Schizo: This might be the most precious pieces to me, but I really don't care if someone were to review negatively to me. It's that dear. No one else matters when it comes to opinions to this. Anyways, this what I like to call one of my "Staccato Pieces." It really won't make sense at first, but after a few reads, it should give you a basis of something.

I chose to make this T because it really isn't so much detailed when the sex is mentioned. If it is? Hell, I'll get reported. Oh well.

As the summary says, choose whatever pairing you'd like for this story. There are no names but know that one of them is a "He" (I'm sorry to any, if any at all, who wanted a lesbian pair...but I needed some kind of pronoun...) in the two. Want to make it yaoi? Go ahead. Think that's nasty? Make the pairing straight.

I really don't care.

I don't own D N Angel.

Confessional:

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

He would always say he loved me just before we had sex, you know, and I would always smile because he was the only one who loved me. See, my life wasn’t exactly perfect, but it’s not one of those tragic tales, no. My life was more of a routine. The way I would walk in my life and watch people, seeing how they hadn’t changed at all in their life and I wanted to scream at them, just warn them that they were wasting their life, that they were doing everything exactly the same.

That everyday was exactly the same.

And I would walk along, crying, because how could anyone live this way? How could I live that way? How could anyone live a life knowing they’re wasting it, knowing their dreams are shattering, knowing that there are people OUT THERE who need them? They walked along, stoic and unaffected by the world around them, like being stuck in a tunnel and seeing the world live on around you.

Wars, crimes, the world being destroyed…

They just walked along in their routine.

Then there was him. He was crooked, unshaken by routines. In fact, he broke them and pulled me with him. Said there was a better life out there if I got out. Said that he loved me and would guide me to that better life. Said that I was better, I could be better, and I would.

He took my virginity, you know.

The night after, he had sex with me again. And again. And again. And again. I’m not sure if I ever realized that he was beginning to change. It was a routine again. He told me I was doing great, told me he loved me, and told me to get on my knees.

Eventually he just stopped saying he loved me and stopped encouraging me.

I was lost. I was young. I was under-aged, living with a man who told my mother that he would give me a better life and actually convinced her it was the truth. I was manipulated into a world of sex, lust, and hate. I didn’t want to have sex. I wanted him to love me. Why wouldn’t he love me anymore? Why would he hurt me? Why would he yell at me? I wasn’t being fair? I WASN’T BEING FAIR?

He said it was for my own good, you know, that I start realizing the better life isn’t so much better, that the better life was only better if you were lucky.

Guess what, the better life is worse.

He tricked me. He hurt me. He used me. He grabbed me and whispered lustfully in my ears, “You know you can’t go back anymore. You got stuck in a new routine, kid.”

Everyone, everything, EVERYDAY is… exactly…the same.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way…

Why am I stuck here?

Why can’t I get out?

Beg Mercy:

“Please, let’s not,” With his body already straddling me down and his lips burning on my skin, my futile attempts in making him stop were failing. I still begged though, “Please, I don’t want to do this.”

He didn’t speak, he never did unless he wanted something, and it was easy to tell that he was assertively getting what he wanted. A hole, a body, a scream from a mouth that called his name, even though he knew it was of pain or horror, he wanted the lust of sex and he didn’t care how he got it. He just took off my pants and stuck a hand down there, smiling, laughing, at the fact that I was fighting back. I could hear him tauntingly in my mind, those cold eyes staring at me, and in my head, the words:

You can’t get out of this.

“Please, let me go.”

He went inside me, violating, desecrating. He went inside me and started the process. Where I grabbed his shoulders pleadingly with nails digging in his skin but he didn’t care; where I regrettably spilled out orgasms from my lips only to make him do more; where I bluntly shouted my hatred, my sorrow, my frustration with the fact that everything he was doing, his actions right there on the spot, was pleasing and painful all the more.

You will never get out of this.

I didn’t know what else I could have done. He was having his way with me and he would finish without letting me come as well, he was tormenting like that. Stand on his feet, clean himself off, and walked out of the room with only so much as a, “Get dressed.”

You’re in this until you die.

“Please,” I sobbed, “Please…”

Reminiscence:

“Hello Mister.”

“Hello.”

“What are you drawing?”

“You,” He stroked my cheek, “You’re quite gorgeous.”

I blushed, “Thank you, Mister.”

“Would you mind staying so I can continue?”

“Sure!”

I should have left.

Dream:

Have you ever looked up at the sky and dream everything you’ve wanted to be, wanted to happen, or wanted to do? Have you ever just looked up at the sky and with those dreams, try so hard to see if they could come true? And you don’t want them to be shattered, even though everyone else around you puts you down. It could never happen. Are you crazy? Are you sure? It’s you. Nothing like that could ever happen to you.

Have you ever just wanted to be alone so your dreams could come true?

Find your sanctuary, whether through art or writing or the plain and simple sky, and just dream and wander inside that world. No one can hurt you in your art or your writing or your sky. It’s yours, no one else’s. It’s yours, no one else’s.

No one can take away your dreams. No one can say what you can do and what you can’t.

Have you ever just wanted to say something? The words you’ve been dying to shout to the whole world! The words you have kept up inside you and it’s about damn time everyone hear it! The words that you have dreamed of saying, the words you’ve been wanting to say to show them all that you can, that you’re not scared.

Have you ever been scared to say those words even though you really want to?

You’re almost there, so very close. The tears are running down your cheeks, the words are right on your tongue, the want is so very strong, but why can’t you say them? Oh God, why can’t you say them? This is what you’ve dreamed for…

To express your pain.

To express your love.

To express your fears.

To express your pleasure.

To express your sins.

To express everything.

Oh why can’t you say them?

Why must it remain still just a dream?

Fantasy:

There were times I gazed at him, knowing my newfound hatred of him, but still lust him. It was the addiction of his body. The addiction of the passion in which he let out in fornication and the frustration he screamed when he reached his climax. I knew I hated him. I knew I wanted nothing to do with him. I knew everything about him made me sick.

Yet, that addiction made me love him.

Like a drug, the consequences were harsh and I would be thrown into pain, a downward spiral of sheer misery and torment, but the ecstasy was fantastic. The psychedelic feelings of my skin getting hot when he would thrust himself inside of me, the way his hands groped me, hands hot, sticky, immoral, and wrong. But the ecstasy was fantastic.

You know that feeling in the climax of a drug and you’re at that high, anything goes, everything’s wonderful, nothing’s wrong, and something inside you wants something else in it?

You know that feeling of the high where you can be content, even though your troubles still go on, but it doesn’t matter at that second because it’s okay. It’s fine.

You know that feeling where the moment that high is gone, you pain?

What have I done? What have I done?

Giving into to your lust, your fantasy, can lead to destruction. Because like a drug, everything does down, very, very down.

Nightmare:

He was not even that far when the pain began to start. No lubricants were used, said it was unnatural and unnecessary. He was a little too fast, said the pain would go away faster. It didn’t. His dick was a little too big and I had not opened enough, said it was nature’s way of displaying dominance. Why so painful? It was too raw.

The friction inside of me was far too great. A burning rub after each thrust and rips of my skin, I could feel the tears letting the blood rise to the surface. I coughed; he was going faster than my own breathing. His breathing grew heavier and since he hadn’t spoken a word throughout it all, I didn’t either.

He pushed all the way.

“Ahhhh! Too much! Too much!”

“But it feels glorious, doesn’t it?” His husky tone whispered on my cheeks, but more frightening than I had ever experienced. I shook my head violently in disagreement, “No! Too much! Please stop!”

“Get stronger, you can endure it.” He pushed again.

“Ahhhh! Please! You’re hurting me too much!”

“Good.”

His fingers dug into my shoulders, most likely leaving marks and he bit roughly against my neck. Whimpering, I pushed his chest to get away. It didn’t work. His thrusting only became faster, harder, and much more painful. I could feel myself splitting, not necessarily in half, but enough to kill me.

This was another form of murder.

I could feel it.

“You promised!”

“I promised you life,” He growled, “I said nothing about less pain.”

“Aagh! Please stop!”

This was torture. To have him rip the flesh inside of me and laugh throughout it all was pure and simple torture. I couldn’t move, whether I pulled onto his hair or desperately scratch the calves of his legs with my toes. None of it worked. My hands were nothing to his. While he groped my chest and soon my thighs, I had tried to strangle him. Though, it seemed more that he was strangling me.

“Stop it! I don’t want to do this anymore!” Not that I ever did.

“You have no choice,” He said.

He sat up.

“Please…” I tried to regain my breath, “Stop please…”

“But I am treating you. Do you not like your treat?”

“No…”

“Well then,” He pulled me from underneath him, causing a burning friction on my thighs from the release of his dick and continued, “That’s not so good, now is it?”

I could still feel him inside of me without him doing a thing. The nauseating thumping inside of me grew more as the absence of his dick grew longer. In the darkest and cruelest way possible, my body was yearning for something there. And only He was present to fulfill it.

“Damn you.” I whispered.

“You yearn for it, don’t you? My treats are always addicting,” He circled my right nipple, “They’re like drugs.”

“I don’t take drugs.”

“I’ve deceived you and like a good child, you felt for it.”

Oh God.

Sanctuary:

I don’t get to visit this place often, but when I do, I truly cherish the moments spent. It’s a place in my mind where I can let everything go. You see, or maybe you don’t see, but I just hope you can or will or at least try because I’ve been through so much in my life where I just can’t take any more pain, especially not in my sanctuary (or I wouldn’t have a sanctuary anymore, just an illusion.) Still, no matter what happens, I live on.

I live behind a mask.

Now don’t you dare classify that little phrase as another cliché sentence of someone in a dramatic situation because you have no idea, not a damn idea, of the problems in some people’s lives. I hide, trying to make others happy and still have no success, since apparently that’s impossible to remain happy for the rest of one’s life. However, I still proceed. Others have to be happy, not me.

In the depth of my mind, there is a logical sense that says to me that others should not experience my pain. Why should I be selfish? Why should I be greedy? Others do not deserve to know what I think, others do not deserve to know, they can’t know. Oh please, it is the only thing I have to claim mine forever. My thoughts. They are mine.

I’ll kill the person who claims to be psychic.

There’s a part in my mind where I can be content with everything. I don’t have to worry, not for these few moments, and just relax. My mind is a spiral and a chaotic realm of thoughts, some that don’t even make sense and some that do, and some that irrelevant while others are perfectly fit for the life of mine, and some that are happy to balance the ones that are sad, but the thoughts that mainly roam my mind are questions.

My sanctuary is a place of thoughts where I can question everything. Question my government; question my family; question my friends—those always come out a bit depressing because sometimes I come to the point of realization that perhaps I don’t have any true friends and maybe never will—it’s a place where I can question everything: Love, pain, time, life, death, you, me, everything…

I can even question God.

(People would probably get angry at me for saying that, but who are they to do so? I can question God all I want. He will respond to me and He will set things right. I can question him because He will answer. He understands my sanctuary. That’s why I love Him. He probably understands me best.)

I grew up decently, parents loving and kind. Friends came along, did me favors while I did some in return. A love came, sure it didn’t turn out for the best, but they still remain.

I question why I live.

Why do I? Is it because I’m truly very hopeful to gain something better? Is it because I can’t escape this world?

My sanctuary is a part of my mind where I can scream so very loud, louder than silence itself. It is a place where if I wanted to babble I could do so right now, this time, because it’s a place where grammar and rules and conformation is no longer valid but of a place of rebellion, discord, AGONY AND CRIME, especially when the events come to place and my thoughts swarm together, vortexes and graphical illusions of patterns that represent the irrational vision of time or the psychiatric world, it a place where this sentence is not a murder against all who study English but a great genius.

It’s a place no one else can visit because they are my thoughts.

My thoughts of hatred toward you all (except the ones who listen, but that’s very few), my love, my passion, my fears, my everything, because they are mine. Mine alone, thank you very much.

There is a part in my mind where I can be content even with the troubles and pains in my life, I am content.

That is my sanctuary.

And no, you may never visit.

Staccato:

Jaded eyes disguised with passionate love

A frown stretching from beneath the smile

Two lives, heated nights, and a secret kept

For just this little while

At times he’ll return with a glaze in his eyes

And the smell of complete intoxication

Spilling lies of his whereabouts

But there was already an indication

Another person’s house

Desperation for your lips

As your presence vanishes before me

Promises of constant pain

But that’s not what I want honestly

Take me into your possession and violate as you please

Complicate my mind so I can’t live without you near

Make me yearn something so vile it’s a sin

Just so when it’s over…

I’ll let you disappear

See the infatuations I grew for you

Kept hidden in secrecy beneath two pairs of eyes

Forbidden, blissful, desperate touches

Excused with made up lies

Whisper things in my ear that make me warm

Seduce me with your body in my vulnerability

Kiss me, love me, hurt me…please…

Don’t leave me in this disability…

Deception in words I trusted

Sins I’ve committed, you’ve committed, but I can’t endure

Save me from the void of darkness you’ve abandoned me in…

Oh please my beloved Mister…

Eyelids closed, ignorant towards fears and insecurities

Lips sealed, silenced by propaganda

Ears covered, desperate to deny the truth

Words still clear in the memorandum

Honestly, do not skip any details

For I can’t take the deception

Too stressed, too tired, just too heartbroken

From falling into filthy seduction

Hands hot, regretting the lust

Violated, fearing the loss

Can’t

Take

The

Insanity

Pleasing stop lying, please stop lying, please stop lying, please stop lying

PLEASE STOP LYING

Depression.

Vituperation amongst the crowd

Isolating someone of their fantasies

Ignorance blinds society into falling out of love

Prison

Staccato

Staccato

Staccato

Trapped in a world with poetry

Trapped in a world with routines

Trapped in a world with misery

Staccato

Staccato

Staccato

Reality:

Strip me naked.

You know, maybe if something worthwhile happened in my life, then I wouldn’t have to resort to something so crude; so random; so much like, well, a stripper would say (and I’m under the age of eighteen, so you would get arrested for that), but realize that life is not like the movies. Life is not like a cliché romance novel, where although the author may add some twists and turns to confuse the reader, the result is always the same: A good, happy ending for a couple. Life doesn’t end happy. Life ends when you die. (And unless you have someone who truly hates your soul where if nature hadn’t gotten to you first they would have killed you themselves, death usually isn’t happy.)

Life is just boring. A long time period where you have to try to discover what you’re going to do with it, similar to a gift with almost no purpose except for saying, “I have it.”

I’m also sick of those people who insist on finding the pathway to righteousness or the Find-A-Hobby guy, whom although he always suggested I do that, I never learned his hobby. To live is not to occupy, but no one seems to understand that. They ignore the fact that society is losing its intelligence, the environment is slowly getting destroyed, and beauty is no longer yours, it’s your doctor’s drugs or whatever. Life of the common man has changed to a deceiving world or a controversy.

Life used to be simple.

Used to be, like my parents said, that life was pure and simple not a sex-crazed world with controversies that didn’t even make sense (but can definitely be argued because everything can be argued). But why do I care so much? Why should I? I live my life everyday going to the same places, seeing the same people (with the occasional stranger whom I always ignore), and do the same things. I’ve done nothing with my life though I’ve tried.

I’ve tried to fall in love, but my hopes kept crashing down since I’m a romantic fool who truly believed that the rebel was genuinely a good person instead of, well, a rebel. I also tricked myself into thinking that my best friend and I were soul mates for life—until I realized they’d rather kiss up to me for money rather than kiss me. Maybe the best reality check of my life was realizing that when I did fall in love, I fell out of love just as quickly.

Life can sure be disappointing at times…

I’ve tried to succeed. I tried making everything to be the best of it and it works—for the first few minutes. I’ve tried a lot of things, but I always get disappointed. I still think good things will come though. Then again, every idiot does. Every idiot will read a novel and believe it could happen even though it won’t. I fail to see the reality in things; fail to think logically; fail to do anything… because that’s what life is about, failing.

I’m a failure in life.

Denial:

I am not submitting to a state of insanity. I am not in a depression. I am not crying. I am not in pain. I don’t care if he uses me. I don’t care if I’m not loved. Take me, go ahead. I am not one to judge you. I am not in a state of doubt. He loves me. He does. He does. HE DOES.

I am not getting desperate. I am not just submitting. I am strong. I am not weak. Please don’t tell me the truth. Please don’t, I don’t have to know. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m okay. He loves me. He loves me. He loves me. He loves me. He loves me…

I am not submitting to a state of insanity.

Breakdown:

It was a process that went into action very slowly and dreadfully painful. He was sitting at the table as usual and when I had come over to him he looked up at me.

“It’s done. It’s over.”

Funny, no? I was fine. I was accepting it. I had no home, all right. I had no love, all right. I had no where to go, all right. I had nothing.

Okay.

BULLSHIT.

Desperate Action:

I didn’t mean to stab him. Oh God, I didn’t mean to. I honestly didn’t.

Please don’t let me get caught.

I can’t stay here. Not in this room, not with him there, dead.

I have to leave. I have to take the weapon.

I have to get out of here!

Excuse:

Blood in my hands and a blade in my pocket, I was a murderer on a desperate reaction. I couldn’t take it. He had betrayed me so much. So very, very much and I couldn’t take it. He was not allowed to end the misery. I was not done suffering it. He couldn’t leave me just yet. So I killed him. That makes sense, right? I killed him because he gave me too much pain. That’s good, right? I’m not the fault. I needed him. He needed me. I am not a murderer.

News:

“A man died, stabbed in the heart and other parts of the body. His lover is said to have escaped. A picture of the suspect will be provided.”

It wasn’t supposed to be this way…

End:

Mister, love me. Mister, let me go. Mister, let me leave. Mister, let me die. Mister, let me go to my sanctuary. No? Why not Mister?

“Because, my young one, you will never escape this. You will never escape.”

None of you will.