Slam Dunk Fan Fiction ❯ Delinquents ❯ One-Shot
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: MitsuiSelphie 
What Mitsui felt while he was a gangster...
Anime/Manga: Slam Dunk Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 07.04.2002 | Pages: 1 | Words: 622 | Visits: 748 | Status: Completed
What Mitsui felt while he was a gangster...
Anime/Manga: Slam Dunk Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 07.04.2002 | Pages: 1 | Words: 622 | Visits: 748 | Status: Completed
*Words in italics but are not enclosed in parentheses compose Gwendolyn Brooks' poem. Words in italics and enclosed in parentheses are Mitsui's thoughts.
~*~
The heavy outpour of the heavens plastered his long black hair onto his scarred face - water dripping down his chin, eyes bloodshot with prolong exposure. He flashed a smile to his opponent, making an illusion of baring his fangs at his prey like a predator of the night. For the nth time that week, he and his gang had the pleasure of wringing out vigor from the biggest and strongest of young men in the district. It was fun…the feeling of power felt good…almost surreal…like…the intake of narcotics…
We real cool.
We left school.
Clenching his hands into solid fists, he brought down a powerful blow on his opponent's jaw.
(I feel…invulnerable…almost like a god…) For a second that seemed to expand to forever, like the slow motion of a flashback in an old cheap-budgeted movie, he felt something warm trickle down his unclenched hands…
(…blood…)
The scarred-face man held his hand before his eyes, gazing at the red liquid slowly being washed away by drops of heaven's tears. He shivered…
(…blood…)
Just like before…just like so many other times before. Like a symbol of power and superiority, like an achievement of attaining invincibility - blood made him feel…immortal.
We lurk late.
We strike straight.
Oh…he was proud all right - the scarred face man. He always wanted to be the best in everything. He wanted to be venerated, esteemed, idolized…or so he thought he did. Parting the locks of hair covering his eyes, he looked at the younger boy sprawled helplessly on the cold cement road. He had been cruel and relentless, the once proud sportsman…
Before, he wanted recognition, now what he wanted - was power. The moment he was subjected to it, he had been addicted - he wanted power, to be in control, to be invulnerable…to be invincible…to be god…
We sing sin.
We thin gin.
Spitting on the face of his prey, he walked away smugly - believing that every human being that he tortures would bring him closer to indestructibility. His mind was corrupted but his heart was tormented. His fists had minds of their own…and he didn't realize that he had already been the very epitome of the devil on earth…
(…this is not you Hisashi…)
The winds howled that dark menacing night, whispering eerie sounds of foreboding into his ear.
(What do you think you're doing?)
"Are you okay, Mit-chan?"
(Okay??? We almost killed a kid back there!)
"Shut the fuck up!"
He brought his fist down on his own comrade - his own breath coming in ragged gasps, his muscles constricting and expanding in a series of mood alterations.
This time, he looked at his clenched fist…
(…blood…)
…again there was more blood…just like before…just like so many times before…
(Nori…)
His eyes softened at the sight of his comrade looking at him fearfully. For a moment he thought he had killed Nori…
He dug his fingernails against his palm until blood dripped from it continuously.
(…blood…)
This time, it was his own…his own blood…and for the nth time for the past two years, he wondered if time would come when his own blood would dye the water crimson red on a stormy night like this…
We jazz June.
We die soon.
**Owari**
Notes: Eheheh…Did anybody get the meaning of the poem. It was about juvenile delinquency. Anyway, looks like I'm getting attached to ficlets, ei? Maybe it's because they're easier to write, or maybe it's because of my lack of time. ^^ Anyway, Happy b-day moonglow!!! Luv yah!
~*~
The heavy outpour of the heavens plastered his long black hair onto his scarred face - water dripping down his chin, eyes bloodshot with prolong exposure. He flashed a smile to his opponent, making an illusion of baring his fangs at his prey like a predator of the night. For the nth time that week, he and his gang had the pleasure of wringing out vigor from the biggest and strongest of young men in the district. It was fun…the feeling of power felt good…almost surreal…like…the intake of narcotics…
We real cool.
We left school.
Clenching his hands into solid fists, he brought down a powerful blow on his opponent's jaw.
(I feel…invulnerable…almost like a god…) For a second that seemed to expand to forever, like the slow motion of a flashback in an old cheap-budgeted movie, he felt something warm trickle down his unclenched hands…
(…blood…)
The scarred-face man held his hand before his eyes, gazing at the red liquid slowly being washed away by drops of heaven's tears. He shivered…
(…blood…)
Just like before…just like so many other times before. Like a symbol of power and superiority, like an achievement of attaining invincibility - blood made him feel…immortal.
We lurk late.
We strike straight.
Oh…he was proud all right - the scarred face man. He always wanted to be the best in everything. He wanted to be venerated, esteemed, idolized…or so he thought he did. Parting the locks of hair covering his eyes, he looked at the younger boy sprawled helplessly on the cold cement road. He had been cruel and relentless, the once proud sportsman…
Before, he wanted recognition, now what he wanted - was power. The moment he was subjected to it, he had been addicted - he wanted power, to be in control, to be invulnerable…to be invincible…to be god…
We sing sin.
We thin gin.
Spitting on the face of his prey, he walked away smugly - believing that every human being that he tortures would bring him closer to indestructibility. His mind was corrupted but his heart was tormented. His fists had minds of their own…and he didn't realize that he had already been the very epitome of the devil on earth…
(…this is not you Hisashi…)
The winds howled that dark menacing night, whispering eerie sounds of foreboding into his ear.
(What do you think you're doing?)
"Are you okay, Mit-chan?"
(Okay??? We almost killed a kid back there!)
"Shut the fuck up!"
He brought his fist down on his own comrade - his own breath coming in ragged gasps, his muscles constricting and expanding in a series of mood alterations.
This time, he looked at his clenched fist…
(…blood…)
…again there was more blood…just like before…just like so many times before…
(Nori…)
His eyes softened at the sight of his comrade looking at him fearfully. For a moment he thought he had killed Nori…
He dug his fingernails against his palm until blood dripped from it continuously.
(…blood…)
This time, it was his own…his own blood…and for the nth time for the past two years, he wondered if time would come when his own blood would dye the water crimson red on a stormy night like this…
We jazz June.
We die soon.
**Owari**
Notes: Eheheh…Did anybody get the meaning of the poem. It was about juvenile delinquency. Anyway, looks like I'm getting attached to ficlets, ei? Maybe it's because they're easier to write, or maybe it's because of my lack of time. ^^ Anyway, Happy b-day moonglow!!! Luv yah!