You just like green eyes is all. You’re fond of brown but prefer green. You dislike blue. It’s the color of his eyes.
You hate father. You wishes he would dissappear again and never come back this time. Father makes you see red; father makes you angry, so angry sometimes that you break things without meaning to; father makes your head hurt so much it feels like its splitting in two. Father makes you wish…makes you wish…
At night, when you’re the only one awake, you think about hurting him. The way he hurt mother before he left, the way he hurt mother because he left. The way he hurt you by hurting mother. You squeeze your eyes shut to try to run away from the memories.
It’s useless; the memories are right there, laughing at you, taunting you. You’d been useless, too weak to do anything. Too weak to protect mother from the man she loved—still loves—more than you.
You remember how happy you’d been when he finally left. You remember how much mother cried. You curl your mouth in disgust.
It’s not fair. You were the one who took care of her, who made her smile, who was there whenever she needed support—so why does she still love that man more than she loves you? He was the one hurt her, who left her pretty face blue and purple whenever he drank too much. All you ever did was be perfect. For her. To make her happy.
It’s always been about her. No one else has ever mattered.
It’s no fair.
And it’s enough to make you want to hurt her, too.
It’s enough to make you want to hurt them both.
And really, why not?
--
The sight of her face makes you so, so angry. The sight of her face makes you do crazy things. The sight of her face makes you so angry you do crazy things, things that make no sense, all fog and no sunshine.
The sight of her face—gentle green eyes, cupid bow lips, button-like nose and all—makes you see red; makes your head feel like its splitting in two and it’s just easier to let the monster—scaly and horrible and mean—croon evil things in your ear and persuade you to do something about it.
So it’s understandable that her face is the first part to go.
Gentle green eyes, cupid bow lips, button-like nose and all.
It peels off like the skin of an apple.
You leave her eyes alone for now. You’ve always loved green eyes best after all. You don’t spare father’s. Father is the first to go; you’ve always hated him. You tell him so before he chokes on the tourniquet, body convulsing and eyes rolling on the back of his head. The sight of him disgusts you. You hate blue eyes. You hate the color of his hair, his skin, the way he smiles.
Unlike father, mother is beautiful. The red looks so nice against her milky pale skin, her pink fingernails scratching desperately at the floor until they break. She yanks at the rope on her wrists until the skin turns red, and the handkerchief stuffed in her mouth quickly turns the same color too. The red mixes with the salty water on her face.
Gentle green eyes, milky white skin, bubbly short hair the color of sunflowers bathed in honey—
When you kiss her, she tastes like copper.
She smells like sugar and freshly planted roses. You wish you could take her scent and seal it away in a bottle forever. Keep it with you forever. Love it forever.
You settle for keeping her eyes in a jar.
---
Orz. Orz. So obviously never written serial-killer fics before. Next part will have Arthur in it, promise! /lame author-anon is lame to identify myself from the two lovely other author-anons, I shall call myself lame-author-anon from now on
KakuRenBo [Prologue part V]
You hate father. You wishes he would dissappear again and never come back this time. Father makes you see red; father makes you angry, so angry sometimes that you break things without meaning to; father makes your head hurt so much it feels like its splitting in two. Father makes you wish…makes you wish…
At night, when you’re the only one awake, you think about hurting him. The way he hurt mother before he left, the way he hurt mother because he left. The way he hurt you by hurting mother. You squeeze your eyes shut to try to run away from the memories.
It’s useless; the memories are right there, laughing at you, taunting you. You’d been useless, too weak to do anything. Too weak to protect mother from the man she loved—still loves—more than you.
You remember how happy you’d been when he finally left. You remember how much mother cried. You curl your mouth in disgust.
It’s not fair. You were the one who took care of her, who made her smile, who was there whenever she needed support—so why does she still love that man more than she loves you? He was the one hurt her, who left her pretty face blue and purple whenever he drank too much. All you ever did was be perfect. For her. To make her happy.
It’s always been about her. No one else has ever mattered.
It’s no fair.
And it’s enough to make you want to hurt her, too.
It’s enough to make you want to hurt them both.
And really, why not?
--
The sight of her face makes you so, so angry. The sight of her face makes you do crazy things. The sight of her face makes you so angry you do crazy things, things that make no sense, all fog and no sunshine.
The sight of her face—gentle green eyes, cupid bow lips, button-like nose and all—makes you see red; makes your head feel like its splitting in two and it’s just easier to let the monster—scaly and horrible and mean—croon evil things in your ear and persuade you to do something about it.
So it’s understandable that her face is the first part to go.
Gentle green eyes, cupid bow lips, button-like nose and all.
It peels off like the skin of an apple.
You leave her eyes alone for now. You’ve always loved green eyes best after all. You don’t spare father’s. Father is the first to go; you’ve always hated him. You tell him so before he chokes on the tourniquet, body convulsing and eyes rolling on the back of his head. The sight of him disgusts you. You hate blue eyes. You hate the color of his hair, his skin, the way he smiles.
Unlike father, mother is beautiful. The red looks so nice against her milky pale skin, her pink fingernails scratching desperately at the floor until they break. She yanks at the rope on her wrists until the skin turns red, and the handkerchief stuffed in her mouth quickly turns the same color too. The red mixes with the salty water on her face.
Gentle green eyes, milky white skin, bubbly short hair the color of sunflowers bathed in honey—
When you kiss her, she tastes like copper.
She smells like sugar and freshly planted roses. You wish you could take her scent and seal it away in a bottle forever. Keep it with you forever. Love it forever.
You settle for keeping her eyes in a jar.
---
Orz. Orz. So obviously never written serial-killer fics before. Next part will have Arthur in it, promise! /lame author-anon is lame
to identify myself from the two lovely other author-anons, I shall call myself lame-author-anon from now on