Ficlet: Certainty
Title: Certainty
Prompt: Submitted for first-person/family at sm_monthly .
A/N: Rated R because of some very filthy language. Also, look at the new, shiny shiny icon! Cate made it for me, it’s the new designated angst icon. *claps* So, in honour of the icon, here we go.
My name is Jirou fucking Koutani, I am 21 years old, and today, I’m going to die.
What? You think this is unfair? Oh, me too. Spare me the eulogy, I have no interest in that sort of thing. You don’t know me well enough to make it count anyway.
Yes, I’m young. What? Sick? No, I’m not sick. I’m not sick at all. Healthy as a fucking horse. Those scars come from climbing up trees when I was a kid. Okay, fine, maybe not from climbing up as much as from falling down and having that old turtle of a doctor stitch me up without his glasses on. Bloody blind old bat. But hey, no broken bone and no nasty scar ever kept me from climbing up the next best tree as soon as the casts were off. There’s a huge maple tree in my folks' garden; I don’t even remember how often I fell right smack down and broke something. You know, if I’d been the adult and it was my kid, I’d have fucking cut down that tree after the first time. It still stands though, of course it does. No surprise there.
But I digress, don’t I? Kind of hard to keep focusing when I have so little time left. Don’t even start on the cigarettes. A dying man has a right to whatever the fuck he wants, and I’m not even going to live long enough to get cancer, so just shut the fuck up. And yeah, I’m going to drop the bum right here on the path, so what? If the rabbits are stupid enough to eat them, they well deserve to choke on them.
Yeah, I’m angry. I’m a great many of things (my father would say I’m nothing, but he and I never saw eye-to-eye, so who cares?). I’m angry (if you were in my situation, doomed from the get-go, you’d be too), I’m shit-scared, I’m feeling more alive than ever, I’m smart (no time pretending to be humble, the clock is fucking ticking), I’m in love, I’m out of love, and most importantly, I’m out of fucking life.
But I’m not out of choices. Never out of choices.
I see her walking up to me now. No, not that one, you idiot. The one near the fountain. Of course, it’s kind of hard to tell, what with it being the fucking middle of the night and all, but it’s her alright. Long hair, black as a raven’s in the moonless night, a one of those stupidly tailored 80’s blazers that does weird things to shoulders. Lots of swaying of her hips. Long legs. Red heels. You know the deal.
I smile. How can I not? This moment was written in the stars (never said I wasn’t poetic, did I?), and we both knew it would come. She smiles too, and her lips are ruby red. She’s perfect.
Some people might count to ten, try to assemble the courage to do it, but I don’t. When I got up this morning, I knew I was going to die. Nothing courageous about hurrying something that’s going to happen anyway, is it? She stops less than five feet away from me and gives me a thorough look.
Ah, now she’s realised that this time around, the rules have been changed. There’s anger in her eyes, and the illusion shatters.
As I said, she’s perfect. Perfect and evil.
Her hair isn’t black, never was. And the shoulders? Don’t have a damn thing to do with the blazer, but then normal people don’t know that. You’re normal. Be happy about it. Live life to the fullest. Cut down the trees your kids fall out of. Kiss the person you love. Have a 22nd birthday. Don’t let the past drag you down.
In my hand, the gun feels heavy. I lift it to my head and smile. Told ya. Never out of choices.
“My name is Jirou fucking Koutani, I’m 21 years old, and today, I’m going to die.”
The last thing is see before I pull the trigger is Beryl lurching at me. Fuck you, bitch. Not this time.
The End
Prompt: Submitted for first-person/family at sm_monthly .
A/N: Rated R because of some very filthy language. Also, look at the new, shiny shiny icon! Cate made it for me, it’s the new designated angst icon. *claps* So, in honour of the icon, here we go.
My name is Jirou fucking Koutani, I am 21 years old, and today, I’m going to die.
What? You think this is unfair? Oh, me too. Spare me the eulogy, I have no interest in that sort of thing. You don’t know me well enough to make it count anyway.
Yes, I’m young. What? Sick? No, I’m not sick. I’m not sick at all. Healthy as a fucking horse. Those scars come from climbing up trees when I was a kid. Okay, fine, maybe not from climbing up as much as from falling down and having that old turtle of a doctor stitch me up without his glasses on. Bloody blind old bat. But hey, no broken bone and no nasty scar ever kept me from climbing up the next best tree as soon as the casts were off. There’s a huge maple tree in my folks' garden; I don’t even remember how often I fell right smack down and broke something. You know, if I’d been the adult and it was my kid, I’d have fucking cut down that tree after the first time. It still stands though, of course it does. No surprise there.
But I digress, don’t I? Kind of hard to keep focusing when I have so little time left. Don’t even start on the cigarettes. A dying man has a right to whatever the fuck he wants, and I’m not even going to live long enough to get cancer, so just shut the fuck up. And yeah, I’m going to drop the bum right here on the path, so what? If the rabbits are stupid enough to eat them, they well deserve to choke on them.
Yeah, I’m angry. I’m a great many of things (my father would say I’m nothing, but he and I never saw eye-to-eye, so who cares?). I’m angry (if you were in my situation, doomed from the get-go, you’d be too), I’m shit-scared, I’m feeling more alive than ever, I’m smart (no time pretending to be humble, the clock is fucking ticking), I’m in love, I’m out of love, and most importantly, I’m out of fucking life.
But I’m not out of choices. Never out of choices.
I see her walking up to me now. No, not that one, you idiot. The one near the fountain. Of course, it’s kind of hard to tell, what with it being the fucking middle of the night and all, but it’s her alright. Long hair, black as a raven’s in the moonless night, a one of those stupidly tailored 80’s blazers that does weird things to shoulders. Lots of swaying of her hips. Long legs. Red heels. You know the deal.
I smile. How can I not? This moment was written in the stars (never said I wasn’t poetic, did I?), and we both knew it would come. She smiles too, and her lips are ruby red. She’s perfect.
Some people might count to ten, try to assemble the courage to do it, but I don’t. When I got up this morning, I knew I was going to die. Nothing courageous about hurrying something that’s going to happen anyway, is it? She stops less than five feet away from me and gives me a thorough look.
Ah, now she’s realised that this time around, the rules have been changed. There’s anger in her eyes, and the illusion shatters.
As I said, she’s perfect. Perfect and evil.
Her hair isn’t black, never was. And the shoulders? Don’t have a damn thing to do with the blazer, but then normal people don’t know that. You’re normal. Be happy about it. Live life to the fullest. Cut down the trees your kids fall out of. Kiss the person you love. Have a 22nd birthday. Don’t let the past drag you down.
In my hand, the gun feels heavy. I lift it to my head and smile. Told ya. Never out of choices.
“My name is Jirou fucking Koutani, I’m 21 years old, and today, I’m going to die.”
The last thing is see before I pull the trigger is Beryl lurching at me. Fuck you, bitch. Not this time.
The End