CW: SUICIDAL IDEATION, ALCOHOL ABUSE, TRAUMA RESPONSE, VOMITING, SEXUAL LANGUAGE, (DESIRE FOR) PHYSICAL HARM. TAKE PRECAUTION.
this is probably too short to post on AO3, so i'll post it here. again, please take precaution!!! very sensitive topics ahead
ELECTROCHEMISTRY -- Go back to him. Fuck him. You didn't have to leave.
HALF LIGHT -- You did. You had to. Otherwise, you would have messed it up.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY -- There is nothing you could "mess up." You're just scared shitless of getting your dick wet. This is entirely your fault.
CONCEPTUALIZATION -- You messed up by doing this. Getting drunk in an alley. By leaving his home, because he treated you too kindly, because he was gentle, because he did not hurt you.
HALF LIGHT -- That's exactly the point. You have to get hurt.
EMPATHY -- You saw the look in his eyes when you told him to hit you. He doesn't want to hurt you. He would do anything, anything but hurt you. You don't have to be hurt. That is not love.
AUTHORITY -- None of that is love. He feels sorry for your pathetic ass. He's doing it out of pity. He put his hands on you because he pities you. That is all you are, one big, fat pity party.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY -- So what if he feels sorry for you? Does that really matter? Get even drunker. Then you won't think about it. Go back, fuck him, and leave again. That's what you're used to. That's what's okay.
EMPATHY -- You have to let him go.
YOU -- …But he is not dead.
EMPATHY -- That is true. He is not dead. You are.
SUGGESTION -- Then lie down here. Lie down here like a corpse. Shit your pants, rot, and decay in this gutter. Is that really all you're worth?
ESPRIT DE CORPS -- In a small apartment he acquired following his transfer, a man sits on the edge of the bed, he fidgets with his fingers and feels as though he has done something wrong. The man who left did so without a word, weeping, after having been touched too gently.
BEHIND THE SNAGGLE-TOOTHED SPHINX -- Around you, the stench of the gutter rises, of rotting garbage and urine, the cobblestones and the brick wall are powerless against the cold that creeps deep into your bones. Inside you, there is no remaining warmth. You press the Commodore Red against your chest as if it were another human being, unable to weep, for every possible tear in your eyes has long since run dry.
YOU -- You do not realize your head sinking to the side until your chin rests upon your chest, nor do you notice the bottle slipping from your weakening grip and spilling across your lap. The hands of Death press against your cold face, and in that moment, you realize just how warm death is. You groan with pleasure against Death's hands as it checks your pulse.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY -- This feels great. Who would have thought that dying feels so good?
YOU -- Death speaks to you with a heavy accent, and you feel a blow against your cold cheek. Death commands you to wake up, yet you cannot open your eyes. You do not want to. You are freezing, perhaps your wet clothes have frozen fast to the ground. You feel the snow gently touching your body, piling up on your shoulders and falling away again as Death thrashes you about. Death lifts you up, even though you expected to descend, straight into hell. Death perhaps drags you into a cell, a cell that screams, trembles, and moves. The cell is warm, and the floor is not hard. You cannot grasp why Death takes so long, why He cannot simply let you plunge into the void, for you are nothing, yet your soul possesses weight, which means it ought to fall swiftly into the underworld. The warmth of Death's cell seeps into your stiff joints. You writhe in your seemingly fixed posture as the cell swings back and forth, alternating from left to right. Death lifts you from the cell, slings you over a shoulder, and ascends, ever higher, up into the sky. The sky smells of tobacco, and perhaps of a citrus soap. In the sky, there are pillows, upon them, Death lays you down and strips the wet clothes from your body. The warm air touches your now-bared skin. Death forces you into a straitjacket, warmth envelops you once again. Death speaks to you.
DEATH -- "Harry, you have to open your eyes. It's okay. You're okay. Breathe, you're hyperventilating.
AUTHORITY -- Do not obey this pathetic command. Did you not want to die? Let yourself die!
INLAND EMPIRE -- The hand of Death brushes across one side of your face, and you imagine the expression of Death, an expression of pain and fear. But why? Is this not His task? Is it not His duty to claim you, to scatter you in burnt tatters across Revachol?
ELECTROCHEMISTRY -- You yearn for that touch He gave you earlier. That slap. Ask again. Ask again. Ask again. You need it. It will kill you, it will kill you so good.
YOU -- "Hit me again, baby," you slur.
DEATH -- "No, Harry, no. I won't hit you. Stop that. I won't hurt you. I don't want to." Death sighs. "Do you know where you are, Harry?"
YOU -- "Heaven. I am in heaven. And Death must strike me once more so that I can die. Please, please, please. I just want to die."
PERCEPTION -- Death sighs.
ESPRIT DE CORPS -- Death works for Precinct 41, He handles affairs, performs autopsies, and transports bodies to the morgue. He will come for yours, too, if you're lucky.
YOU -- Why does Death work for Precinct 41?
ESPRIT DE CORPS -- Because of you.
EMPATHY -- Because He loves you.
HALF LIGHT -- So He can watch you die.
YOU -- The Devil's Acid rises up your throat, your body seizes up, and you vomit. It sounds as though the vomit has collected in a bowl of basin. It tastes of Commodore Red. You wish you had aspirated.
DEATH -- "Easy, Harry. It's all right."
YOU -- Death holds back your hair, and between fits of retching, you murmur, "pull my hair." You retch a few more times, until nothing else comes up.
PERCEPTION -- You are alive. Can't you feel it? Can't you feel His hands supporting you?
INLAND EMPIRE -- Death is the greatest Innocence of all, so much so that He cannot even be regarded as such. He is not elected to a position of power, rather, He appears there solely because He must, for you. Death is the God of your wretched world, He carries you through when you yourself can go no further. Death is your only partner. Death loves you. You love Death. Let Death hold you and gently rock you to sleep.
DEATH -- Death embraces you and gently strokes your hair. "Be calm. It is all right. I am not angry with you. We can talk about this tomorrow morning."
YOU -- "But there will be no tomorrow morning. I want to die, I am dying, I am dying, I don't deserve this."
DEATH -- "You will wake up tomorrow. You will not die. You do not deserve to do. You deserve to live. To thrive. Let me hold you. I won't hurt you. I won't. I would never forgive myself."
YOU -- "Why do I deserve to live? Haven't I already been given a second chance?"
DEATH -- "You deserve more than two chances."
YOU -- You rest your head on Death's shoulder, wrap your arms around His waist, and press Him tightly against you. Death does not mind.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY -- You'd drag your balls through hot coals and broken glass just to get hit right now.
EMPATHY -- No, no. He won't hit you. It would kill Him. You don't want Him to die. You want Him to live. He can live with you. Without you, He cannot live. In this sense, too, you are alike.
SHIVERS -- You would kill and die to just be held. That is okay. Let yourself be held. Let Him hold your bleeding lungs together with His gloved hands. Let Kim Kitsuragi, Death, Innocence, and Love, hold you.
KIM KITSURAGI -- "It is okay. You can go to sleep. I love you."
maybe, i'll pick this up again someday, but i don't know. and if any typos have crept in, please overlook them, i wrote this while drunk and overtired 🏎
