āExperience is merely the name men give to their mistakes.ā
More ashes. Another dead vampire, another step closer to his goal. At his every turn, he came closer to this Contra Mundi. A name whispered in the depths of the night, a name that some proclaimed as their dying words, like a motto. Whomever this person was, he or she had loyalty. Loyalty and resources. Two obstacles harder to overcome than straightforward strength.
He laid the black feather on the pile of dust and stepped back, transforming and taking himself back to his room, not changing back until he was in the washroom with the door closed. A hot shower eased the slight ache in his muscles, but it did not fill the gnawing emptiness in his chest.
It was something heād grown used to over time, the fact that every person he killed hollowed out a little more of his insides, broke off a little more of what was supposed to be his soul. Or would have been, if creatures like him had souls. Heād been able to ignore it, until recently. Over the past three days, since what he was coming to mentally term the blood incident involving Fujiwara, heād killed precisely six people, which was rapid even for him. Granted, three of them had been at once, but even so, it was quite a number, and Sachiko was refusing him any further targets until heād had at least a few days of rest, though they both knew he didnāt require that much. As she was currently his sole source of information, he didnāt have much choice in the matter.
She was also beginning to insist that he return to see Sakura, but he wasnāt having that, and she wouldnāt withhold information for such a reason unless she wanted him to start gathering it himself and put himself in unnecessary danger because of it. She knew his limits, and that was one of them.
But that hollowness, that emptinessā¦ it felt strangely uncomfortable of late. Like there was something else in there, rattling around in the vacant space. Trying to expand to fill it and being thwarted by his continuous adherence to a life he hated. But whatever that thing was in there, it couldnāt stop him. He couldnāt let it. There was too much to be done first. Theyād have their justice, and he was the only person who cared enough to win it for them, bit by bit, life by life.
Turning off the faucet, Sora threw on fresh clothes and dumped his old ones in the hamper at the floor of his closet. Heād take care of them later; he hadnāt even gotten any blood on himself this time. He rarely didāpurveying death was becoming too simple, too clean, even for him. Sometimes, he stepped into the spray of an artery, just to remind himself that what he was doing was something filthy and not pristine at all. That he would never be clean again, if ever he had been.
Heād cut class again, and dawn was but a few hours away. Without much else to do and no desire to sleep in his room, he grabbed a book off his shelf at random and tucked it under his elbow. Most would be surprised that he read at all, let alone pieces of classic literature or poetry. But just because he didnāt make his words beautiful didnāt mean he hated all beautiful words. He just hated false ones, and the two more often than not went hand-in-hand. Not so in novels like these.
He didnāt check which one heād found until he made it to the roof. The Picture of Dorian Gray. He let out a mirthless chuckle. A manās descent from naĆÆve fop into indulgence and sin, and it started (and ended) with a murder. Or at least that was how heād always chosen to see it. A story of ruin and subtle horror. Still written with a kind of timeless elegance, though. Fitting enough, really.
Cracking the much-used spine, Sora lay back on the roof tiles and held it above his head. āThe studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thornā¦ā
He laid the black feather on the pile of dust and stepped back, transforming and taking himself back to his room, not changing back until he was in the washroom with the door closed. A hot shower eased the slight ache in his muscles, but it did not fill the gnawing emptiness in his chest.
It was something heād grown used to over time, the fact that every person he killed hollowed out a little more of his insides, broke off a little more of what was supposed to be his soul. Or would have been, if creatures like him had souls. Heād been able to ignore it, until recently. Over the past three days, since what he was coming to mentally term the blood incident involving Fujiwara, heād killed precisely six people, which was rapid even for him. Granted, three of them had been at once, but even so, it was quite a number, and Sachiko was refusing him any further targets until heād had at least a few days of rest, though they both knew he didnāt require that much. As she was currently his sole source of information, he didnāt have much choice in the matter.
She was also beginning to insist that he return to see Sakura, but he wasnāt having that, and she wouldnāt withhold information for such a reason unless she wanted him to start gathering it himself and put himself in unnecessary danger because of it. She knew his limits, and that was one of them.
But that hollowness, that emptinessā¦ it felt strangely uncomfortable of late. Like there was something else in there, rattling around in the vacant space. Trying to expand to fill it and being thwarted by his continuous adherence to a life he hated. But whatever that thing was in there, it couldnāt stop him. He couldnāt let it. There was too much to be done first. Theyād have their justice, and he was the only person who cared enough to win it for them, bit by bit, life by life.
Turning off the faucet, Sora threw on fresh clothes and dumped his old ones in the hamper at the floor of his closet. Heād take care of them later; he hadnāt even gotten any blood on himself this time. He rarely didāpurveying death was becoming too simple, too clean, even for him. Sometimes, he stepped into the spray of an artery, just to remind himself that what he was doing was something filthy and not pristine at all. That he would never be clean again, if ever he had been.
Heād cut class again, and dawn was but a few hours away. Without much else to do and no desire to sleep in his room, he grabbed a book off his shelf at random and tucked it under his elbow. Most would be surprised that he read at all, let alone pieces of classic literature or poetry. But just because he didnāt make his words beautiful didnāt mean he hated all beautiful words. He just hated false ones, and the two more often than not went hand-in-hand. Not so in novels like these.
He didnāt check which one heād found until he made it to the roof. The Picture of Dorian Gray. He let out a mirthless chuckle. A manās descent from naĆÆve fop into indulgence and sin, and it started (and ended) with a murder. Or at least that was how heād always chosen to see it. A story of ruin and subtle horror. Still written with a kind of timeless elegance, though. Fitting enough, really.
Cracking the much-used spine, Sora lay back on the roof tiles and held it above his head. āThe studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thornā¦ā