✧ To be honest, it's almost like they wanted him to escape. And, considering the sick wanton cruelty that seeps in through the cracks of skin like some deluge of acid rain, that's probably the case. Either way, he holds his breath as stick thin fingers rail upon the thick edge of the window's frame. The slide upwards; slowly, almost lovingly, the sweet breath of May's escape coinciding with the nocturnal, deceased fear that lays heavy.
Today marks the third week of the third month of solitary. Prison bars upon his window, lack of a proper trial binding him to the world of the living. The wooden doors hide all from vision, verdant in it's opulent brilliance locked up from the world, and it's made him bitter. He can hear them talking, always--he knows who leaves and who stays, who's in the kitchen right now and who's opening the drainpipe to ambush a group of innocents. It's made him bitter; it's also made him sick, callous wisdom infecting an already beastly mind.
It begs the question; was he ever good? Like, honest good, kindness and martyrdom holding hands over his doomed soul. He pales in comparison to everyone. In a war, you cannot be side-less, and alienation of everyone has thrown him into no man's land, where the skeletons chatter viciously about politics. There was good intent, once--the vouching for an innocent, the release of those on trial, the feeding of the starving, and he's carved out his bleeding heart more times he can count for all the corpses lying underground, caused by their emperor's will.
The counterargument shares his blood; Iits'in, in all her plain Jane glory, slaughtered by his own hand, and his parents by hers. His affiliation was a conscious choice; influenced by a boyhood crush and a morbid fascination with the occult and the pull of injustice, but a conscious decision nonetheless. (Guilty by association upon all greedy counts; he must view himself as a jury would, should the empire fall before a new world order.) And he thinks, as he lowers himself gently to the ground, he is not good, because he has felt the changes growing.
There are no alarms to destroy his fragile freedom; it's a little silly. Increasing paranoia has suspected the arrival of tolling bells, a million bullets into his chest as soon as he dared breathe the air of prerogativity. God knows he deserves it, but who is God? No one he knows. Wary footsteps carry him off into the night. The changes are a pressure in the back of his skull that are navy in color and heavy, like anchors.
Cavities in his morale; splotches of delusional grandeur plus the toll of absolute solidarity weighed upon by irrational guilt. He belongs upon no one's side. The plan is to walk until someone kills him, or until he rationalizes and equalizes with death and kills himself with this pinging fear. Norikazu--she's more of a family than the ragtag poison that pulls at his veins but he's beginning to like the pain and that makes his eyelids heavy with fear. The sidewalk slaps under each footstep he takes, heavy weight pressed upon innocent slate gray.
But what if the association with the stars was wrong all along? True, Chie was everything good in his life, but there was really no place for her. Friendship, even acquaintances means one or both of their deaths. Is greed a factor? The insatiable human desire to live, to remain breathing and healthy? Selflessness? No. It wasn't selflessness that spurred him to hop out a window at one-thirty two in the morning. The cold inherits his blood and he shivers and there's a light on the horizon but it doesn't belong to him.
Once upon a time, Quetzalcoatl had a brother and an army of serpents to conquer the heavens, but he was tamed. Since, he has yet to rise and once again take his place before the holy Maker. A jolt should do it--re-plummet himself through the desperation of dream speak and snap reality into his psyche like a rubber band effect. War if giving up everything for a cause. Cowardice is sleeping through the battles and missing the bus on the way to school.
The familiar shape is what catches one rotting eye, and he stops--holy fucking shit. The diamond in the rought, the golden glowing star that breaks and bends the rules with her illuminous luster. Stutter step, and ragged shoes pause. The uniform weighs him down with it's agony, painted in the blood of those who's deaths it assisted in. He could always turn back now. And really, wouldn't that be the good thing to do? Leave the premesis. Pretend that darkening eyes didn't see her.
But his eyelids grow heavy and that ashen voice pours out of his throat; volcanic, in it's vile nature, destroying all nature that happens across it's path, and taking no pity on that which cannot move. His hand feels heavy. Is that it, for the morality upon his holy side? A slight moving of chapped lips; the damnation of an angel? Is it so simple?
✧ ...Chie. Chie-chan. C-Chie. ✧
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