Crimson Addiction

By Spawn of Hell

- -The Death of a Wavering Soul - -

The same movements endlessly repeated… Guard, slash, guard, thrust… The same movements endlessly repeated for one purpose only: to spill blood, to bring death. And the motivation for murdering men, women and children I don't know is the enormous amount of money promised to me; money to pay my sister's hospital bills.

It's been so long now without her, without my family, without my sanity. My parents were murdered. And they died in disgrace. My sister is in a coma assuredly for the rest of her life. And I am not dead. How can I still be here? What is the point of my being here? To look after my sister by killing people? What do I have left? Why ain't I dead? Instead of being here, neither dead nor alive?

I think at one point I was still sane. At one point I could still think of myself as a rational man… Now its seems to me I no longer function properly. How could I ever believe what I do is right? Killing people to pay for something that's dead anyway is wrong. Kritiker tries to fool us by saying we are white knights who fight the evils of society that the law can't touch. Knights? We are murderers. Nothing more, nothing less. We defend the innocent? We barely know who we're killing, for all I know it could a set-up… Wouldn't matter though… We're murderers, assassins trained to kill on order. Kritiker's order. Then why do I keep on doing it? Because I do not have anything else left. All I have is blood. Gorgeous crimson liquid so plainly covering my moon-hued skin to hide the fact that I'm dead. Masking me so fully. Blood. A red so perfect yet so transparent. A red which possesses the bitter taste of metal. It is my sin. It is my doom. I cannot escape it. I so freely spill it; I was a long time ago stained. I can no longer forget it. I cannot pretend it isn't on me, covering me, reminding me of who I am and of my only purpose in life. Yes. My purpose is bloodshed. I am the chosen one and so I shall fulfill my destiny by painting the world red. It is my goal. It is my mission.

When I begin to think like that, the image of Farfarello comes to my mind and I understand. I am crazy. I have lost what little sanity I had. They say Schwarz is evil. If so, then I must be Lucifer itself. The horrors I accomplish, the horrors I think about I simply excuse their existence with the useful lie that my sister needs this. I am a hypocrite. It is all a lie. My sister doesn't need this, she doesn't need her older brother to kill in her name disgracing her even more, and she didn't need for him to lose his soul. She doesn't need anything. She is dead. She no longer needs anything from me. But then, she never did; she never needed me the way I needed her, the way I need her still. She was my reason to fight for life. She is my excuse to fight for death. I profoundly hate her for being so. Sometimes I wonder what it would've been liked if only she'd died; would my situation be the same? Sometimes I wish she would've died. Always I wish I would've died.

I've become something that can no longer be called human. I'm a walking corpse who's sole purpose is to kill efficiently without asking questions. And others look at me suspiciously as if they knew. As if they knew I am no longer one of them, that I have become something entirely different. They tried to prevent the transformation at first. The transformation. I personally chose that word. What better term to describe what happened to me? They tried to stop it but I wouldn't let them. I didn't want to stop it. Self-pitying, self-loathing… Centred on myself only. Nothing matters but my little tragedy. The others haven't suffered like I have. Selfish bastard. I didn't want their help. It was already too late.

Today's mission was properly executed not withholding the searing pain radiating in my arm from the cut I got by shoving Ken aside. The wound is a bit deep and will require stitches but I've seen far worse. But it could've been avoided if that damn idiot wasn't so hotheaded. He should've paid attention and he should've seen the last remaining guard. We're now speeding on the highway fleeing the mission's location. I can feel Ken's every movement as I hold on tight to him for I do not feel the need to bathe in my own blood after falling off of his motorbike. Not that the thought of ending it all isn't appealing. The black nothing filling this red-hot world banishing the hurt, the suffering only to leave behind nothing. Blank. More than I ever wanted. More than I'll ever have.

Right now all my thoughts are focused on one single thing: him. The target. He was efficiently disposed of. He was eliminated by me. And the flashes still burn my retinas; I see the 16 year-old boy standing behind the large wooden desk trembling. Trembling but determined. I never thought it possible but I saw it in his eyes: he knew what was to come. And yet he did not try to escape. Probably knew it was inevitable too. And as he stood there waiting acceptingly, I found him magnificent. He was going to die. His life was over. There was no escape possible. He knew that too. He didn't want to die; he knew he was going to nonetheless.

I have been so lost in my own self-absorbed little torture zone that I failed to live. So many nights I wished and prayed for the end to come. And each night I would put on my assassin gear and step out into the dark seeking death. Our targets', of course, but moreover, mine. I thought I would find peace there. I wanted to die. I want to die. He did not. He desired to live but there I was standing in front of him with my bloodily unsheathed katana ready to rip him apart. What right do I have to shed his blood? He wanted to live. I wanted to die. Why would I take his life away instead of mine? Why take what he cherished instead of taking what I despised? Besetting question.

I should not kill him. But I knew. But he knew. I couldn't do otherwise. The blade easily pierced through his abdomen liberating a scarlet river. He collapsed in my arms, watched me with wide-opened eyes, not from the pain it seemed, but from the ultimate need to confront death and embrace life one more time; the ultimate need to take as much life in as possible before loosing it forever.

But he knew I was death. There was no turning back, no way out, just death. They told me to kill so many, I never spared one no matter how unjustified the kill seemed. I killed so many. I'm a murderer and I have been for so long… He is dead now. I killed him like I killed my parents, my sister, myself… I am nothing, so why would I care? He was like them all and killing him was an easy task. He died without any struggle. So much courage in him. He was magnificent; he knew yet he did not run. He possessed the courage I didn't. I am a coward.

"Aya-kun? We're here… Are you ok? You look dazed…"

Ken. We are back at Koneko. And Ken is standing before me, head cocked, concern marking his face. Was I ok? No. Of course not. I didn't even realize we had stopped and that he had gotten off the bicycle. He always asks me if I'm ok. And every time I lie.

"Hai."

What else could I do? There is nothing he can do for me so why would I waste my time talking to him. Why should I burden him with my pathetic problems? But then I just take one look at him and I know he doesn't believe me. The guy ain't half-stupid. He's got brains in that pretty soccer player head of his. Though he is showing annoying persistence. Yohji knows there's no hope, we could never be friends or anything else. I suspect that Omi is only falsely cheerful and that he often doesn't give a crap about anything unrelated to his job. I don't know, I don't care. Only Ken seems to believe I'm his friend and not just his aloof murderous leader. How come? I have no idea. I do not act differently with him than with the others so why does he always feel compelled to worry about me?

"Ok then, let's get that arm of yours fixed, ne?"

I normally patch myself up alone but stitches are a tricky affair and are always neater done by someone else. This way the probabilities of infections were greatly reduced and being the team leader I could not afford such risks. Why do I care?

"Hn."

I didn't want Ken to help me. I don't need his help. There's nothing that can be fixed and so I will not let him get hurt trying. But it was pointless to try and debate the tending of my wound. His hands moved gently as he disinfected and sewed the cut closed.

All the while he throws quick glances at my face probably worrying that he's hurting me. Though I doubt that would happen but even in the eventuality that it did, unlike what he thinks, I couldn't hurt him back. I could never hurt them. Though I hurt others. I killed that boy mercilessly. I can still see his wide eyes becoming more and more empty and lose that brilliance which, I know now, was the expression of his life, of his essence. I made it disappear forever. It's my fault. I am dead and so I kill what is around me. Why ain't I dead too? Truly dead? Why did I kill that boy instead of myself? I killed him. That blood on my coat, on my hands… So dark, so crimson… his blood…

"Aya-kun? You… you're sure you're feeling alright?"

Ken stares at me wide-eyed, just like that boy but something else, something different could be distinguished in Ken's eyes. It wasn't that resigned knowledge but something more along the lines of worry and anguish…

"Aya-san?"

"Nani?"

"You're not alright."

It is a statement. I've spaced out for what I'm guessing is more than one minute because my arm is now all patched up. I don't feel that well. And Ken is looking at me expectantly. I am not going to cry out my troubles to him. He's nothing. I'm nothing. I want him to go away. I want to get out of here. Again I can't control my thoughts… They're swirling, so many of them, in and out of focus. I can't deal with that now. Not with Ken there. I want him to go away. I want to get out of here. NOW! I hurry to get up and start walking away but Ken tries to draw me back. I don't want to be there. I evade his hand and painfully hiss:

"Stay away from me… I'm warning you…"

He stops dead in his tracks and I see an opening. I flee to my apartment. I saw it on his face. The fear, the hurt of being rejected. He thinks we're friends. We're not. We can never be. I killed life and hope. And shed so much blood from it… So dark… So crimson… So perfect… Mine.

Owari (?)

Ok. That's done. Please review? I had planned this story to be longer this being only the first chapter so if you want a sequel there's only one thing to do : REVIEW !!!

Thanks.