A/N: I don't know why I WROTE this. whimpers I was trying to
work on my imagery. I ended up with bloody Ichigoangst.
"Butterfly of Death"
Ichigo watches Rukia's hair slide through his fingers- black
silk heavy with blood and guilt, something spun by the ghosts of
bitter, regretful caterpillars. And Rukia . . . Rukia is a
dying butterfly spread out for dissection, a goddess with no
more believers, the only teacher who ever knew anything that was
worth learning, the second most perfect woman that Ichigo
Kurosaki has ever seen.
And Ichigo watches Rukia laugh, watches blood bubble up from
inside of her, watches it stain her lips a rich, perfect crimson
that no makeup could ever duplicate. The lifeblood of a god of
This is Rukia. This is Rukia who is beautiful and the second
most perfect woman in the world, who Ichigo isn't ready to let
go away. This is Rukia's life. This is Rukia's life that has
been so long but that Ichigo thinks is still too short. This is
Rukia who is bleeding. This is Rukia who is dying, laughing,
smirking at him. Who is telling him he is an idiot and that she
loves him with the same words.
He never realized before that she was actually beautiful. He
never looked quite that closely, because she was going to be
around forever, of course, so there was no need to. He never
noticed quite the way her hair fell, quite the angle that her
mouth quirked at when she smiled.
But right now, he can't see anything else. Ishida's bow does
not flash and burn like a soul on fire, Orihime's Shun Shun
Rikka are not flickering and darting like fireflies ricocheting
through life, Chad's fist is not making the earth crack like
dull, dirty glass. No one is in love or in pain or crying or
suffering or feeling anything.
Rukia is dying and nothing else is happening.
Ichigo can't remember if he needs to breathe.
: ende :
. : bloody black butterfly : .