Chapter 1 - One Moonlit Night
Submitted August 3, 2006 Updated August 19, 2006 Status Incomplete | A story based off of the Japanese movie Taboo. I was not fond of the movie, but it did make me wonder--what on earth was going through the main character's head, that this story would unfold the way it did? Thus I tentatively began this fanfiction to explore the whys and wherefores behind it. If people enjoy this, I will rent the movie again and write more of it.
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Chapter 1 - One Moonlit Night
Chapter 1 - One Moonlit Night
Moonlight on the cherry blossoms. Moonlight on the cherry trees that filled my sight like white feathers dancing on a scum of moss and water. Moonlight on the blood of one—only one of the many ones—who had been my lover, but never my love.
There is a story, that the blossoms of cherry trees were pure as driven snow until they drunk the blood of corpses, and turned pink from the liquid that then coursed through their petals. If it is true, I pray that the man whose blood now stains my clothing is found useful at last in death, and that he satiates these trees in order to bring beauty when he caused me nothing but agony.
There was a sound, the splash of water somewhere far behind me—sound carries far across swamps such as this. I turned, and accidentally stepped in a puddle myself, sending up my own splash.
A shape became visible, through the mist-drawn gloom of the swamp. I tensed, fingers loosening my katana—then stopped. Because the man became visible, and I let go of my katana like a hot iron, struggling to pull my foot out of the water.
“Okita-sa—”
He ran me through before I even saw that his katana was unsheathed.
How can I describe it? We describe things, ordinary things such as stomachaches and backaches and muscle cramps, as though we are being run through on a sword. I can assure you, neither stomachache nor backache nor cramp of any muscle can approach the pain of truly being run through on a sword. Everything inside of me seized up—something so hot it was cold, or so cold it was hot, erupted throughout my abdomen—blood ran boiling under and over my skin, blossoming like the cherry trees on white fabric—
But that was not all of it. I looked up at him, as my hands reflexively clutched at his katana’s blade, and felt…anger. Horror. Betrayal. And something else, something in a tiny part of my mind that didn’t seem to realize I was dying, a part that said wonderingly, I’ve never been this close to him before. I’ve never looked into his eyes like this before.[/i]
He has such beautiful, beautiful eyes…[/i]
And then my vision of those eyes blurred. Instead, I swear, as clear as the moonlit cherry trees around us, I saw myself[/i], so small, so young, so many years ago. And I realized there was truth in the rumor that in the moment before death, one’s life flashes before one’s eyes.
No![/i] I thought dizzily. No—I don’t want to see it all—not again—[/i]
But time did not listen to me. Time stretched like leather, expanded enough to fit the whole of my life into a single moment, and paraded it past me—a grand panoply of fear, misunderstandings, lies, hate. And mistakes.
So very many mistakes.
There is a story, that the blossoms of cherry trees were pure as driven snow until they drunk the blood of corpses, and turned pink from the liquid that then coursed through their petals. If it is true, I pray that the man whose blood now stains my clothing is found useful at last in death, and that he satiates these trees in order to bring beauty when he caused me nothing but agony.
There was a sound, the splash of water somewhere far behind me—sound carries far across swamps such as this. I turned, and accidentally stepped in a puddle myself, sending up my own splash.
A shape became visible, through the mist-drawn gloom of the swamp. I tensed, fingers loosening my katana—then stopped. Because the man became visible, and I let go of my katana like a hot iron, struggling to pull my foot out of the water.
“Okita-sa—”
He ran me through before I even saw that his katana was unsheathed.
How can I describe it? We describe things, ordinary things such as stomachaches and backaches and muscle cramps, as though we are being run through on a sword. I can assure you, neither stomachache nor backache nor cramp of any muscle can approach the pain of truly being run through on a sword. Everything inside of me seized up—something so hot it was cold, or so cold it was hot, erupted throughout my abdomen—blood ran boiling under and over my skin, blossoming like the cherry trees on white fabric—
But that was not all of it. I looked up at him, as my hands reflexively clutched at his katana’s blade, and felt…anger. Horror. Betrayal. And something else, something in a tiny part of my mind that didn’t seem to realize I was dying, a part that said wonderingly, I’ve never been this close to him before. I’ve never looked into his eyes like this before.[/i]
He has such beautiful, beautiful eyes…[/i]
And then my vision of those eyes blurred. Instead, I swear, as clear as the moonlit cherry trees around us, I saw myself[/i], so small, so young, so many years ago. And I realized there was truth in the rumor that in the moment before death, one’s life flashes before one’s eyes.
No![/i] I thought dizzily. No—I don’t want to see it all—not again—[/i]
But time did not listen to me. Time stretched like leather, expanded enough to fit the whole of my life into a single moment, and paraded it past me—a grand panoply of fear, misunderstandings, lies, hate. And mistakes.
So very many mistakes.
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Phoenex360Gorillaz on August 15, 2007, 12:57:15 PM
Drunk is a noun.... XD. Its has drank. I think....       Well..... read on....