Part 3

Red Slacker

Stars. An endless length of stars and night, like the infinity that God just lazily threw around this eternally damned planet, surround me.

I can tell he expects me to be impressed. I'm not. Really, it just looks like someone has too fucking much money. Even the lights are rigged to make it look eternal, and the doors blend into the walls. People who get this bored and rich should be given to me to play with.

Schuldich smirks, having read my thoughts. "It was here when I got here, and from what I can tell, Crawford had nothing to do with it, either. You don't know this, I can tell, but above Takatori we have another boss. It's an organization called Esset, and they probably built this crap."

Esset? I frown at him slightly, not understanding what the fuck he's talking about. "What is this Esset?"

Opening a door that was damn near invisible to me, he shrugs. "I don't know that much, myself. Crawford does, no doubt. He's probably licking their asses as we speak."

"And you're bitter he's not licking yours, aren't you?" I question, smug. I can tell he wants to bed the American, but I can't tell why. Perhaps his dick is small enough to fit in with the stick, I don't know. There doesn't seem to be many reasons to fuck a BMW driver, other than money. And while the German obviously was a whore at some time, he isn't now. He might have retained the libido... that so wonderfully hurts God in its sinfulness... but he is no longer in the profession. I don't know how much being a whore hurt God, though, since he let his Son fuck one - Mary Magdalene, the pretty little whore that helped begin Judas' treason. If Crawford is our God, like he so claims, then maybe our dear slut will help lead to his demise, as well. It wouldn't be so bad to get rid of the rich shit.

I have to smirk. He's glaring a bit at what I said. So it's truth, he wants our "glorious" leader. Little matter. In fact, it will hurt God, should Schuldich succeed in fucking the cold asshole.

You see, God is strange; He is oddly fanatical over sexual matters, especially for being the sexless, all-powerful cunt He is. There is so much in His Book of Lies about sex, as if He gets off on restricting and tormenting the human race sexually.

Most of it is in Leviticus. Leviticus, named after the tribe of Levi, because it contains their priests' rules for "purity." Purity - or what God thinks is purity. God, who said in that fucking Leviticus, "If a man lies with a male as a woman, both of them shall be put to death for their abominable deed; they have forfeited their lives." The same God that said "Thou shalt not kill." The same one - the same hypocritical bastard. Should Schuldich be put to death? Maybe. But fucking Crawford would be the least of his sins. It would almost seem innocent. He knows this, I know this, but God only knows his blind hatred, his seething pulsating dark hatred for everyone; for everything.

When I look up at the sinner redhead again, he's staring at me oddly. I smirk, making it look more like a dog baring its fangs. He's been reading my thoughts, and for some reason, they surprise him.

"What's wrong, Guilty? Shocked at what I'm thinking? I thought you had already determined I was insane. Did you forget already, in your anger against Bradley?"

Smirking, he caresses my cheek. I twist away from him slightly; the touch is oddly gentle. I don't like being touched, unless it's to hurt or to maim, and I've made damn sure that's the only reason I've been touched for years. He then backhands me, something I'm more used to and prefer.

"I thought," he starts, pushing me down into a chair in the room - a kitchen - he's guided us into, "that you said that you were smart enough not to go against the alpha male."

"Ha! You think you are the alpha male? You're more delusional than I could ever hope to be. We all know why you stoop to Bradley. Because you are his subordinate. You stopped having sex for him, didn't you? Didn't you?"

"Shut up!" he yells at me, in English. I guess he speaks that, as well. All the better; I'd like to be able to speak in my native language to someone else than Crawford.

I watch Schuldich rather boredly as he turns around and gets a pan, clunking it on the stove loudly enough to wake God from the sleep he's probably still taking, as we go on down here, suffering.

"We already ate," he explains, voice still low in his anger, "So you get whatever the fuck I feel like fixing. Which happens to be heating a can of something." He grabs the nearest can and dumps it lazily into the pan, mixing it around with a wooden spoon. "I think it's beef something. I'm glad I'm not eating it, but you'd probably eat dog shit at this point. Am I right?"

I raise an eyebrow at him. "Why? Would you get off on me eating your shit? I knew you were a whore, but I didn't know you were into that kinky stuff."

"Finally, someone with a proper sense of humor. Still, I know you're pretty fucking hungry. I can see it."

He's right, though. I am hungry. I haven't had anything to eat since a few hours before Crawford busted me out of the asylum, and fuck knows how long that's been. Probably more than a day.

The bowl is placed before me, and the handcuffs unlocked, at least for now. Schuldich sits in a chair across the table from me, his feet up on the table, watching me with the eyes of a man trying to be entertained by paint drying. I eat, not caring if it's poisoned or not. I don't care about my life. I remember. It was the wicked who with hands and words invited death, considered it a friend, and pined for it, and made a covenant with it, because they deserve to be in its possession... I am the wicked.

"Heh. You expect me to kill you so soon? You're the first entertaining thing that's happened here in months."

Even though it looks more like diseased potato, spam, and last year's crop of infested vegetables desperately swimming in a pool of motor oil, the stew is fucking better than anything that was ever served at the institution.

When I'm finished, I look at Schuldich questioningly. "How long have you been in this hellhole, anyway?"

"A whole goddamned year. A year of dealing with that prick. I swear, he's never had fun in his entire fucking life."

Leaning back in my own chair, I shrug. "I don't know about that. He seems to enjoy tormenting you enough."

"Hmph." He brushes some of his shaggy red hair out of his eyes. After a while, he smirks. "You're probably right. He seems to get off on that, at least. Bastard's probably ten times the sadist than he lets on, you know."

I nod idly. It doesn't matter much to me. If Crawford's a sadist, at least that's one more person that will help make God cry.

Schuldich lights a cigarette, regarding me curiously. "I already explored your mind. But it still surprises me, how fucked-up you are. I suppose even you aren't used to it."

"I don't notice it."

Sighing, he stands up, motioning for me to follow. "I'm not surprised. Don't worry; you're in good company. Anyone who's put up with that impotent bastard for a year has got to be insane. Now, we better lock you up. And clean you up a little, like Mr. I'm-So-Fucking-Great says. It might mean nothing to smell like a gym sock someone pissed on where you come from, but none of us want to put up with it."

I blink. This is unexpected. At the asylum, the best they could do with me was attempt knocking me out once a month and dunking me in some pool or something to that effect. I've never been awake for it, of course. Anyone who got the fucking honor of that job while I was conscious would just have a "Get Drowned Free" ticket written all over their damn face. But here's this guy - this fucking cocky German whore, who I just met less than a day ago - who somehow thinks he's up for it.

Maybe he knows that I've decided he's interesting enough not to kill, or maybe he's got a fucking death wish. Whatever. He guides me from the kitchen to a bathroom and perches himself on the counter by the sink, lighting another cigarette. I look at him curiously. I hate people, mainly because they're all the same. But for the fucking life of me, I can't figure this bastard out. That's not to say I don't hate him, exactly. He's an egoistical cunt who doesn't understand how important it is to hurt God. But at least he's a confusing egoistical cunt that doesn't understand how important it is to hurt God.

As I start up the shower, he starts to speak again in that bored, condescending tone of his. "Here's the routine: I sit here, you take a shower. You try any funny shit like trying to kill me with a shampoo bottle or you attempt to kill yourself, I have this." He holds up a handgun. I start to say that he's got to be a fucking moron to think that I'd care if I'd die or not, but he reads that. "I know. That's why there's tranq darts in this thing. I put you to sleep, and you wake up hanging upside down with nothing but your little God to entertain you. Got it?"

"Yes," I say, not really caring. I don't like being in that position, and I don't like being left with God, because when we're alone, he doesn't suffer; he just rapes me. But I'm not thinking about killing the German yet, so I really don't give a fuck if he's got a little handgun full of toy bullets.

I undress, not caring either way about showing my body. The only reason we don't all go around nude is God's shameful fault. He was the one that let Satan go, that let him stay in the forbidden tree for Eve to discover. You have to be pretty fucking cruel to tempt innocents and expect them to not give in. Neither do I care about the multitude of scars across my body. They are God's penance, and if I must wear them for Him, then I will.

It's amusing, but I can tell that Schuldich is checking me out. If he wants to fuck me, he's free to do so. I could care less. I've devoted my life to making God hurt, not to caring about getting laid, like Schuldich has.

"I think I have the better obsession, Farfello. At least mine is fun," he says, still regarding my body lazily.

"Mine is meaningful. God must hurt."

He looks at my face, finally, for a while. He looks like he's searching for something in my face, in my mind, but I have no fucking clue what. After a while he breaks his gaze. I don't know if he's found it.

"You're gonna run out of hot water."

I look at him a moment more, then nod and step into the shower. The water pressure is up so high that it's almost like hailstones. It feels good. The pressure is harsh, but not so much as to hurt God. A pity, that... but at least I have some pleasure. If I thought the rain was good, this is that place I will never see; this is Heaven. The water can cleanse my skin, but I know, and God knows, that I can never cleanse my soul.

I stay in the water as long as I'm permitted. Schuldich gets bored of waiting after a while, so I luxuriate in the water for what time his attention span does permit. As I let the water soak my skin, I realize that I would give anything to stay under the hot water forever. Such would be heaven, so it will never be.

Stepping out of the shower, I accept the towel that Schuldich throws at me. I regret drying off. I want to be wet. I like being wet, wet with water, wet with blood... It's always sad to be dried of blood. The last bit of your victim gone from you, taken so rudely from you. Even your blood, even that they won't let you keep on you. Maybe it's from that drying of blood that makes me hate having water being dried from me.

He's still watching me, that German. I stand up and stare him in the face until the degenerate looks back up at mine. "See something you like, or just checking out the market?" I don't care either way. As I've said, sex is not important to me.

Laughing, he languidly slides off the counter and stands beside me. He starts a hand out as if to touch me, but shows he isn't a total idiot by stopping midway through, putting his hand back down and just smirking at me. "A little of both, perhaps. Not that you care. You could spout Biblical quotes while you're having an orgasm, and you'd be more interested in them, too."

"'Keep this book of law on your lips. Recite it by day and by night, that you may observe carefully all that is written in it; then you shall successfully attain your goal,'" I quote, softly.

All he can do is shake his head. "I've never had the great pleasure of reading your little book before. What would that make me, madman? A gentile?"

I nod once at him. "Why would you care, harlot?"

That wonderful smirk, that so reminds me of a painting I once saw of Lucifer, the most beautiful angel, tempting a girl, crosses his face again. "I was just humoring you. Your emotions are new to me." He moves swiftly, faster than I've ever seen anyone move, and his hand is on my side, fingers digging into my nude skin like knives. I look at him with surprise - no one has gotten close enough to touch without me being restrained or drugged in years, and this fucking whore has managed it twice in one day. I am unarmed, and he's swifter than I, so there's no reason to fight him right now. Whatever sick motives or gains he has of this, I don't give enough of a damn to fight right now. I just took a fucking shower. Almost anything is worth that.

Squeezing my sides harder - I can feel the pressure, muted through my fucking "gift" - he moves his face close. His breath washes across my face as he speaks to me. He smells of cigarettes and lust, and his voice is soft and low, like someone just woke. "Emotions are like honey to me. Thoughts are my playground. Your thoughts are wild, and you don't let me play. I'm going to change that, Irres. You will be tamed."

He throws a pile of clothes at me, and leaves. As he closes the door behind him, I hear it in my mind.

A raped mind is a beautiful thing.

Dressed, perched on a counter in the kitchen I found while exploring this posh shithole of a house, I regard the glint the overhead lights make on a knife. If I shift it one way, the knife is dull and grey, the stainless steel like the eyes of the priest after he met his Great Liar. I shift it another way; it shines, blinding my eye. My eye...

I remember. It's something I don't think about often. And sometimes I just forget. But now, I remember. I remember why and how and when.

I wanted to hurt God. I needed to make him atone for his sins, for what he did to me. Not only for my sake, but also for the sake of everyone else he fucked over. That was when I remembered the verses that we sometimes read. "But if there is serious injury, you are to take life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise." So when I was ten or so, back when they actually let me eat with fucking silverware, back when I was just with the "troubled youth" ward, I remembered those verses. And I reminded that fucker God of them. The fork cut into my eye so easily, and even I was surprised at the way liquid poured out of it like lies from a priest's mouth. It was beautiful, so beautiful... Thinking about it brings a little of the memory back, and I sigh as I remember just the sheer beauty of the other children crying and yelling for their fucking mommies, and the way the liquid poured over the fork, and the way the nurses came running.

Counselors and shrinks rooted through my thoughts and dripped psychobabble onto me. I told them all about God. When they called in the great cunt of a nun, she said that I took that out of context, that it was about servants. But she also once said we are all servants to the Lord. Even then, I wondered how one woman could be such a fucking hypocrite.

It must have been the Bible. The Bible, didn't it start it? Didn't it always start all of it, so it started this, too: the mutilation, the absence of pain, the void, the pure, cold void? It took my eye, didn't it? DIDN'T IT?

I caress the knife against my cheek, calming myself. The Bible is lies, the Bible is lies. It took my eye, but it is lies and stories for children.

Children. A ten year old little child, clutching a fork he stole from the cafeteria because he remembered once more the lies he was fed by a nun. A nun who told him that his mom was not... was not really...

No! Don't remember, whatever you do. That's not part of what you need. Forget it again.

But my mother was not...

The knife cuts through the flesh of my thigh easily, the muscle parting to the knife like the sea did to Moses. The bad thing is gone; it will not be remembered again. The blood stains a towel someone carelessly threw on the countertop before I took it as a chair.

I run my fingers through the blood. It's thick and warm. It's beautiful. It helps me f orget the things I don't need to remember. The warm liquid trickles down my hand as I lift it to my mouth, rubbing it over my lips and marring them, tasting the metallic substance. Licking my hand, I smile. I can feel God's tears with every lick. I press my hand against the cut, pushing it until I feel muscle. Laughing, I turn my head skyward.

"How does it feel, Bastard? 'Do unto yourself what you would do unto me," you say! Well, I'm doing it," I growl, pulling my hand out with a twist, ripping flesh with it. I can't stop laughing. He's crying! He's crying like the little fucking child He is! Cry for me! Damn you, God, cry! I can't cry anymore, Jei cried, not I, so you cry! Now, fuck you!

"What the hell is the meaning of this?"

I look back down, and smirk at the frowning American.

"Hell," I say, "Hell's part of it, of course." I grasp the knife tighter, and hop off the countertop. My right leg, the one that I punished, gives out a little, but I righten myself. Looking at him, I lick the blood off of the knife, making it glisten again, rivulets of saliva mixing with the dark, crimson blood.

The knife is still making me forget. With the taste of blood in my mouth and the beautiful, jewel-like shine of the steel blade in my hand, I don't give a damn about what I decided earlier. I don't care how interesting these men may prove to be. I just want more red staining this house.

"Would you like to find out?"

He takes one step back from me, and I know that will be all he'll give to me. One step. It's enough. I jump at him, laughing, my hand with its knife reared back, ready to rend and rip and kill. I almost drool, imagining this one's blood. Will it be cold? The knife is perfectly aimed; it's all in order, and...

And it doesn't make contact. I'm on the floor, with Crawford's expensive Italian shoe pressing into the weak part of my back, holding me to the floor. He isn't on the floor, with my knife pressing into the weak part of his neck, twitching. This isn't right. I struggle ineffectually. He gives an exasperated sigh.

"I told Schuldich to tie you up, and now he will probably find a way to not clean up this mess you made. Must I do everything for myself?"

There's a pause - probably him adjusting his fucking glasses - then he's grabbing me by the shoulders, pulling me up and restraining my hands with his own.

There had to be a reason I missed him, and if there's not, I'll correct the mistake of his death not occurring. As he pushes me towards the stairs and down to my room, I start to feign a stumble, planning on turning and jumping back at him. He tightens his grip before I can get through with step one.

"I wish you would not be so difficult, Farfarello. You know I can see the future, so stop being such a nuisance. Or would you rather I have you hung upside-down again...?"

Shaking my head, I decide to cooperate with him. For now.

"You're a fucking bastard, you realize that, Mr. Crawford?"

"Of course I do."

And with that, I remember why I made that vow to not kill these two. While they're total bitches, at least they realize what they are.

Part 4   |   Fanfiction