zelman clock » the red-eyed murderer (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
exanimatus) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
paradisa2012-04-15 03:26 pm
exanimatus) wrote in paradisa2012-04-15 03:26 pm
Entry tags:
(no subject)
[Private;]
[it's stupid. the whole thing is just stupid. he's woken up himself again, left the castle since he has no reason to stay there--not with everyone so fresh and so willing to bother him about it. he doesn't see the point of it. perhaps Rin had a childhood, perhaps Legato had a reason for being who he is, but his childhood? meaningless. he doesn't even remember it. there is no reason for the powers-that-be to go around drudging up a past that doesn't exist.
as if it could change him now--that him is dead. that him was never alive.
and now he's going to have to see it in their smug faces. disgusting.
but that's all it is--disgusting. worthless. trash. but not violating, not the same kind feeling as all of the other times (most of the other times). as he jumps across rooftops, towards his destination, it doesn't feel like something's reached in and wrenched out an ugly part of himself and shoved it back inside. this is just... obnoxious.
and that bothers him more than it should.
he gets to his grounds, walks through, barely notices whether or not anything has changed. he's too wrapped up in himself, wondering why things are like they are. is he getting used to it? is that it?
used to the idea of being a puppet? that's what it would mean to accept this fact as truth. but he can't think of another explanation for it, and that really unnerves him, because that isn't him. that's not the him that first came here, that's not the him that he wants to be. he doesn't want to change. he wants to be himself, and only himself.
but now that he looks at it, it's so obvious, and on his way to his room he's struck with a sudden (but understandable) want to be doing and thinking about something else. anything else.
so he calls out for Asuka.
...
no answer.
not unusual, but in the period between shouting and waiting for a reply, the silence creeps in around him and gets heavier and now that he thinks about it, something's not right. a quick look, a glance around with his senses tells him she isn't even in the mansion.
and that starts a spark of something that grows in his mind and his heart until he moves down the hall to where her room would be (she always likes to stay close, even with hundreds of rooms at her disposal). opening the door, all of her things are gone. the room is empty, like she'd never been there.
she wouldn't have moved back to the castle. no one would have just taken her stuff. she wasn't in the castle. she isn't here. there's only one other place she could be, and he can't feel her if she's there, but she would have said something, so he moves back to his room and shoves things out of the way to find his journal and flips through the pages, but it's pointless because a part of him knows he won't find anything there because no one would there's no reason what could have made her why didn't she come find him when he was a child?
nothing. there's nothing to find, no explanation. not from her, not from anyone.
which means she's gone.
and he stands there, staring at the cover of the journal he only vaguely remembers closing. he can't hear anything. he isn't looking at anything. he isn't thinking anything. it's just fact.
it's just what it is. didn't they know this would happen?
and for a brief moment, he's okay.
it's better this way.
sooner or later.
pointless.
right?
they knew. they knew, they knew, they knew. he told himself every single day. he would think about it every time he saw her. he's spent years bracing himself for the inevitable. and now that it's come, well... wasn't he expecting it? he'd planned her funeral a thousand times, so now all that's left to do is throw his handful of dirt and leave some flowers. right?
so he should probably say something. because that's what people do. and no one else is going to say anything, because no one else was around her like he was and no one else is going to care and no one else will throw their dirt and she's gone back to the world where she's going to sit and rot and die and it's not fair.
CRASH.
he screams, something unintelligible, animalistic. things break, things fall off the shelves, things are scorched and torn and absolutely none of it helps. she's gone, she's gone, she's gone she's gone she's gone she's gone she's gone she's gone she's gone she's gone she's gone she's gone she's gone--
and it's all its fault.
eventually he stops, either because there's nothing left to break or because he realizes that none of it is making him feel better or because he's shaking horribly and his chest hurts and he wants to hurt something so badly, make it feel even a tenth of what he's feeling, make everyone understand just how absolutely wretched everything is.
make them understand how it's all a... joke.
a joke.
it's funny.
...that's right.
he would know, wouldn't he? in that room... he would know. he understands.
and with that thought, a horrible sort of silence settles over him. he's nearly delirious with rage, and it can't be contained with action. it doesn't matter how much he breaks, how many lives he snuffs out, or how long he waits. it won't subside, because it's been there all along. he had something here--tricks, reasons, exceptions. he had outs, he had ways to trick himself, he had reasons not to live like he's only waiting to die.
but now that's all gone. now there is literally nothing to distinguish this world from his own, and no reason to live any differently. and now, in a way that is both jarringly sharp and sickeningly exciting, he realizes that he has absolutely no reason to play nice anymore.
it's going to consume him. he can feel everything crashing, his thoughts a confused stammer as loss battles with potential battles with hatred battles with the pounding of drums and he knows that he has to leave. he has to think. he has to stop feeling.
but before he turns to leave, Zelman does open the journal again. he doesn't tell anyone. someone else can notice, if anyone will. but there's one person who deserves to hear--one person he can share this with. one person who would understand.
one person who will say what he needs to hear.]
[Legato;]
[at first there is only inaudible, tense silence. he doesn't breathe, doesn't move. eventually, though, he speaks--voice quiet.]
Well.
I'm invincible now.
[and he closes the journal.]
no subject
And it's funny, because he felt as though he was waiting for something. Maybe he picked up on the tension, the tortured non-sounds in the background behind the mindless chatter. Or, he could have just been in the process of hoping something would happen.
Because something does happen then, he hears Zelman's voice, and it feels as though he'd been holding his breath for it.
And then he continues to hold his breath while he stares up through the ceiling and unravels what he could mean. It doesn't take him long to work backward based on what they both know, through the few short steps to the only logical meaning... but the pause extends beyond that.
He has to work through several stages of disbelief--would the castle actually, could it be a joke, could he be imagining--and then he needs to formulate a response.
His head and chest feel too light, like a breeze is suddenly rushing in, filling him up and sending thoughts rushing madly like leaves.
It takes him a minute to catch one and put it to words.]
...How does it feel?
[he wants to know, though more than anything he wants to be there. He wants to see it. He strains to listen, anything to complete the picture in his head, something he's imagined a thousand times...]
no subject
he's somewhere outside, walking. it's quiet enough to be the wilderness, but even then it's almost too quiet. even then, he takes a moment to gather up some sort of response.
how does it feel? to have everything wrenched away from him, to suddenly be completely limitless, to be empty and angry and so tightly wound...]
Sharp.
[he keeps it open this time.]
no subject
Sharp indeed.]
Why are you telling me? This isn't a threat, is it--now that nothing can touch you?
[even with a question like that, though... he sounds nothing but delighted]
no subject
[his words are the same as always on the surface, but their sound takes a different shape. there's the creaking of a piano wire in his tone, pulled up too tightly around the pin.
it's easy, isn't it? a symphony needs an audience. a game needs players. no one else can even begin to scratch the surface of what this means for him, for everyone.]
You're the only one that gets the joke.
no subject
Are you laughing yet?
no subject
It's not a very good joke.
no subject
he also begs to differ on the quality of the joke, but he'll keep that part to himself for now]
What are you doing instead, then?
no subject
[otherwise it'll eat him alive.]
no subject
It's all so simple now, isn't it?
no subject
[though maybe he just filtered to Legato so that he could imagine strangling him.]
Can't be a mess. Not yet. Too many people manage two and two and you don't get any output that way.
I want to be there to see it.
no subject
So, if it isn't to laugh, and you've already decided that you want to think, what is it that you are you looking for?
Are you waiting to be reminded of what a coward you were?
no subject
[...and there's the smallest silence, the absence of noise, where he realizes that's what just came out of his mouth. and then it coils up again, rushes back even worse.]
I want you to tell me. Tell me how it was all fucking pointless.
no subject
[he's got that put-together calm in his voice that comes from having thought about this for a very, very long time.]
You are wicked and you are powerful, but you were not brave. You never risked a thing. You hid, and you waited.
And for what? ...The hope that it would let you keep your toys for a little while longer?
[the change in his voice then is a small one. just enough for someone like Zelman--someone who has only ever heard subtle reverence from him--to detect the slight derisive shift.]
All you did was find a corner where you could shut your ears and close your eyes. You waited too long.
And then, you let it take your things away from you again.
1/2
and it's all familiar, because it's what he's been telling himself for months. he's been waiting. he's been hiding. he's been hoping that somehow everything would just magically work out but it didn't because that's not how the world works.
how could he think they were somehow separate from all of it. how could he have been so blind as to make himself the exception, ignoring the most important thing--his real enemy--
but how can he possibly--]
no subject
damned if he does, damned if he doesn't. because nothing works. because there's nowhere to go. because it's all so fucking stupid and that
...that little, tiny shred of thought.
that's what makes it funny.
Zelman starts laughing.]
no subject
It's come full circle--it's taken a while, but maybe the punchline has finally hit home.
Either way, he just basks in it for a minute. Such a terrible, wonderful, perfect sound limping out of the journal and into the sunshine]
no subject
eventually he quiets, though. settles back down.]
You son of a bitch--you really are opinionated, aren't you?
[his walking had stopped earlier what with him being distracted, but it resumes now that he feels better. or worse. or both.]
I'm leaving for a while.
no subject
--To think, yes.
And I look forward to your return.
no subject
[and without giving it another thought, he incinerates his journal. it seems fitting--it'll find him again eventually.]