"What is a monster not a monster ?"
The sunset's rays blazing clearer seem to droop through the skies of Alabasta.
The grandeur of the horizon, bounded by a sea of sand around the kingdom's big capital, reflects in her eyes as waves of color emanating from the hues of the dwellings. Despite all the nuances in front of her sight, one single color always flames through her brain, wreaking carnage on her whole being.
Red. Red devours away the azure skies as the waning sun basks and marries the vast horizon. Red as the sand that howls in the wind (it screams, kicks, and cries like the ghosts of those she slaughtered).
Red brushing and painting the structures of a kingdom conquered through falsehoods and deception (and there was a time when the sea around her roared and swayed, while she watched the red annihilate an entire civilization within a single instant).
Red as those eyes that would never let go of her mind (always lingering, taunting her when she desperately wants to forget because there is nothing that she disdains more than those eyes).
Red always reduced to a single call, a single symphony that always returns to the same name: Dazai.
Miss All Sunday stood still, her enchanting dark gaze fixed on the horizon (and she still waits, counting down the minutes, hours, and days till she gets there with a drumbeat).
'Time is precious. Remember that, Miss All Sunday.'
She lets out a dark and lengthy chuckle, which echoes around her in one helpless call ( she wonders the last time she chuckled and laughed without the mask, lies, and self-loathing stapled to her face with strings crafted from long, buried scars ( but call you call scars-"scars" when they are wounds that never healed?).
Indeed, time is precious. How could the world ever bring itself to its demise if time was ever desired and sought like a madman seeking solace? How could time not be precious when it is the sole primary factor determining history itself? (when the past pursues and cries for retribution, and the future fears fate; what might the present ever accomplish except destroy itself?).
After all, time was what kept Miss All Sunday standing, even when the entire world wanted her dead for the sheer power of knowledge. Then she may use the one thing men could never have: time.
'Time is near, Crocodile,' she reflected, her gaze absorbed over the horizon as those familiar crimson eyes continued blazing through the skies.
She waits for it with a shattered soul and an empty heart, concealed behind a vile smile and sinful eyes staring down at the world. With a relief she knows she'll never know in her lifespan, hidden beneath those snake slurs and dreadful sentences that sear through her brain.
Foolish men have always chased time to conquer it and flee the clutches of death. But Miss All Sunday is no foolish man, there is no foolishness in her like theirs (not when those men are the first to condemn her existence as a sin).
Miss All Sunday desires only one thing: the end.
She wants everything to end (and when the time is nigh, the end deity's hands tear her. She wouldn't mind if the world around her ended as well. She wouldn't mind if it ended the same way her world did--they call it treason, but yet what could she call it when she was the one at the end of brandishing guns and bloody swords?).
'Dazai is near, the world!'
Time is cruel, lament the old ones, but Miss All Sunday knows the truth. She witnessed it from the moment she dared to be born in the shadows of the gods (she sometimes wonders if they, like men, fear time; because when she looks at those men who ruined everything in her wretched life, she sees no distinction between those they define themselves as gods and those they call mankind).
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the silence of despair. ONE PIECE
Fanfiction"Tell me dazai why is it you wish to die"? Can a soul still assert its existence when it has no desire to live and is instead taking an outline of readiness for death? If all that is left of a person is their wounded heart and their voice, how can...
