Ever wonder what it would be like to flunk an exam? I'm sure you all are aware of the feeling, when you reach for your report card, that light brown envelope calling your name, saying 'this is it. Have you passed or will you have to take another year because you're a big fat failure.' The nervousness in your stomach, the thoughts of the future. Where will you go? What will you do? What marks did I need for that? The sweat in your palms as you reach for the piece of paper that will ultimately decide your unwilling, untrue fate! The wide eyes, the frowned eyebrows, the taste of salt in your mouth, the blood seeping from your chewed lip, fingers twitching, reaching for freedom, safety, security, your future!
Now rewind here, and think of this in another situation.
You're an upcoming artist, a sensation, a big hit, and it is your first time stepping out onto a stage. Your eyes are frantic, but you can't see anything; the lights are too bright, too shiny, they cast everything around you in a hazy glow. Your heart is thumping, you skin sweating, your lips dry. You want to run away, but you can't. You're frozen where you stand. The announcer calls your name, the crowd cheers, you take a step, your head is throbbing, your mouth opens, about to decide whether you are worthy for your future career or whether you'll burn up in a plume of smoke.
Again, scratch that.
You are a police girl with two comrades, searching through a church. You hear howls and growls, but you don't know what they are. Again, the butterflies flutter and try to get out of your stomach, but you hold them in. If they fall out, so will everything else in your gut. So you tumble and gasp, are faced with zombies, the deaths of your comrades. You run until your breath is gone from your lungs, you see fangs, your mind races, your terror unleashes itself, you cry out for help, your hand reaches forward, grasping for your unknown future—
Close, but not close enough.
You are an experiment. You have lived your life in a test tube, with wires threaded through your flesh. The things coming out of your back, forget those, they are just light feathery wings. Sometimes they even look demonic, but that is only when you are angry. The one looking at you through the glass is your father, with those silly little round glasses and that pudgy pale face. He is typing on his laptop, and assessing your current vitals. You blink, and he notices and smiles at you. You smile back. Nothing is going through your head; it is a blank sheet, nothingness, a void. Your future is lain out before you; it is ingrained in your system. You are a monster, a creation, a dream of someone else's. You see your reflection in the glass staring back at you, pale skin, long white hair, eyes to match. You tilt your head, the reflection follows. Your father is pleased to see you moving. He presses a button and you feel the pressure of the water dissipate, rushing out, the wires moving, slithering out of you. The glass opens, and the cold air rushes in, filling your baby lungs, making you cough out water. Your new muscles twitch in response to gravity, and you reach out. Not for a future, but for your unforgiving father, who turned your body into his dream. And you smile, because there is no nervousness, no fear, no sweat, only love for the one person who created you.
And then everything rushes back. My thoughts, my feelings, my senses. It is wet. My fingers twitch. No the grass is wet, and it's raining. I'm soaked and cold, and laying in a field. Gradually my eyes shift, and they open to look up at a dark grey sky, droplets of water falling on me. I can't remember if it should be night or day; my head hurts, and so does my stomach. I raise my hand and touch my flesh, and it hurts. My eyes search my hand and its red, red like the color of blood.
It was blood, slowly being washed away by the rain. I wince, the pain is like fire, lancing through my insides, burning me up. My mouth opens, but I cannot speak. My fingers brush against my neck; severed, wounded, bleeding. My throat is cut, and so are my wrists. I am red all over, and the sky is laughing at me because it is grey, already lifeless, and is waiting for me.
My future was set out for me, but now it is ending. The darkness of my mind cannot wander because it is dying. Death. Is there a freedom any greater than that? He stands near me, chanting. His wrinkled face, his stupid glasses.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean too… I didn't…" He is crying to the grey sky, as it laughs at me and yearns for me to return to it. He falls to his knees, takes off his glasses, and sobs. His sobs aren't for me, they are for the evil sky. He is frightened, I can smell it. My senses are strong, even though the blood that flows from me is taking my life. Will that blood, my life, soaking into the ground and the dirt, take me with it? Will I be able to see the worms digging around; the seeds of grass and trees come to life. Perhaps I could help them, nurture them –
"Please… please… I return it to you!" His fangs glimmer with the rain and the dead souls around him look at me hungrily. "Oh god, I didn't mean too! I didn't!"
I hear a loud sound behind me. My father whirls around from his spot; his mouth is open, his trembling increases. Why father, why are you so scared? I try to say this, but my voice is gone. It is leaving with my life.
The dead souls, the decaying bodies, they turn into dust with a streak of light that tears through them. Without a thought, they are nothing, their lives, their nonexistent futures are gone. My father takes a step back. Not once does he look at me; his eyes avoid me as if I caused him hurt, as if I was the reason for this. Father, I try to say, look at me while I die.
My voice is nothing.
I am nothing.
There is a flutter of red beside me. Red. The colour of blood. I am full of red. I am seeping red, but soon I will be grey, like those clouds, those evil, dark clouds.
I hear another loud sound, and my father is gone. Where did he go? Did he run? I shouldn't have blinked, because now he is missing from my sight. The flutter of red turns, and now I see a person, standing where my father used too. Red, is it a symbol? Does this red mean my end? It was coming, is it here now? But my father was supposed to watch… why won't he look at me?
The person says nothing, as it steps toward me. Eventually I can make out features, but I do not understand them. The skin of his face is grey, dead, like the sky. Has it come down to take me? I see the glint of shiny silver, and now the man is pointing something at me. I close my eyes, because even though he does not look like clouds, he is red. Red is death. Death is freedom.
I finally understand what that loud sound is. It is a weapon of destruction, of this death which I seek. It is the call, the message. And it hurts my chest. But finally I do not open my eyes, because they cannot open. My senses are numbing. Finally my nonexistent future embraces me.
The black in which I see… is this my freedom?
So this was a random idea that came to me head after I drew a picture! Just wanted to get it out on paper… or well ehem, on the computer. Thought I'd share it with you guys and see if you like it . My first hellsing fanfic.