Work Text:
The first time someone truly reads what she's written, the creased paper is crudely stapled to the school's pamphlet-cluttered bulletin board. Her words are neatly scrawled across the paper that's bared for all to see, the syllables strung together by her (now, in hindsight) misplaced affection. Her mind echoes the mocking laughter her hearing is greeted with, the sight of lips parted and eyes brimming with mirth scratching itself into her embittered memory.
The fault is none other than her own, for the object of their amusement had been penned in ink spilt by her own hand. The professed affection had been none but her's and the paint used to crudely handprint the floral design decorating the half-crumpled slip of paper still stain her hands a pale lilac.
She watches the familiar figure of her literature teacher stride across the narrow hall, briefly flicking her gaze to the bulletin board where a group of girls now stood, disappearing from view with only the smell of oppressively sweet perfume lingering. Her shoulders slump even further, her eyes fixate on the freshly waxed floor, only for her to switch her focus as she catches sight of the faint outline of her bent form reflecting on the glossed surface.
She still can't quite comprehend how the boy had left so soundlessly, not saying a word of goodbye. What she'd hoped to end with a gentle embrace and soft "I'll visit" ended instead with the boy walking off with a satisfied smirk and a bulging suitcase.
It's only later that she overhears the boy's neighbour trading gossip for a momentarily higher social standing. However, her eavesdropping is halted as she's shoved against the wall by a faceless passerby. Once she finally manages to find her way within hearing range, the cluster of girls have moved on to the subject of some idol group taking Japan by storm which she honestly can't bring herself to care for. She walks away, readying herself to sit through another class.
Class ends and the screeching of her chair's legs scraping against the floor meld with that of the masses' chorus. She attempts to flee the classroom as quickly as possible, head bowed and begging not to be seen, but her flight is staunched by her teacher's voice ringing across the now half-empty classroom. The voice is calling her name. The voice is soon accompanied by the snickers of the remainder of the students. She turns with as much irritation coating her features as she can apply and faces the wench.
She's not truly listening as she sits across the woman. The saccharine air smothers her and the woman's equally as sickening praise laces the air with an added toxin. She thinks she hears the woman say that her letter had been written well. Had she not been already hard of breathing from the woman's unwanted attention she may have scoffed, alas that was not the case and she was forced to sit through the women's ramblings. The woman tells her she may have a real talent and urges her to continue. A reply of affirmation nor negation never slips from her lips and she simply tilts her head in response before being dismissed. Perhaps she might just do as the horrid wench suggested.
~
You're born from rage and spite, moulded by disappointments and brought to life by suppressed frustrations, yet you never need to state such. It had always been rather obvious from the purpose you serve.
You first wake as she finally allows her train of thought to derail for the purpose of finally allowing her erratic mind to rest. You remember nothing of a previous life, yet you still somehow know the code in which your own thoughts are encrypted. The act of pushing yourself off the mattress of the bed you found yourself lain upon is new, yet your muscles react as if the process had been as natural as breathing. The words of the crude remark you had muttered to the employee manning the ticket station when passing are foreign, yet your tongue manages to form each syllable with relative ease. The only thing you recognize with a sense of a familiarity is the deep seated need for your bloodlust to be quenched.
The lustful glint never does leave your eyes. Well, not until you have the target of your bloodlust crucified against the wall, a set of shears protruding from each of his wrists, his blood pooling at your feet.
Your skin is feverish to the touch. You presume that it's from excitement, because it's simply not a possibility that this elation could come from an illness. Nonetheless you still find yourself dipping your fingers in the pool of blood beneath you, scrawling a phrase beside the lifeless body. The symbols in which "blood bath fever" is written stretch slightly as the personalized ink drips down the brick wall slightly as your retreating footsteps are illuminated by the dull light cast by a nearby streetlamp.
~
She wakes in a cold sweat. Her panic only rising as she realizes that the bulb of the nightlight beside her bed has blown. In a mad scramble to collect the small torch she keeps beneath her pillow, she ends up on the floor, clutching the torch to her chest. The room is more cool than usual and it is only then that she notices the narrow rays of moonlight streaming in through her open window.
Using the torch to guide her, she makes her way towards the window. She can't help the yelp that escapes her lips as she finds the slight bloodstain on the left half of the curtain. Clasping a hand to her mouth and praying to every deity she knows of that she hadn't woken her parents, she closes the window with trembling fingers. She turns to inspect the state of the rest of her matchbox-sized room. Her inspection is cut short however as her line of sight falls upon a bundle of her now blood-soaked clothes, a pair of one of her mother's now blood-coated shears from the salon laying on top. Her body falls limply to the ground.
The next time she wakes, she's propped up in a odd position on her bed, and sunlight floods the room through the now curtain-less window. The evidence of the previous evening's findings had been cleaned. Beside her bed she finds a note with what she assumes to be crude sketch of male genitals accompanied by a newspaper depicting the murder scene of an all-too-familiar boy.
~
At first you don't wake all too often, but then it's spring and pollen laces the air and you assume that by some odd turn of events your being brought back into existence seems to be triggered by your counterpart's sneezes. (Perhaps this explains her aversion to bathing; being too afraid of soapy bubbles tickling her nostrils.)
However as the years pass you find your counterpart may subconsciously be passing you the reigns far more frequently. Accidentally leaving the TV on particularly gore-filled horror films or adding too much pepper to her microwaved ramen noodles. Not that you're complaining. Showers are a necessity that you're more than willing to participate in in her stead.
Still, hygiene normally isn't your primary concern when yok wake. You still wake with the near insatiable bloodlust. More often than not there's a specific person whose blood you desire to coat your custom scissors. And it does. And you won't ever be found complaining. After all, you don't have any other role to fulfill.
~
As the amount of tally marks signifying each death caused by her alter ego marring the pale flesh of her thigh grow, as does her reputation in the literary world. She's learnt to spin tales of tragic heroes sweeping women off their feet to the best of her current ability.
No matter the flaws the women may possess, their knight in shining armor (or in the case of one her most acclaimed novels, fisherman's boots) never fails to somehow fall irrevocably in love. Each epic love story comes to mirror her farfetched dreams and each tragic twist reflecting her own harsh reality.
Despite the clear pattern within her novel's plot lines, her work still gains acclaim for it's complex character and well-written words. She's still taken aback as she carefully opens the envelope marked with the coat of arms of one of the most prestigious schools known to the world. The contents of the letter solidifies her hopes that she had been excepted into the academy guaranteeing her success. Her excitement is short lived though as her attention is drawn to the accompanying envelope. Seeing whom the letter is addressed to, her eyes promptly roll backwards and she slumps into the chair. Letter still resting upon her fabric-covered knees.
~
Opening your eyes, you're met with the sight of a letter resting on your legs and the usual stench of an unwashed body. Oddly enough, the letter's addressed to one Genocider Syo. The name's relatively new, internet forums dubbing your previously nameless being so after the official statement was released declaring a connection between the string of corpses left in your wake. However, the fact that someone had known what face you wear is rather worrisome.
Choosing to ignore this disconcerting occurrence for the time being, you rip open the envelope. The opening sentences are a disgustingly formal introduction
congratulating you for making your way into their elite ranks. The rest is laughable and a wry grins creeps its way onto your face, your abnormally long tongue peaking out.
Of course you'd become some elite serial murderer, after all you were born from someone else's rage and spite. Your only purpose is sating your counterpart's bloodlust. How utterly fitting.