Soukoku Stories

dont make me get violent

(A/N: Firstly, the tiltles lack of capitalisation and apostrophe is completley intenional. This came to me so suddenly while I was listening to Violent by carolesdaughter for the first time. It's kind of rushed and probably out of character and I may edit later but her you all go. Also I intended to make ths violence more graphic but I wanted to keep it detahced and I'm not that good at wrting graphic violence yet.)

Chuuya's Perspective

Everything is going to be different now. They'll give me some new partner. I'll get my pick, but I already know none of them will compare, no matter how good they are. None of them will be him. He's gone, leaving problems in his wake like usual. And I don't even have the energy to hate him anymore.

Alarms are going off, blazing red, but I can't make myself move. They'll come and get me if I'm really needed. I just sip my wine and watch the sunset. Red, orange and yellow like the flames that consumed my car as he walked out on me. I guess it's good because I would've gone after him, and he knew it. Not now though, now I can't imagine even bothering to leave my office for him, I know I would though. I'd still do anything for him, if I thought it would make him come back and I hate it, but I don't.

Everything moves in slow motion as the door shudders and falls in. 10 men sloppily thrown together black tactical gear. They wear patches with letter E's spray painted on them. A wannabe terrorist group, I don't care. I couldn't bring myself to listen in the last meeting. It doesn't matter who they were, because they're here now, and they're going to die. (It's bound to end this way, it always does, canvas stained in some shade of red.)

I get up slowly, giving them a chance to run, "Don't make me get violent." It comes out as a sigh.

They start shooting. Round after round until the floor is made of spent shell casing. It does nothing as my instincts kick in. For me it happens in slow motion, I watch numbly, as another version of myself charges the naive boys. They're down before they can fight back.

I watch as I don't stop.

One of them moves slightly and I kick him back down and keep kicking him, until we're both stained red and there isn't a single bone in his body left to break.

I'm not done, they disturbed my only peace and now they're going to die, every last one of them. It isn't rage that fills me, just an empty hole, growing larger, leaving nothing, looking to be filled. And these deaths have to be personal, because he left me and these boys "terrorists" are still here, causing me trouble. I want him to be causing me trouble. (But now I'm alone and it's too peaceful, too quiet, too still, too empty.) I take the nearest and twist his limbs in funny directions until I hear the snaps, and then I keep twisting. Chunks of flesh fall to the ground with wet squelches, splashing the room in red. Spilt wine.

I just want to finish my wine. When they no longer resemble humans I come back to myself. Staring at the wreckage around me. The room is tinted red but I know the mangled lumps won't disturb me again.

My hands are painted red and sticky and leave smeared fingerprints on the bottle. My reflection is savage against the darkening sky. But I can't make myself care.

A groan of satisfaction leaves my lips as I sip my wine. I taste the red alcohol, strangely metallic, corrupted by the rusty scent of the room, but it's not bad. It's refreshing. And for the first time since he left I can see colour again. (All red, but at least it's something.)

I sit back down, leaning back in my chair, my bloodied feet over the bloodied desk. A fine day in a fine city. I don't need him, if I can have this, this I can live with. If the way to feel something again is violence then so be it.

And even when they come in to clean it up the shock and horror on their faces, it will all be worth it. I know it will. Are you happy with what you've done, Dazai Osamu? I am.