Blood of the Earth

[08.15.99] » by H.L.

As I wander around the dark, filthy streets of Midgar I think to myself-- no, I do not think at all. At least, I am enough aware of myself to know that this is the way that I am; not thinking, not doing, not feeling very much. There are thoughts, but they are there behind the narrow little mask of prettiness, swirling like a shadowy image of nothing-- my thoughts are about nothing-- becoming empty and stale as they struggle to break through the hard surface, the surface the solidified itself into this image of nothing long ago.

She paused and regarded herself in a stained, polished metal side of a building, its once-bright surface dimmed by smoke and obscured by darkness. The image of her face through the shadows was harrowing; it was very white, but it was also just a ghostly shadow of whiteness, something which became a shadow of itself as it seeped through the darkness and filth and its purity was sullied and blurred. There was the youth and beauty, there, but she knew it was a mask, because it was a mask rapidly growing old and stale, rapidly with the progression of years which had nothing in them but sun-stained mornings and coaxing unwilling blossoms to life, then cutting them at the root yet again. Nothing blossomed within this vicinity of dark shadows willingly, and the light that was shed upon the white canopy was in itself pale and sickly. So she became a white shadow wandering through the pale shadows herself.

Am I about life? Or am I about death? What is death to me? What is life?

When I first saw him, it was like I've seen HIM again, in a different guise. HE had been about hurt; and, as soon as I saw him, I knew that he will be about hurt, as well. So, from the very first moment I saw him, I wanted him-- wanted that hurt, knowing it will be the only thing that will waken the feelings in me.

She advanced towards him, with the sweet smile on her face, extending her hand. Why don't you smile at me, she thought; no-- you won't smile? That is good. You are like HIM; cold, selfish, demanding. I will smile for you; I will become the pretty doll that you want me to be, and much more. And then, when you are in my grasp, I will turn it around and quench you of all feelings. I will kill your feelings inside, so it'll hurt. HE hurt me, and he died, and then I discovered how I could hurt others.

So, in the house, she told him, with a melodious, childish accent: "Please don't leave. Stay here." And when he left, she trailed him back to his source and told him: "I know where you're going, and I'll be coming with you."

He thought he could leave me, but I will not let him. We are about making masks, and pretension, and hurt.

Oh, I don't care about her. I can see the angry glimmer in the eyes when she looks at me; but then, I smile at her, and she seems to try and control her urge, and she wears her own mask, and smiles back. And I can still see her boiling inside; I can feel her own demanding urge, directed at him-- I can feel it, and I smile again. I know that I, with my knowledge of death, will grasp it before she does. She is too slow; she does not act clearly. Already, the shadows of my making are upon her as well, and her pretention at hurt grow. She can pretend; but I can see her for what she is. She pretends, like me; but, like me, she also likes to hurt.

Which of us do you want? Which will hurt more?

He chose me, as I knew he would; he chose me over her, because he wanted it; this hurt. So, when I went into his room, with all the golden lights around us, and we saw each other's desire reflected in our faces, he chose me. And again, I could feel how much I want him; the tool to make me remember HIM, and make the hurt acute, and make me cry for its pain.

As I pressed his body to mine I could almost feel it through-- like him, HIS presence breaking through the image mirror and seeking to touch everything that was unpure in me-- there was a lot of it to reach. The name that rose through the feelings was HIS name, but I bit my lip so hard that I felt blood on my tongue, not wanting to utter it-- not wanting to feel-- anything at all. HE made me dirty, and you make me dirtier; there is nothing left to be pure. Not even feelings.

I can smell death. I have known it all my life in Midgar. It has trailed me with its long, stained fingers, and touched me on the shoulder coldly. And I smiled at it vacantly and told it to stay. Only when it stayed, it could numb me to senselessness.

I can smell it now as well. This place is beautiful, and it's the place of the dead. The bright aura masks lethal spirits. They are beckoning to me, telling me my duty. I am good for nothing else; so I obey their unvoiced, yet insistent, urging. They beckon, and I come.

I can smell the death, trailing behind me. Why don't you come closer? Come closer to me. You are just behind me, trailing me with your presence. You are about blood, about death; I have seen it, again and again, with my own eyes; and here I am, challenging you, and beckoning my own death. So kill me; rape my body with the long, piercing blade, shred through my defenses, and make the quenching of feelings final. I have killed myself, my own inner soul, again and again; and my body is but a hollow shell, in which the soul is shriveled and blank. Kill me, and I will welcome you with a smile.

Kill me, then, and I will smile again.

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