~♡Gonkillu Oneshots♡~

Inside Killua's Mind

I hate my life. Take a guess.

Heavy Trigger Warning?

Killua always ponders what on earth could ever be wrong with his mind to think the sickly thoughts that he thinks. He wonders what kind of monster he must be to see flashes of corpses and blood everywhere when the feelings become to much. But nobody said the blood was from the corpses.

Everything is a mess. It's almost inevitable that he come spiraling back into this space in his mind that he called base. Not home, no. It's too cold to be a home. Too dark and too small. Everything is numb. The way it needs to be. Feelings are pointless when the life he has is meant for the opposite of love and care-- Blood is on his hands. The blood of many different people whose lives no longer have meaning. The blood of himself, who's still breathing and living and existing.

Killua kills a part of himself every minute he's with this family. He assassinates his target and returns to the Zoldyck mansion with that heavy feeling. That heavy person hanging to his shoulders, weighing his decisions for him and pressuring him into snapping at the most innocent of lives.

His life isn't innocent. Not one bit. So why can he be justified to living it, when those more deserving of existence are sliced and diced and left to rot? To be picked at by the rats and insects, as their homes collect dust and their families dwell in tears?

If he weren't already aware of the suffering, Killua would run away again. But no. He'd much rather suffer in his own head than by the hands of others, punishing him for his too soft of a heart and too sensitive of a mind. So with his own hands, and with his own heart, he'll ache. Killua will ache with a blade in his hand. With his tampered nails. With something as small and meaningless as a staple or a razor.

The ache doesn't hurt as bad when he knows he's the reason behind it. The heavy weight on his chest, the disgusting creature that lives in his reflection and haunts him even when his eyes shut tight, it'll never be over.

So Killua cuts. He cuts paper. He cuts cardboard. He cuts at fruit and textured glass. He cuts his very own skin, beneath the waistband of his boxers where only he knows they exist. Killua can go out in the shortest of shorts and nothing more, and nobody would know what lies beneath him. They won't see what he sees every day when they look at him, the monster that he is. Beneath his boxers isn't even his skin. Simply a holder for all of his aching.

Why. Killua hates asking why. He hates when he sees something sharp, and that why nags at him.

Why are you like this?

Why isn't it sharp enough?

Why do you still breath?

Endless is the void of his mind. His family spirals that infinity further.

Kikyo and her harsh disciplines. Silva and his selfish promises. Illumi and his manipulative words. Milluki and his harsh abuses.

Killua could easily rip his own heart out. He knows how to do it. It'll only take a few seconds to drop dead. And then it'll be quiet, all the screams which make no sounds and the voices that say no words. It'll all be gone.

Or, there's a way to amuse himself. Killua wonders what might have happened if his little train gig didn't get interrupted. Would he have suffered? Hm. Guess only one way was available to seeking that answer.

There were railroads nearby. Nearby the Zoldyck Estate, as rather shocking as that seemed.

Killua deserves to suffer. Like all of those taken at his hands did. He needed to be treated like he was nothing but gum on the sidewalk, disgusting and burdening. He needed to be torn apart, piece by piece, skin by skin. Maybe then he'd get that deep, internal itch to go away. The one that couldn't be calmed no matter how hard, how deep Killua cut.

The walk to the railroads, Killua thinks back, would be a short one. If only. But no. He has his sister to think about... And he couldn't step a single foot from this home without being reprimanded immediately.

Killua sighs. He sighs a lot. He wonders and wonders, and he thinks and thinks, and his mind is a place where noise is permanent. A total bliss would be if he weren't human at all. But even then, Killua doubts that he would mean anything no matter the form he took. He's just scum.

So he closes his eyes. He holds his breath, then breaths, tries to breath in a way that makes him feel like he isn't really breathing at all. A temporary death is sleep. Sleep, nothing can be of bothering except a dream. Killua didn't get those. He wasn't sure whether to be thankful or opposed.

Sleep. A temporary death. The only death a boy like him can receive in a moment like this. So, Killua sleeps. He closes his eyes, and he closes them tight, and he forces everything blank so he can be met with temporary death.