:: Lose Yourself ::

Kingdom Hearts

Disclaimer: I don't own Kingdom Hearts; rights go to Squaresoft and Disney. The plot is somewhat based off the book called The Voice in the Night by Dean Koontz.

Rating: R

Pairings: Riku+Sora, Sora/Kairi, Riku/Sora

Warnings: AU, suspense, horror, yaoi, adult situations, blood, murder, character death, multiple freaky things

Notes: Heavily influenced by said book above. Frightening, but inspirational.

The plot will be alternate universe. It'll still be on Destiny Islands, but without the plot for Kingdom Hearts. The characters will be mostly the same. Mostly. I'm going to try to make this even more violent and frightening than the actual book I read, which should be a real challenge. Also, this is my excuse to write blood and gore. I haven't properly done that in years. Literally.

Anyway, please review, criticize, anything. Flames are fine. Flames amuse me. And yeah, some points are going to be similar to the book, but I'll do my best to give this different twists.

Ironic. I just finished the game today, too.

Anyway, read on. The prologue is short, but it'll get a point across.

There were no flaws in his plan. Not a single thing could be traced back to him.

The switchblade was comfortable in his palm, nicely heavy and weighted, but light enough to handle with ease. He'd had a lifelong practice with pretend swords to back him up on this. His legs were powerful, though it was hard to tell with his choice of clothing. However, just for the occasion, he was wearing simple jeans, licking his lips with excitement as he advanced on his prey.

A shrill scream broke the dead of the night, and a slight girl turned and ran, as fast as she could. He allowed her to get ahead a few feet before he started after her. Gentle slopes, hardly enough to wind him; he was fit and healthy, and this kind of chase titillated him.

Of course, nothing could compare to the kill.

He grew tired of her cries to help, her pathetic plans of escape. She wasn't clever; few were. It bored him. He wanted a challenge.

He finally caught up to her, knocking her to the ground with a single hard blow with his fist. She fell with a loud, meaty thud. He was instantly upon her, straddling her waist, the switchblade pressed to her throat. It began to drizzle; how appropriate. He smiled a maniacal smile, leaning down to whisper four words in her ear.

"It's a real popper."

There was a slash, no time for her to scream, and then she couldn't breathe. He watched in delight as she choked on her own blood, the flesh of her throat writhing almost as though it were alive. Her face was frozen in horror, and she bled, bled, bled... Pools of crimson trickled down, mingling with the rain on the streets. He watched until she finally collapsed; her heart slowed. Her lips were barely moving, wordless pleas for help.

There wasn't a trace of peace on her face as she finally died.

He stood, wiping the blade off on her skirt. Almost as an afterthought, he brought the blade to his lips. His tongue flicked out, wiping away any traces of blood left. He looked down, not satisfied. It was fun to kill, sure, a real popper. But he needed more challenging victims, and better ways to kill them off. It needed to stretch out longer, to be more painful. They needed to suffer, because torment was the best way to go.

He smiled to himself, allowing the fantasies to run through his mind. God, how great it would be to find a pick-ax, or some large sharp object of some sort, and to murder people in their sleep. Maybe hack off limbs and leave them in various places in their own homes. He'd read horror novels, read some of the same as his friends, and the very ideas they implanted in his mind were wonderful.

Planning wonderful deaths for the near future, he left behind the dead body, not once bothering to marvel at the blood trickling with the water, dripping into sewers to taint them further.

He had only been ten years old.