Art of Inner Suicide

Capitulo Nueve

Part 9 of 10: A Confusion Curtained

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The fury bestowed on a flightless bird raged like a predator in starvation, embracing the goodness of its newly found prey— would you believe me. . . if I had told you I dug my own grave? That, of which, I had confessed earlier.

The gruesome fate of girls you held within your hands; you are one Satan in the shape of Holy Mary blessing them death, crucifying us in the circles of an ever-so-beautiful hell.

But still, I fell into a sleep I knew I shouldn't fall into. So, from time to time, I wonder: was I fascinated by murder?

No, the word 'fascinated' seems to entail some positivity which I believed was not the case. I was beyond curious but wasn't fascinated.

Shivering as the thrills hit a long-sought empathy within me, I despised the thought of it. Raskolnikov once had this, and like him, I asked myself: am I capable of that? I was horrified by the idea that this illusion of mine, which I had long put into abstraction, was taking a more definite form.

And then it came to me that I was wrong. I was relieved. I wanted to die. I did not want to kill.

'Like it was any better?' may someone say, well, it was better.

I am just that who you have met amidst the ruckus of the helpless. You're an angel, just as broken as me. I held a fragile ghoul within these sinful hands of mine.

You were the grave I was digging I adored so much. One day, I'll fall in your arms and you'll hold me as you grant my wish whilst displaying that heavenly smile of yours.

In the madness I plunged, you embraced me. It wasn't as lonely as it ever was.

But this chasm continued to thrive, engraving your lovely name beneath its ardent core: Miyako.

Just like the moon, so cold and beautiful. . .

My love.