The Taking

The
Taking

I figured that my first fic here should be short (and finished), so I pulled out a nice Farfarello POV.

I realize that this isn't everybody's cup of tea, so any reader comments will be extremely appreciated. Also, may it be known that while I do find Farfarello's views fascinating, I do not share his distaste for God. In fact, I don't care about God one way or the other, so please no "I share your ideologies!" or "Yer goin' ta hell!" comments. Thanks!

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Jei
clawed erratically at his breast, the color flowing from his skin. A
wound split open under his fingertips, spilling down across his
stomach, splattering across the floor. He was suffocating! The room
spun, and shadows leered from all directions. Even his own blood
betrayed him, shattering into pieces that stabbed at his ankles.

And
there she was, holding onto his wrists with her tiny hands. Her small
face was streaked with tears, but for what? Him? For his death?
Because surely, surely he was dying. He couldn't survive an encounter
like this.

Even
still, she grasped his wrists with those tiny hands, those fragile
hands, and the world became more reasonable. The blood, which was now
smeared in all directions, only clumped in natural ways, and the room
ceased spinning. Somehow, this miniscule creature was bringing order
back to the world.

He
was elated! His entire soul filled with joy... but something was
wrong. The small marks on the back of his skull still stung, and he
felt the blood trickling down the back of his head, dying his pure
white head a bloody crimson. The scratches pulsated to the beat of
his heart. His heart, the core of his being, the very center of his
soul, and those insignificant marks dared to try and mimic it?! Jei
found himself suddenly furious, flinging the child from his wrists,
and grasping at the back of his skull in an effort to still the
pounding. Oh, the pounding! The noise grew, until his entire body
rattled under its immense pressure, consuming his entire
consciousness. And that girl, that stupid girl, was still there,
clutching at his shoulders, trying to… to what?! Did it even matter
anymore? What an annoyance!

Yes,
that's what she was. An annoyance. Like a fly. A grin cracked across
his young face, and a small voice, almost like the buzzing of a fly,
spilled into his ears. A fly, a fly. Filthy flies should be
destroyed. Should be destroyed. Killed. Flies should be killed.

His
arms were at her throat. Her small, fragile throat, and those tiny,
fragile hands were breaking under his. Still, the buzzing persisted.
He watched as the life slowly drained from her bright eyes, and some
piece of him yearned to bring it back, like a child who sees a fly on
a windowsill and wonders why it lies so still. Or better yet, yearns
to snuff it out once more. Still, the buzzing. His skin burned
beneath his fingers, and he jerked to pull away. But his small hands
were connected, through some unimaginable link, to the younger flesh
beneath it, and, try as he might, he could not break from the
lifeless corpse beneath him. Its eyes burned into his, and he felt
his skin as if it were on fire, burning across his nerves. And that
buzzing! She was dead! She was dead! Why was she not silent!

He
ripped his arms away, small bits of skin tearing off as they caught
beneath his fingernails. Jei felt eyes on the back of his head, and
he turned, only to be confronted by the full visage of an angel, her
stare bleeding straight into his soul. Those eyes. The eyes of his
dead sister, given new life in the fabric form of a Christian
tapestry. The fly's revenge. As he tore it from the wall, he could
hear nothing but a screeching buzzing, beating in rhythm to his
all-consuming heartbeat. Carefully he wrapped it around those tiny
limbs, those small appendages, as if he were tucking her once more
into bed. Gently, gently guiding the insect into its resting place.

But
why, why wouldn't the noise cease?! There she lay, and still, that
unearthly racket pounded across his skull. Wasn't she the fly? Wasn't
she the cause?! A high giggle burst from his own lips, and he found
himself guided across the room. But wait, what about her? How could
he leave her there?

And
why not? Was she not dead?

This
voice wasn't his own. It screeched and wailed like an insect, and he
motioned as if to drive it away, only to find that his limbs were
unresponsive. His body moved of its own accord, making its way across
the room, through the door, down the stairs, into the kitchen. His
fingers, still blotched with innocent blood, wrapped around the
handle of the silverware drawer, and he watched as they drew out a
blade, glowing hotly in the moonlight that filtered through the open
curtains.

She
was dead! She was dead!

But
the knife was not for her, whispered the screeching voice, and he
shut his eyes. They didn't shut, and yet… they did. He curled up
inside his own mind, focusing on the wailing buzzing until it
completely consumed him. His sister was dead. Oh God, his sister was
dead. And he had killed her.

He
couldn't comprehend.

Don't
worry, I'll take care of it, whispered the voice. And he believed it.
And hated it.

Why?

Because
I wanted to see.

See
what?

See
what would happen. And here. It has happened.

Couldn't
understand. Couldn't comprehend. His mind split under the effort, but
he didn't want to understand. Didn't want to face what had just
happened.

Don't
worry, I'll take care of it, whispered the voice.

He
wept softly inside himself, replaying the scene inside his head. The
tiny fingers. The fragile throat. The life draining from her eyes.
The death, stale and final, wafting up into his nostrils. The smell
of her death. And with a deafening screech, the memories were stolen
from him, fleeing under the horror of that horrible voice to
somewhere… somewhere else. Inside him? He didn't know. Couldn't
remember. Didn't care.

There
was a clatter that he couldn't see, and didn't understand, and didn't
want to understand. And finally, a voice. Not the high, screeching
voice, but a genuine human voice. It pulled him from the dark corner
of his mind, and he opened his eyes.

There
was blood everywhere. But more importantly, she was standing there.
Ruth. His… No. It was Sister Ruth. A nun. Chaste. Pure. Innocent.
The scent of blood curled up overwhelmingly, and he felt himself go
unconscious.

And
then, the buzzing stopped.

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Thanks so much for reading! Again, any comments are VERY appreciated (especially negative ones). Most of all, critiques will be painfully attacked with some very hardcore love. Thanks!