TITLE: The Eye of the Blackbird
FANDOM: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
SUMMARY: A character study of the events of the manga.
THEME: 28. Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou?
THE EYE OF THE BLACKBIRD
five kids in a cement fortress, grizzled walls, this weedy excuse for a fairground like the pits of an abandoned porch strays hide under - estraneo - he remembers how their spines pressed to his, the delicate way their ribs shivered like mongrels kicked into the corner to die. the sickly, bright light of the medical table bound them while an enlightenment of power was shoved down his throat - "children".
"children, don't be afraid. you know, these operations are for your own good? for the family, hehe!"
("they'll be beasts, i bet. real crazies, but boss needs someone for the dirty work.")
he is a little, white mouse with pink eyes underneath this husk of human skin. six times dead, six times reborn, six times the little line falling straight, one eye rolling to the back of his head. a defibrillator (one pump) would press against the boy's (two pumps) skin, blue like poisoned milk, pumping (three pumps) the shivers of life into his form. His body would leap, kick, gasp, as if he had been torn in half.
he hadn't even known who he was, his person-hood undefined, a child with tears turned to dark blood - we will become what we are. and so, the mists came down from the mountains, curled around his heart, and teased it open with a gentle, wicked laughter.
A DYING GIRL WHISPERS IN MY EAR
it was midnight. intensive care, red and blue shadows cast by the ambulance lights long ago had faded to darkness. the breathing machine wheezed at the side of the girl's bed. the curtains were drawn because seeing her upset the nurses. she was a princess stretched out upon the moon-white sheets, a clear plastic breathing tube strapped over her face (trust me, he could feel it), all kinds of wires and tubes swept mysteriously under the blanket. at least they had tried to make it look nice. an icebox like a metal trunk sat nearby, containing the mashed up remnants of her organs. mukuro stood by - formless, crawling his way into her consciousness as if it were a secret fort in the woods. she was an abode, an escape, a dream. he didn't know how he had found her - perhaps it was her near death state that made their souls nearly one - but he didn't question it. we will become what we are, he reminded the butterfly that had landed on his palm, and she agreed.
lungs first, delicate and complex, and then, he retraced the lines of her arteries. like roots, they slithered through her sutured belly, blossoming into kidneys, thickening into intestines, pressing themselves into the prepubescent shapes of girlhood. he had never done this before, and he would never do it again. why did he indulge her? an amusement. a game. an art. a whim.
he could laugh at how much she was like him - well, not exactly like him. she was japanese. she was a girl. she was a child. he quietly ripped her head apart. in vendice prison, excited bubbles a formed around his own breathing mask. his body was strung up like hers, wound in tentacles of chains and breathing tubes and suspended in a tank as if he were a pickled monstrosity. what was he doing with a girl like her?
in the beginning, flipping through her memories of complacency, he found her boring and lacking imagination and definition. she was crutched on her parents' words, kindled by their voices. but now, she could only cling to his thick italian, and he enjoyed twisting his language around her. perhaps that was why.
GENIE IN A BOTTLE
his handgun holds six bullets. he puts it to his head.
ALL WORDS WILL LOSE THEIR MEANING
in the circle of his red right eye lies his power, where the six paths he has walked have burned themselves into him. he is enlightened. he sees:
the realm of hell, of illusion and deceit, of mind-bending tricks and laughter and mirrors.
- he can create real illusions or illusions that can be experienced in reality. so long as they are thought to be real, they can inflict physical harm.
the realm of hungry ghosts, of lost identities and grasping hands.
- he can execute the powers and abilities of a body that his spirit has come to possess as if he truly were this person.
the realm of beasts, of teeth, claws, and poison.
- he can summon a few deadly beasts such as a pile of snakes or a couple of large carnivorous animals.
the realm of demons, of war, blood and murder.
- he can enhance his fighting abilities beyond the capabilities of his physically untrained body, improving his reflexes, strength, and speed.
the realm of humans, of determination and fortitude through suffering.
- he pierces his red right eye to release his most heart-felt fighting spirit.
the realm of heaven, of escape and formlessness.
- he can possess those whose bodies are unconscious or have willingly yielded themselves to his spirit. he is also able to project himself as a real illusion.
YOUR WALLS TURN MY BLOOD A LITTLE COLD
chains, and an iron mask, i.v. lines flowing with icy sedatives, and the blue tinge of the tank's suppressing fluid are one of many realities. his body is a hanged man, defeated, and his eyes remain unopened. he refuses to emerge into this world because he denies to be captured here. instead, he embraces the hypnotism of the morphine. drowned in chemical lullabies, he is too lost to laugh here, so he stretches himself.
wherefore art thou? he can reach through the formless void. this world, he perceives it in mist and he has trouble finding others, but he can always find chrome. he sees her a shadow outlined in light. his thoughts greet her. they press against the back of her soul like a stray cat and they look over her shoulder like a white owl. sometimes, they would reach over while whispering in her ear, "let me."
I KNOW NOBLE ACCENTS
chocolate italian ice, fruit parfait, leather boots, skull hair-clips, hitched up uniform skirts and brass buttons that shined like bullets, winter, pale skin, scabby knees, darkly curtained throne-rooms, swears mumbled in french, strong perfume, money, and the hope of an apprentice.
ONCE, A FEAR PIERCED HIM
when he looks in the mirror, his arms crossed, staring at the freak in his eye, he can't help but frown as the red memories emerge. they are always with him, their lies, their hands, and their choking, soothing words offered to his child self. there is no greater horror than their false tones. a boy mutters, the whites in their flicking down, blue bruises around his wrists and neck. all his fear before, and the instant - that great instant death, for him six lifetimes long - it all melted into raw hatred.
revenge belongs to a count like he. let them all die. let him be free.
but he is not always a count. he is an illusionist, really. a magician. a swindle. a show. (where is his assistant to saw in half?) a trident in the name of shakespeare. the world a theatre sometimes of gore, betrayal, guilt, and love. and sometimes, it was a comedy. his friends were quite distracting.
IN THE DARK OF THE NIGHT
death is not a bad thing. no, the world must let itself slip into it, savor it, embrace it. it is freeing, truly, to let your mind lift from your body, and to ravel away at the edges. fear death? why, it isn't bad at all. you should be happy - for it is the end of your suffering.
let the darkness come. let it take the world.