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Old 01-17-2009, 04:08 PM
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Default Re: Almost Always

A/N: Next part. Sorry it took so long.

@Seeda the Bulbasaur: Thankies for the comment. ^^


ALMOST ALWAYS
Even These Roots are Tainted
– - –

You have watched as nameless masses and faceless rulers fortified empires both weak and strong with the bones and blood of slaves and beggars.

– - –

now I dont believe MEN are born to BE killers
I dont believe THIS world cant BE saved

– - –

Misa Amane makes American cookies.

Constantly.

In fact, you are beginning to wonder if she knows how to bake anything else because no one who knows how to cook makes so much of the same food that there is no more room in the cabinets and refrigerators to hold it. Her mother has forced her into wrapping them up and delivering them to the neighbors, which is what she is doing at this very instant.

She hops along with bags of chocolate-chip goodies in tow, dressed in clothing that’s borderline ‘I-want-to-be-Lolita-when-I-grow-up’ (which, now that you take a moment to think about it, is incredibly ironic). Alternating between a hum and a hushed whisper, she sings, but all you catch is “Tenjin-sama no hosomichi jya” and you can’t place it.

You may have seen everything, but not all of it gets a chance to sink in; your memory tends to come and go as quickly as the featureless mortals procreate, unless you devote yourself to retaining some snippet or other.

Here, now, comes the moment you are interested in. You’ve seen it before; despite the boy’s flailing against your will, nothing in the girl’s life is disrupted. The backlash has not struck quite yet and the tempest is still raging like a Category Five storm that’s going in exactly the right wrong direction (because everything about this is wrong, but this is how it’s intended to be).

She reaches a hand up and knocks, rocking happily from heel to toe in time with the sway of her pigtails. The door is opened; words and goodies are exchanged.

You don’t listen in and are instead staring at the brightness of his smile–the smile, his smile–and the blush of her cheeks, but that’s fine because you already know what’s being said. She leaves.

Later, dinner plans are made and fulfilled–the two men laugh and drink as the women look on, amused. The boys all ignore each other and the girl does nothing but stare as you have spent so much time doing and he gives her that smile that you always seem to want to dub as ‘humoring’ and they start to talk, nevermind the fact that she’s in school and he hasn’t even stepped near one.

The fathers exchange knowing looks at the pair and you turn away because everything is going as planned and you don’t don’t do not want it to because that means that this beautiful boy will be destroyed and that these people will suffer for it.

The next day, she is there again, all giddy smiles and quiet pride; today is another one of her photo shoots and if it goes well, they will be moving within the year.

At her feet is a plate of cookies.

– - –

how did YOU get here and when did IT start?
An innocent child with a thorn in HIS heart

– - –

Despite the garish ornamentations of white and silver, there is something ominous in the air.

White-robed acolytes glide down the gravel aisle, draped in copious amounts of silver jewelry that can not be pure. They have managed to capture the flick-swish-step motion that adds a billow to the folds of their costumes and works to make them appear as if floating in twisted unison but are not managing to draw your eyes away from the fact that their ‘temple’ is little more than a run-down apartment building hung with gauzy curtains and layered with ‘pebbles’. There is something vulgar in the very nature of their game–the way the lure humans with promises of safety and companionship and grandeur, only to entrap them in the twisted mass of religious doctrines and condemn them to a life of earth-born hell.

Still, they offer life rather than money and do not take advantage of human-conceived notions of family loyalty and are, as a result, most certainly better than the other popular option.

Kira worshipper or Shinigami Servant.

Slave or dead man.

You can’t decide which is worse to the humans, but you know you would take death over the ridiculous head-dress the Japanese branch of Kira-followers–the Yatsuko–recently adopted.

She enters.

The line progresses and as each inflated figure reaches the altar, it lays down an embroidered pillow covered with whatever wealth they have regained since the last moon’s offering.

Something about these mismatched colors strikes you as amusing and you begin to giggle madly; the emotion manifests itself in the way the wind sings through the crags and cracks of the city and makes the priests and priestesses shiver because they can feel the malicious intent. They mistake it for the blessing of their god as they kneel before the row of pink and green and yellow and orange and yellow and purple and red and black and brown and silver and polka-dots-with-whiskers pillows and raise their hands to the sides.

It’s never up or down–just out.

You seek out the maiden with the honeyed hair, you find her, and you watch.

The chants begin, slow and steady and probably a rewording of a Gregorian chant. Cheap incense is everywhere and electric candles flicker in the back of the room, almost completely concealed by the real wax instruments; you wonder if there is a situation more false than this. It makes you want to retch.

As you look at her outstretched arms and rapturous eyes–you can only ever see their eyes, now–you wonder if she realizes she’s inhaling the same scent embraced by millions of Satanists and hippies over prior decades and centuries. Probably not, you decide; even with all her dabbling in the various forms of the occult, she no doubt believes the overbearing patchouli is a gift from her god.

There was a time when Misa Amane wasn’t psychotic, and you are quite certain you can remember it. Barely.

– - –

what kind of world to WE live in?
where love is divided by hate
losing control of OUR feeling
WE all must BE dreaming THIS life away

– - –
__________________

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thegalleonman: (8:37:28 PM) How sad.
thegalleonman: (8:37:37 PM) I'm amused.
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