Disclaimer: I do not own Kill Bill.
I was going to write a Kill Bill eventually, I just didn't know what to write. Slight mention of O-Ren/Gogo, Rated T because it's a Tarantino fanfic. What were you expecting?
The sound of a sword being forced through somebody's abdomen is a surprisingly satisfying sound.
You are twelve.
Look carefully at my face, Matsumoto.
The blood does not dribble or spit. It sprays, getting absolutely everything soaked within a matter of seconds. Because your body is blocking the way, the blood that gathers behind you look a little bit like wings.
Look carefully at my eyes.
Matsumoto's corpse lies beneath you, slowly growing cold.
You don't feel a thing.
Do they look like the eyes of somebody you MURDERED?!
Your parents were always careful to keep quiet about what they did for money, who they worked for. But you had an idea, and knew to keep quiet about what you thought. They didn't tell you about it because they thought it was best for you.
Now your father and mother are dead, taking their secrets to the grave.
Later, you're surprised of how easy it all was. It wasn't difficult to lure him in. When you watched your parents die, the fact Matsumoto was laughing- laughing, the bastard- with a cigar, told you this was a man with no morals. In the past two years, you've been studying him, watching, obsessing. Turned out that Matsumoto liked little girls.
When your chance came, you knew what to do. Act nervous and coy, but impressed, in awe. The school uniform helped. It's amazing, the power of being underestimated. When you first put on your school uniform with the idea of luring a dangerous yakuza pedophile, it was like putting on a costume. It was all an act, baby, and you were the star.
You still are, because you've won, and now anything that comes after is just a bloody encore. You'll smile and take a bow when it's all over and done with. Move on to the next performance.
That's not to say all of it was easy. You didn't just put on a costume; you also had to really act. It took a lot of your willpower not to retch when he touched you, to smile artificially at his disgusting jokes, all the while waiting for that moment when you could drive a knife through his flesh, watch his eyes roll in their sockets. You had to bite down on the inside of your mouth not to smirk when his bodyguards left the two of you to it - it wouldn't do for them to see it, to wonder what she was so pleased about.
Revenge is best served cold and bittersweet. You savor it as you hear the rapid footsteps of Matsumoto's henchmen, several minutes too late. You think it's kind of amusing, in a sick way, as you blow both of them to pieces without flickering.
For a while after, you suddenly consciously stop trying to feel anything. Though tang of satisfaction is nice, it's not enough to stop feeling that ache in your chest that is your parents.
So you kill and kill, hoping that it will somehow make the pain go away. It doesn't, you know that now it was a desperate measure of a lonely teenager, but you had no way of knowing how to really feel again. Nobody tells you how you're supposed to pick yourself up and dust yourself off, you just have to reach down somewhere deep inside and do it yourself. You got used to it- your childhood ended a long time ago, in blood and flames.
When you meet the girl in a school uniform, bubblegum obscuring her smirk and blood splattered all over her pretty legs and tiny skirt, you see and remember.
For the first time in a long time, you smile.
When you extend your hand, she smiles too, and you notice how her hand fits neatly into yours. Chipped nail polish, each finger painted in bright, block colors.
Gogo doesn't mind the bloodstains.
And with her around, neither does O-Ren.