cliffside to dump the bits leftover and unrecognized into the ocean.
As you might have guessed, after large dogs, humans had become my targets. I knew from books what lie inside, but I just had to see for myself. I couldn't decide who would be first. Maybe Mrs. Johansen from next door, because she looked quite hearty, and I assumed that she had all her organs in their correct places. But she had two children and a husband, and that would be cruel. Then I thought about perhaps one of the miscreants from my class, but I didn't want to study a child's body--they were underdeveloped, and far too small.
Then I realized a perfect solution to everything. Long ago, I'd discovered that my father was doing horrible things to my mother when he thought I was asleep. He could no longer do horrible things if I killed him, could he? It was good for my mother, good for me, and perhaps awful for his clients, but there were other talented watchmakers in the city.
I did it on a quiet night in September, when the weather was glorious. I merely choked him with fishing wire in his workshop, and then I cut a neat line across his throat for the sake of research, but also for the practicality of keeping him dead.
I was fascinated. While I'd hated my father's personality, his insides were a completely different story. A lung, a real one! No, two of them. Kidneys, liver, intestines--both small and large--brain. I held each in my hands, not minding the blood after such a long time dabbling in animal dissection. In fact, it felt familiar and safe, and it was among the rotting smell that I could truly feel like I'd done something to be proud of. Here, there was no disappointed father. No, there was only one who wanted to help his son in the best way--and that was to give his body to research. It was a rather indirect method, I admit, but there was certainly never another time when I loved him more than now, deceased, cold, and cut open.
However, my mother had quite a different reaction than I'd wished. She walked in and was wide-eyed before throwing up. I ran to her, concerned, but she only stared at me. Maybe it was the blood. Maybe my hair was messy. Well, that's what I'd thought at the time, anyways. I tried to cheer her up, explaining that our problems were gone now, with my father's death. That I'd gotten to see the insides of a human thanks to his sacrifice, and she wouldn't have to get half-killed in the kitchen anymore, or raped, or anything else awful. But she could only weep, and I heard her say, "What have I done, what have I done?" And I wondered why she was saying that, because I was the one that had done something.
Days passed, and I eventually convinced her to help me throw him off the cliff like everyone else, but only after I'd stripped off the skin on his hands, feet, etc, and removed all the hair and nails from his body. His face was removed and later burned, and I realized it was for the sake of protecting me. She soon urged me to seek psychotherapy, or something akin, but I merely blinked, for I saw nothing at fault with my actions. I realized she was crying because of me soon enough, but I didn't understand what I'd done to warrant such a thing.
Weeks and then months flew by, and my mother withered. She urged me never to experiment on another human, and I agreed. I couldn't find anyone anyways. So I merely blinked absently. But she was losing her touch. She wasn't as sharp as always. She kept cutting her fingers while making dinner, and then the sight of blood made her weep again. She kept calling for my father, even though he was no longer around. Every night when she tucked me in, she held me entirely too close, but I didn't mind.
But I suddenly realized. She was the one that needed mental help, not me. I urged her to go to the doctor, but she only laugh-cried. She patted my head, and then practically crawled to her room. I felt something akin to guilt well up in my small chest. I supposed I had no choice. I really didn't want to do this, especially after everything she'd done for me. But it would certainly be kinder for me to put her out of her misery.
I took my favorite kitchen knife when she was sleeping and I stabbed her in both the chest and the skull--by far the most effective and efficient way to put someone to rest. I didn't want to see her insides, because it was my mother, and that would just be rude. So I quietly tucked her away and walked all the way by myself to the cliffside, and it was a long and hard journey. I had, of course, done her the courtesy of following her instructions--no hair, nails, face, or any other identifying features--but when I returned home, I found it rather lonely.
I never wanted to kill my mother. I loved her. I couldn't say the same for my father, but being alone in this house brought it all back. They were dead, and I, only a curious child, was left alone. It was announced on the news in the morning that my mother had turned up dead. My neighbors realized that it was her because I'd told them both my mother and father were gone now, and this led to me coming to this place where I am now. Here, there are others that like humans, like myself. Maybe not in quite the same ways, but we all work towards a common goal, and that is assuring that people turn up dead or missing, but unidentified.
It's a cruel fate. I wonder sometimes if it had been better to let my mother stay insane, if it meant one more day together with her. But then I steeled myself and went back to work, because sometimes, it was just better not to think.
Phew! That's it for tonight!
Entry [ii] for 500themes .
My prompt list and links for 500themes .
Visit me @ ff.net
or @ website.
Author/Artist: souleater411
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Hetalia
Pairing/s: None.
Theme: 120 - Don't scream.
Words: 595
Genre/s: Angst.
Warnings: Violence.
Worksafe: Yes.
Summary: Never scream, he thought. That's what he said to me. If I scream, I will be a disgrace. If I scream, my people will be shamed. But in the midst of pain, it is terribly difficult not to scream. [WWII Atomic Bombing, Japan.]
Disclaimer/Claimer: Axis Powers Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.
From the moment his boss had signed the papers and shook hands with the other men, it had been final. Another war. Already, he could feel his many years seeping into his bones, and he could do absolutely nothing back in revolt, firstly because it wasn't in his nature, and secondly because ones' country did not suddenly shift loyalties from their leaders. So for now, the Asian nation kept his head down, short bob hidden beneath his tidy white cap.
Day in and day out, he tried his very best to support his people in the midst of this nasty business. Every time he saw his old friends, he was forced to shoot at them, because his boss had now allied him with new 'friends'. The bullets flew and sometimes they hit him too, but he was never allowed to make even a peep. Dark eyes kept closing tightly, and he swallowed the bitter fluid gathered from a scrape on the lips, or from a stab in the stomach. Then, he'd be forced to dig it out himself, cringing the whole time, but he made no sound. Long, long ago, he recalled someone telling him that it didn't suit their kind. They were to bear everything, and not complain.
Japan merely sighed and carried on, transferring to different platoons every time he'd 'supposedly' died. It wouldn't do to have his people discover what he was, unless they simply had a keen insight.
But it all changed, that day. The man who had come over once upon a dream and forced him to expand his horizons, with dirty blonde hair and infectious smile--he was doing things like this now. It was a deadly quiet day today, so shortly after his other friends were starting to lose and surrender. That day, he felt worse than if he'd been physically shot. This was the pain of his actual body's suffering. His people cried out, and he felt the bile come from his throat at a break-neck speed. Bending over and throwing up, his dark eyes were wild with pain. A gash in his abdomen suddenly appeared and erupted in blood. He soon coughed that up too, in-between his gasps for breath. His heart raced, and his face broke out in sweat. He thought he might throw up again.
It hurt so terribly. Tears pricked at his eyes. And the back of his throat itched to let something out, but before it could come out, Japan furiously bit his lips. The pressure from the impact soon turned into piercing attacks on himself, the blood coming from his lips both internal and external now. Spit, sweat, and blood mingled when he tried to breathe again, one hand bracing himself on the ground, and the other clutching at his convulsing chest.
For hours, it burned. But he made not a sound other than the occasional sob. A scream had been trained not to come from his throat, and even in the edgy aftermath of such an attack, still he couldn't seem to find that scream erupting from his lungs. At long last, in the throes of pain and exhaustion, when he collapsed, something resembling the feeble cry of a small animal met his lips, and he hit the ground, the gaping, burning wound making him sweat even in his sleep.
Don't scream, Kiku. That man had spoken harshly. We never disgrace ourselves by screaming.
And as his dark eyes fell closed, and he curled up tightly in fear, only tears met the dirt, and not another sound left his lips.
Never.
...
Title: Softly Slumbering
Author/Artist: souleater411
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Pairing/s: None.
Theme: 433 - Sleepy death.
Words: 1359
Genre/s: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Family.
Warnings: N/A.
Worksafe: Yes.
Summary: The two of them just can't recall the last time they'd felt so at peace.
Disclaimer/Claimer: KHR! belongs to Akira Amano.
It was quiet, save for the pitter-patter of rain against the window. His soft brown eyes were glazed over as he continued to stare, but they were pulled back into focus when he heard the distinct sound of two pairs of leather shoes on the tiled floor.
"I haven't the foggiest idea what you're trying to say," A familiar voice. The old man on the hospital bed chuckled a bit to himself. "The Ninth isn't going to want to hear our argument either, so spit it out now, stupid."
"The reason we're here is so the Ninth can hear the outcome of our argument," This voice was easy to distinguish. It was certainly deeper than he'd recalled it in his memories--those of a child, and those of a young man in the midst of growth. "If you aren't going to be responsible enough to go in that room, I will walk in there myself." Timoteo smiled a little before coaxing his face into a more relaxed one of sleep.
They entered at last--a tall, dark-haired man sporting a fedora, and a slightly shorter brunette, both dressed in sharp pin-stripped suits. The lighter haired of the two smiled once they'd come to stand in front of the old man on the hospital bed before he bowed respectfully. "Ninth."
"Tsunayoshi-kun, please, call me Timoteo," He'd told the boy--no, a man now--hundreds of times, but he still had that air of Japanese courtesy to him.
"I'd forgotten, Timoteo-san," He laughed a bit, and the other man in the room seemed to snort. Through his crusty old eyes, he finally managed to recognize his best hitman and the boy's former tutor, Reborn. Absently, he wondered when that had happened, the baby either having gotten the curse lifted, or growing into an adult again. It was hard to say. Either way, it startled him. He'd seen the man in pictures, but he looked far more dangerous in real life. With a chuckle to himself, he figured it was a good thing that he was on his side. "Either way, Reborn and I just wanted to ask you something."
"And what's that, Tsunayoshi-kun?" As soon as he asked, taking the effort and labor to sit up by himself--Reborn and Tsuna had both offered to help him, he wanted to at least do something for himself.
There was a profound silence as the two men in front of him glared at each other, seeming to have a whole conversation with their eyes before Tsuna at last spoke again.
"If," He murmured quietly. "If, by some chance, I were to die, who would you want your heir to be?"
The old man was startled. "Are you worried about something, Tsunayoshi-kun?"
Reborn scowled, turning his head away from them. Timoteo stared at the young man before letting out a heavy sigh. "I don't know why you'd be so concerned, Tsunayoshi-kun...your guardians will take more than good care of you, I just know it."
He smiled sadly, his brown eyes distant. The old man wondered what he could possibly be so worried about. Although, he'd fallen out of the loop since he'd renounced his position years back, nothing could possibly be so terrible concerning the Vongola that their leader was worried about facing death before his predecessor. Finally, he sighed and spoke again. "If that's truly how you feel...I suppose that's for you to decide, Tsunayoshi-kun."
There was a certain silence as Tsuna turned to Reborn with a glint in his eyes. The hitman scoffed and turned away again, but Tsuna got down on one knee, joined their right hands (for it was where they both had kept their precious rings before the Tenth leader of the Vongola had them destroyed), kissed the elder's, and said a simple "Grazie," to the old man before smiling again, letting his hand fall, and nodding on his way out. In a trance, the Ninth listened to the two of them bicker until their voices faded to nothing.
Weeks later, when Reborn turned up dead, he grew concerned. Sure, Tsunayoshi and his gang were adults now--they certainly had a name for themselves in the mafia world. But it was dangerous. And from what he'd gathered, all the arcobalenoss were beginning to fall.
What had happened? Ever since he'd sent hitman to Japan years ago, he'd never left Tsuna's side for more than a day, and he came back unharmed. But the world around them was changing.
And then, only a month or two after that, Coyote came with terrible news. The brunette had walked right into a trap, leaving the Vongola without a leader, and, admittedly, more crippled than they'd ever been in the past.
They'd lost their status as the most powerful mafia family.
Amidst all this tragedy and sadness, the old man could feel his time running thin. He couldn't resume his position as leader of the family--his time was too short. Behind closed eyes in the midnight hours of the hospital, death crept in and laid heavy on his chest. Within a quiet dream, he happened upon a couple of unfamiliar faces--although he supposed that wasn't entirely true. They just appeared to be younger than he was quite used to.
"Pardon the intrusion," The blue-haired youth with a very distinctive haircut smirked a bit, leading the old man into a field where only one person was sitting on a little rock. "But Tsunayoshi-kun here absolutely insisted upon this before your pass to the next world."
He saw the young Tsunayosh of fourteen years, with eyes that seemed as old as his own and a smile just as benevolent. "Sorry about Mukuro. He's not exactly what you'd call tact at the best of times." The boy rose and walked over to the feeble old man, offering him his seat. "I figured that you, of all people, deserved an explanation."
The old man said nothing. He sat in a strange mixture of fascination, disturbia, and despair. So much had been going around him while he'd been fading, and no one had said a word. Tsunayoshi had been dealing with difficulties far larger than he had in his time, and for that he apologized, but the boy only smiled.
"It's okay." His smile was sad this time, though, and his gaze seemed far away. "You did what you had to do."
"And Reborn?" The old man had grasped most of what the boy had told him--that everything had been a plan. The younger versions of Tsuna and his guardians would be the ones to handle this crisis, mostly because the older ones didn't have the rings. They would work together with their insider, Irie Shouichi, to defeat this time's enemy, Byakuran. But the boy hadn't explained that.
He shook his head a bit. "In all honesty, Verde seems to have done something awful to them. But I can't say for sure. All I know is that...something in my gut tells me that he'll be back." Another sad smile.
"I'm sorry, truly," The gray-haired old man who lie in wait for death, and the boy that already stood on his doorstep stood face to face. "For everything."
"Don't be," Tsuna smiled, and this time it at least reached the edges of his eyes. He was drifting further and further away, more towards Mukuro and less towards Timoteo. "After all, I'm not dead. And it was one of your regrets, wasn't it? Giving me such a position at such a young age, I mean. I promise, I'll give my position to someone worthy, regardless of age. Just like you."
The man stared at him as he faded away, unable to say anything. He captured Tsuna's smile last, and then with one last heavy blink, he felt reality slam back, in the room of the hospital. Drowsy, he stared out of the window--raining again. With heavy breath, he laid back down and eased himself. It was over. Tsunayoshi had accepted his destiny and taken it to proportions he'd never known.
That night, in the dreary city, the cobblestoned paths laden with passengers, the hospital found another of its guests dead, but it was through his sleep and with a smile that he passed.
It was a night indeed with no regrets.
...
Title: A Certain Type of Love
Author/Artist: souleater411
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Permanent Curiosity
Pairing/s: None.
Theme: 326 - I loved you mommy, the day I killed you.
Words: 2063
Genre/s: Crime, Angst.
Warnings: Pretty sick-minded.
Worksafe: Ehh...
Summary: Really, I felt terrible. After all, it was all his fault in the long run.
Disclaimer/Claimer: All of this is from yours' truly's imagination.
I love my mother. Really, I do.
She's the always been the one who protected me, and understood my mannerisms. I guess you could say that my intelligence is a little above average, but she never seemed to mind the fact that I didn't get along well with children or adults because of it. In fact, she always tried to help me understand them more.
But let's face it. It's just plain impossible. I don't care that Johnny is in love with Susie, or that Franklin got a bruise from where he'd fallen off of the jungle-gym during recess.
All I care about is how they work. I guess you could say it all stems from when I was a little kid. I've always hated my father, except for one thing about him, and that one thing is that he's a watchmaker. I've always gotten to seem him fixing and making these really cool clocks and watches, but I was never allowed to touch anything. I wasn't allowed in his workshop at all, for that matter. Since I was born, my father has practically considered me the spawn of Satan. I mean, he hates it when someone actually puts up a plausible argument against him, and I was able to all the time, and not to mention, I came out the wrong build from the very start. Instead of being the little football-loving jock son he'd always wanted, I spent my afternoons indoors, flipping through pages of Science magazine and a whole reference book about Einstein's theory of relativity. It was impossible for us to properly communicate in my childhood, and that persisted through my life. But I still loved watches, and I was absolutely obsessed with them.
The fact that I liked to dismantle things was probably more out of curiosity than anything else. Haven't you ever looked at that complex toy and wondered how the manufacturers got it to work? I did every day when I was playing. So instead of just throwing it across the room and abandoning the endeavor, I stuck with it until millions of tiny pieces from toy trains, miniature robots, and extremely simplistic dolls were strewn about my room. My mother thought I was just going through some sort of rebellious phase, but honestly, I just wanted something to hold my interest for longer than an hour, for re-reading articles, magazines, and whole dictionaries over and over again was becoming quite mundane.
So, against my father's vehemently enforced rules, she plotted something that would certainly hold my interest for longer than hour--an extremely complicated pocketwatch, and it was all mine to do what I pleased with. She gave me an old tool set of my father's, and I set to work, doing it mostly when my father was too pre-occupied to wander into my room and see why I'd stayed in there for so long. It took a week, but I'd finally accomplished what I set out to do. I put the whole thing back together when I was done, and it worked once more, even though my father had tossed it into the junk pile. I took to stealing things from there more and more often in the future, but I soon tired of being able to dismantle a watch in an hour or less too.
I watched things pass by idly. Larger things held a vague interest to me soon enough. I moved on to the kitchen appliances. My mother grew exhausted of my efforts and eventually just let it happen, because apparently, everything seemed to work better after I'd tinkered with it anyhow. My father was furious, however, and after I'd done this to the oven, I was quite sure that I wouldn't live to see the day following his throttling of me.
But it wasn't enough. Imagine my surprise when I'd picked up an anatomy book from the library and realized that living things too had insides and a secret system, much like that of a pocketwatch's gears, that made them tick? I told my mother of my findings, and she praised my intelligence again. I thanked her happily, and from the window in my room, I kept observing those living creatures nearby--the dogs, cats, and the occasional hamster--but it was easy to see that the easiest one for me to catch and experiment on would be a bird, so I did.
I set the trap on a tree adjacent to the nest of the bird I wanted to catch. When the branch it was on became light from that bird taking flight, that trap released food on the ground, and I simply waited for it to go out, realize that food wasn't nearly as easy to find as it thought, and upon realizing there was food nearby, grab it. As I thought, it soon noticed on its return journey, and dived down to acquire the pieces of food the trap had dropped. However, when that bird landed, the trap soon followed, and it was my bird now, for it was caught in an extremely difficult cage to break. Luckily, I'd put a natural narcotic into the food for that bird, and I brought it back to my room. Taking crude tools from the kitchen that were similar to a surgeon's, but not at all, for they were not meant for the job, I dissected the bird into neat pieces, and I marveled at its insides. Such detail! Honestly, it was such a waste that they were not on display for all to see.
After that, I realize that I had become obsessed. I showed my mother, and she shortly retched, but did nothing more than lightly scold me. Rather than having my mother upset with me, I simply became more lucrative in my actions. Sure, the bird had been fun, but what about the rest of those animals? Soon, my neighbors had pets missing, but I was careful about what I did with them afterwords, and no one seemed to have caught on that I was experimenting in my backyard, and then walking out to a nearby cliffside to dump the bits leftover and unrecognized into the ocean.
As you might have guessed, after large dogs, humans had become my targets. I knew from books what lie inside, but I just had to see for myself. I couldn't decide who would be first. Maybe Mrs. Johansen from next door, because she looked quite hearty, and I assumed that she had all her organs in their correct places. But she had two children and a husband, and that would be cruel. Then I thought about perhaps one of the miscreants from my class, but I didn't want to study a child's body--they were underdeveloped, and far too small.
Then I realized a perfect solution to everything. Long ago, I'd discovered that my father was doing horrible things to my mother when he thought I was asleep. He could no longer do horrible things if I killed him, could he? It was good for my mother, good for me, and perhaps awful for his clients, but there were other talented watchmakers in the city.
I did it on a quiet night in September, when the weather was glorious. I merely choked him with fishing wire in his workshop, and then I cut a neat line across his throat for the sake of research, but also for the practicality of keeping him dead.
I was fascinated. While I'd hated my father's personality, his insides were a completely different story. A lung, a real one! No, two of them. Kidneys, liver, intestines--both small and large--brain. I held each in my hands, not minding the blood after such a long time dabbling in animal dissection. In fact, it felt familiar and safe, and it was among the rotting smell that I could truly feel like I'd done something to be proud of. Here, there was no disappointed father. No, there was only one who wanted to help his son in the best way--and that was to give his body to research. It was a rather indirect method, I admit, but there was certainly never another time when I loved him more than now, deceased, cold, and cut open.
However, my mother had quite a different reaction than I'd wished. She walked in and was wide-eyed before throwing up. I ran to her, concerned, but she only stared at me. Maybe it was the blood. Maybe my hair was messy. Well, that's what I'd thought at the time, anyways. I tried to cheer her up, explaining that our problems were gone now, with my father's death. That I'd gotten to see the insides of a human thanks to his sacrifice, and she wouldn't have to get half-killed in the kitchen anymore, or raped, or anything else awful. But she could only weep, and I heard her say, "What have I done, what have I done?" And I wondered why she was saying that, because I was the one that had done something.
Days passed, and I eventually convinced her to help me throw him off the cliff like everyone else, but only after I'd stripped off the skin on his hands, feet, etc, and removed all the hair and nails from his body. His face was removed and later burned, and I realized it was for the sake of protecting me. She soon urged me to seek psychotherapy, or something akin, but I merely blinked, for I saw nothing at fault with my actions. I realized she was crying because of me soon enough, but I didn't understand what I'd done to warrant such a thing.
Weeks and then months flew by, and my mother withered. She urged me never to experiment on another human, and I agreed. I couldn't find anyone anyways. So I merely blinked absently. But she was losing her touch. She wasn't as sharp as always. She kept cutting her fingers while making dinner, and then the sight of blood made her weep again. She kept calling for my father, even though he was no longer around. Every night when she tucked me in, she held me entirely too close, but I didn't mind.
But I suddenly realized. She was the one that needed mental help, not me. I urged her to go to the doctor, but she only laugh-cried. She patted my head, and then practically crawled to her room. I felt something akin to guilt well up in my small chest. I supposed I had no choice. I really didn't want to do this, especially after everything she'd done for me. But it would certainly be kinder for me to put her out of her misery.
I took my favorite kitchen knife when she was sleeping and I stabbed her in both the chest and the skull--by far the most effective and efficient way to put someone to rest. I didn't want to see her insides, because it was my mother, and that would just be rude. So I quietly tucked her away and walked all the way by myself to the cliffside, and it was a long and hard journey. I had, of course, done her the courtesy of following her instructions--no hair, nails, face, or any other identifying features--but when I returned home, I found it rather lonely.
I never wanted to kill my mother. I loved her. I couldn't say the same for my father, but being alone in this house brought it all back. They were dead, and I, only a curious child, was left alone. It was announced on the news in the morning that my mother had turned up dead. My neighbors realized that it was her because I'd told them both my mother and father were gone now, and this led to me coming to this place where I am now. Here, there are others that like humans, like myself. Maybe not in quite the same ways, but we all work towards a common goal, and that is assuring that people turn up dead or missing, but unidentified.
It's a cruel fate. I wonder sometimes if it had been better to let my mother stay insane, if it meant one more day together with her. But then I steeled myself and went back to work, because sometimes, it was just better not to think.
Phew! That's it for tonight!
Entry [ii] for 500themes .
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