Judgements of a Stone
folder
Digimon › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
1,895
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Digimon › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
1,895
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Digimon: Digital Monsters, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
In Which the Seed is in Itself
Judgments of A Stone
By: Vain
6.2001-11.23.2001
-------------------------------- ~~~ -+- ~~~ -----------------------------------
-----READ THIS INFORMATION OR YOU MAY BE CONFUSED!!!!!-----
Please Note:
THIS IS A STORY CONTAINING MATURE THEMES, DISTURBING IMAGERY, ADULT SITUATIONS, VIOLENT THEMES, CHARACTER DEATH, AND VARIOUS FORMS OF CHILD ABUSE. THIS IS RATED NC-17.
ALSO, THIS IS UNRELATED TO ANY OF MY OTHER WORKS.
---------- ~~~ -+- ~~~ ----------
“Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.”
~ T.S. Eliot
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
---------- ~~~ -+- ~~~ ---------
Chapter Nine:
In Which the Seed is in Itself
---------- ~~~ -+- ~~~ ---------
Ichijouji Ken tossed and turned fitfully. The car. The wind. Yukio-san’s eyes . . .
He jerked uptight, a scream lodged in his throat. It trembled there, making him feel as though he had swallowed a butterfly, and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to let out the wail of anguish that he had been holding in for the past nine days. Nine days . . . Osamu was gone. Had it only been nine days since the funeral? He didn’t know and the scream refused to leave his throat. He swallowed it and it settled in his stomach like a lead weight—like pain. A soft whimper left his lips and vanished into the black night of his bedroom.
He called out to a ghost. “Osamu Oniichan?” But Osamu wouldn’t come. He couldn’t. Ken was alone now—all alone because of his jealousy and stupidity. “Osamu . . .?” Big tears slid down his cheeks. It was so dark! He hated the dark. He felt like it was burrowing inside him, that darkness. He felt like it was trying to swallow him whole. “I want my Oniisan,” the child whispered in despair. I want Oniisan . . .
The little boy slid out from beneath his covers and bit his lip as his small feet sank into the soft carpet on the floor. I want Oniisan. He trembled as he found his way through the darkness, slightly chubby arms extended to ward of any tables or monsters blocking his path. I want Oniisan. The door swung open with a loud shriek of protest and tears slid down Ken’s cheeks faster. His body trembled, half in terror and half in grief. Oniisan. Little feet whispered against the carpet as he walked down the hall. Past the laundry room, past Momma and Poppa’s room, past the bathroom, to the last door—the door at the end of the hall. This was Osamu’s room.
“Oniisan . . .?”
A small hand grasped the doorknob. “Oniisan, I’m scared.” The silence was terrible, a dark hungry animal brooding behind him, ready to pounce. By now Ken was sobbing. “Oniisan, I’m sorry. Please don’t be angry with me. I’m scared . . . Please?”
The door rose before him impassively, unmoved by his pleas. I am a tomb, the door seemed to roar at him in its quiet way. Enter me and you cannot leave again. Enter me and you cannot dream again. Enter me and you cannot breath again. An urge gripped Ken to turn and run—to flee this horrible darkness and hunkering silence and their door that wanted to swallow him up. The scream trapped in his stomach suddenly leapt back into the child’s throat and chills and spasms wracked his entire body. His teeth chattered. He could barely hold on to the doorknob.
Then the doorknob seemed to twist in his hand on its own accord. Ken stumbled forward, nearly falling down as the door was suddenly unable or unwilling to bear his light weight and swung open silently. The blue-haired child froze, eyes wide like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car. The nine-day-old air in Osamu’s room leapt out at him and wrapped around him like an icy blanket. The scream in his throat fluttered.
“O—Oni—Oniisan . . .?” It was something between a sigh, a scream, and a strangled sob. “Please . . .”
Hesitant steps took him past the threshold of the tomb. The room was Osamu’s altar. It had become the Ichijouji’s shrine to their one true child. No one was ever allowed to go inside—that was an unspoken rule. No one ever even dreamed of going in. Ken was disturbing the sanctity of a holy place—defiling it with his very existence. He knew that. “Osamu Oniichan . . .?”
Small fingers, just now taking on the elegant, delicate bone structure they would one day have, fumbled for a light switch. A soft florescent bulb blinked to life for the first time in over nine days and the darkness fled. It took the silence and the shadows with it. It stole the holiness of the altar. Ken’s largue eue eyes blinked owlishly as the light flooded them and automatically turned to face Osamu’s bed.
“Onii—” The word died in his mouth.
Murderer. Osamu. Thief. Osamu. Liar. Osamu. Osamu. Osamu. Someone had written on the walls. All over the walls. Murderer. Osamu. Thief. Osamu. Liar. Osamu. Osamu. Osamu. The ink was red and thick and smelled like copper or metal—something horrifyingly familiar. Murderer. Osamu. Thief. Osamu. Liar. Osamu. Osamu. Osamu. The words seemed to be etched onto the air without cease. Big letters. Small letters. Murderer. Osamu. Thief. Osamu. Liar. Osamu. Osamu. Osamu. Capitals. Cursive. Sideways. Backwards. Upside down. There was no rhyme or reason to it. Murderer. Osamu. Thief. Osamu. Liar. Osamu. Osamu. Osamu. It was just there. And it was there all for him. Murderer. Osamu. Thief. Osamu. Liar. Osamu. Osamu. Osamu. It had been written to him. For him. In blood.
And Ken began to scream. He didn’t move, he couldn’t move, but he could scream. So that’s what he did. And two minutes later, when his mother found him, that’s how he was, arms locked at his sides, tiny hands balled into fists, tears almost pouring down his face, and enormous horror filled eyes staring straight at the walls. It was everywhere. It was IN BLOOD.
Rika dropped to her knees beside her shrieking son in terror; either of him or for him she would never know. Never in her life had she heard such a god awful sound. It wasn’t a cry or a yell; it wasn’t a child’s bawling; it was one loud, long, solid keen, full of too many emotions for her to comprehend.
“Ken! Ken!” She grasped him tight. “Ken, what are you doing in here?! Ken, it’s okay! What are you doing in here?!”
Tsuyoshi burst into the room right behind her. He grabbed the child from her roughly, eyes wild and hands pressed over his ears. “Stop it!” he screamed at the boy. He lifted him off his feet and shook him like a rag doll. “Stop screaming!! Stop it!!!”
“Tsu!!” Rika tried to snatch the boy back once more, but her husband was having none of it.
“Shut up!!!!!!!”
But Ken continued to scream and it was terrifying. He didn’t move, he didn’t blink, he didn’t even pause to breathe. And he just didn’t stop. Not knowing what else to do, Tsu shook the boy harder, unaware that he was gripping his biceps so hard that they’d be bruised for weeks. He watched with detached horror as Ken’s head snapped back and forth with each motion, his mouth still open in that impossible scream and his eyes vacant. The boy’s face was bright, bright red—so red it was almost purple—and his lips were bluish.
“Stop it!” his father howled over his cry, hurling the child at his mother.
Rika caught him—barely—and Ken stopped screaming.
The brunette woman cradled his limp form possessively to her bosom. “What have you done, Tsuyoshi?!?!?! What have you done to my baby?!?!?!”
The big man merely stared at the lifeless body in her arms as the red slowly faded from Ken’s face. The child’s chest rose and fell shakily. He was unconscious.
“What have you done, Tsuyoshi?! What have you done?!”
He raised empty eyes away from his sobbing, screeching wife to stare at the perfectly white, unmarred walls of his dead son’s room. He felt his legs give way and he collapsed on the floor next to his wife and child. Rika had stopped screaming and was now devoting her attention to sobbing quietly and rocking the unconscious Ken back and forth. Her words seemed to bounce off the unmarked walls of Osamu’s abandoned room. ‘What have you done to my baby?’
The man’s shoulders trembled, but he did not cry. ‘What have you done?’
By: Vain
6.2001-11.23.2001
-------------------------------- ~~~ -+- ~~~ -----------------------------------
-----READ THIS INFORMATION OR YOU MAY BE CONFUSED!!!!!-----
Please Note:
THIS IS A STORY CONTAINING MATURE THEMES, DISTURBING IMAGERY, ADULT SITUATIONS, VIOLENT THEMES, CHARACTER DEATH, AND VARIOUS FORMS OF CHILD ABUSE. THIS IS RATED NC-17.
ALSO, THIS IS UNRELATED TO ANY OF MY OTHER WORKS.
---------- ~~~ -+- ~~~ ----------
“Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.”
~ T.S. Eliot
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
---------- ~~~ -+- ~~~ ---------
Chapter Nine:
In Which the Seed is in Itself
---------- ~~~ -+- ~~~ ---------
Ichijouji Ken tossed and turned fitfully. The car. The wind. Yukio-san’s eyes . . .
He jerked uptight, a scream lodged in his throat. It trembled there, making him feel as though he had swallowed a butterfly, and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to let out the wail of anguish that he had been holding in for the past nine days. Nine days . . . Osamu was gone. Had it only been nine days since the funeral? He didn’t know and the scream refused to leave his throat. He swallowed it and it settled in his stomach like a lead weight—like pain. A soft whimper left his lips and vanished into the black night of his bedroom.
He called out to a ghost. “Osamu Oniichan?” But Osamu wouldn’t come. He couldn’t. Ken was alone now—all alone because of his jealousy and stupidity. “Osamu . . .?” Big tears slid down his cheeks. It was so dark! He hated the dark. He felt like it was burrowing inside him, that darkness. He felt like it was trying to swallow him whole. “I want my Oniisan,” the child whispered in despair. I want Oniisan . . .
The little boy slid out from beneath his covers and bit his lip as his small feet sank into the soft carpet on the floor. I want Oniisan. He trembled as he found his way through the darkness, slightly chubby arms extended to ward of any tables or monsters blocking his path. I want Oniisan. The door swung open with a loud shriek of protest and tears slid down Ken’s cheeks faster. His body trembled, half in terror and half in grief. Oniisan. Little feet whispered against the carpet as he walked down the hall. Past the laundry room, past Momma and Poppa’s room, past the bathroom, to the last door—the door at the end of the hall. This was Osamu’s room.
“Oniisan . . .?”
A small hand grasped the doorknob. “Oniisan, I’m scared.” The silence was terrible, a dark hungry animal brooding behind him, ready to pounce. By now Ken was sobbing. “Oniisan, I’m sorry. Please don’t be angry with me. I’m scared . . . Please?”
The door rose before him impassively, unmoved by his pleas. I am a tomb, the door seemed to roar at him in its quiet way. Enter me and you cannot leave again. Enter me and you cannot dream again. Enter me and you cannot breath again. An urge gripped Ken to turn and run—to flee this horrible darkness and hunkering silence and their door that wanted to swallow him up. The scream trapped in his stomach suddenly leapt back into the child’s throat and chills and spasms wracked his entire body. His teeth chattered. He could barely hold on to the doorknob.
Then the doorknob seemed to twist in his hand on its own accord. Ken stumbled forward, nearly falling down as the door was suddenly unable or unwilling to bear his light weight and swung open silently. The blue-haired child froze, eyes wide like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car. The nine-day-old air in Osamu’s room leapt out at him and wrapped around him like an icy blanket. The scream in his throat fluttered.
“O—Oni—Oniisan . . .?” It was something between a sigh, a scream, and a strangled sob. “Please . . .”
Hesitant steps took him past the threshold of the tomb. The room was Osamu’s altar. It had become the Ichijouji’s shrine to their one true child. No one was ever allowed to go inside—that was an unspoken rule. No one ever even dreamed of going in. Ken was disturbing the sanctity of a holy place—defiling it with his very existence. He knew that. “Osamu Oniichan . . .?”
Small fingers, just now taking on the elegant, delicate bone structure they would one day have, fumbled for a light switch. A soft florescent bulb blinked to life for the first time in over nine days and the darkness fled. It took the silence and the shadows with it. It stole the holiness of the altar. Ken’s largue eue eyes blinked owlishly as the light flooded them and automatically turned to face Osamu’s bed.
“Onii—” The word died in his mouth.
Murderer. Osamu. Thief. Osamu. Liar. Osamu. Osamu. Osamu. Someone had written on the walls. All over the walls. Murderer. Osamu. Thief. Osamu. Liar. Osamu. Osamu. Osamu. The ink was red and thick and smelled like copper or metal—something horrifyingly familiar. Murderer. Osamu. Thief. Osamu. Liar. Osamu. Osamu. Osamu. The words seemed to be etched onto the air without cease. Big letters. Small letters. Murderer. Osamu. Thief. Osamu. Liar. Osamu. Osamu. Osamu. Capitals. Cursive. Sideways. Backwards. Upside down. There was no rhyme or reason to it. Murderer. Osamu. Thief. Osamu. Liar. Osamu. Osamu. Osamu. It was just there. And it was there all for him. Murderer. Osamu. Thief. Osamu. Liar. Osamu. Osamu. Osamu. It had been written to him. For him. In blood.
And Ken began to scream. He didn’t move, he couldn’t move, but he could scream. So that’s what he did. And two minutes later, when his mother found him, that’s how he was, arms locked at his sides, tiny hands balled into fists, tears almost pouring down his face, and enormous horror filled eyes staring straight at the walls. It was everywhere. It was IN BLOOD.
Rika dropped to her knees beside her shrieking son in terror; either of him or for him she would never know. Never in her life had she heard such a god awful sound. It wasn’t a cry or a yell; it wasn’t a child’s bawling; it was one loud, long, solid keen, full of too many emotions for her to comprehend.
“Ken! Ken!” She grasped him tight. “Ken, what are you doing in here?! Ken, it’s okay! What are you doing in here?!”
Tsuyoshi burst into the room right behind her. He grabbed the child from her roughly, eyes wild and hands pressed over his ears. “Stop it!” he screamed at the boy. He lifted him off his feet and shook him like a rag doll. “Stop screaming!! Stop it!!!”
“Tsu!!” Rika tried to snatch the boy back once more, but her husband was having none of it.
“Shut up!!!!!!!”
But Ken continued to scream and it was terrifying. He didn’t move, he didn’t blink, he didn’t even pause to breathe. And he just didn’t stop. Not knowing what else to do, Tsu shook the boy harder, unaware that he was gripping his biceps so hard that they’d be bruised for weeks. He watched with detached horror as Ken’s head snapped back and forth with each motion, his mouth still open in that impossible scream and his eyes vacant. The boy’s face was bright, bright red—so red it was almost purple—and his lips were bluish.
“Stop it!” his father howled over his cry, hurling the child at his mother.
Rika caught him—barely—and Ken stopped screaming.
The brunette woman cradled his limp form possessively to her bosom. “What have you done, Tsuyoshi?!?!?! What have you done to my baby?!?!?!”
The big man merely stared at the lifeless body in her arms as the red slowly faded from Ken’s face. The child’s chest rose and fell shakily. He was unconscious.
“What have you done, Tsuyoshi?! What have you done?!”
He raised empty eyes away from his sobbing, screeching wife to stare at the perfectly white, unmarred walls of his dead son’s room. He felt his legs give way and he collapsed on the floor next to his wife and child. Rika had stopped screaming and was now devoting her attention to sobbing quietly and rocking the unconscious Ken back and forth. Her words seemed to bounce off the unmarked walls of Osamu’s abandoned room. ‘What have you done to my baby?’
The man’s shoulders trembled, but he did not cry. ‘What have you done?’