FIC: "Hating the 'You' Within"
It was a feeling that slowly bubbled and boiled deep within him over the years. A wildfire spreading throughout every nerve, making his fingers itch at the very thought of it, he realized that he couldn’t ignore this feeling anymore. It was consuming his whole being, weighing him down like anchors holding a ship still within the ever-moving waters of the ocean. He was just keeping his head above water, his mouth and nose barely exposed to the very air he needed to breathe.
The salt blinded him though, waves rising and falling sending just a little more water into his lungs. He was choking, being smothered by the cold surrounding him while the very heat within threatened to burst him wide open. There was no escape either way; he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, and he was slowly growing dizzier with the obsessive thoughts obscuring his sense of judgment.
He hated him with a passion, the feeling which had originally began with an uneasy discomfort at the pit of his stomach having grown considerably. It was now an agonizingly painful obsession that he was constantly reminded of. From a throb within his heart to an itch just beneath the skin that had him clawing for relief, it often left him trapped within a bubble of reality that he couldn’t participate in. He could only watch, hand pressed against the clear surface that slowly rubbed the layers of skin raw until there was only muscle and tendon. It was like directly applying a chemical base to yourself; you didn’t feel the pain just yet, but it was growing and slowly eating you alive. You only realized the damage after it’s already been done, the full force of the pain hitting you like deadweight, shocking you into a state of incapacitation while the world continued to revolve in blissful ignorance.
All it took was for two hands to reach out, to intertwine their fingers together and slowly squeeze. In order to breathe again he had to smother him out of his life. He had to erase that smile, and deafen himself to the laughter that constantly rang in his ears. He had to blind himself to the tears, and look past the struggle. He had such an innocent face and a passion for life. He was successful and well liked, fans screaming for him whenever he stepped onto the stage. He had band mates who loved him and were always supporting his actions and decisions, respecting him to the very fullest. He had a world slowly growing within his hands, molded and expanded to how he wanted it. He nearly had it all with the potential to gain possession of the rest.
And he couldn’t stand it.
It was so close now, the sobbing cries becoming quieter with every second. Fingers were digging deeper and deeper, skin punctured against those nails as they dug, almost wanting to reach the windpipe itself to simply crush it. It hurt so much, but he couldn’t take it anymore. He had to free himself from this imprisoning feeling that would only serve to hurt someone else if he didn’t take care of it. The struggles were becoming fainter, the signs of his body soon giving up becoming apparent. He was smiling, smiling yet crying with just knowing that within a few more seconds, it would be all over. No more lack of control, no more struggles, no more hatred-he was finally taking everything into his own hands. Taking it, and throwing it all away…
Was it something he could really live with?
His grip suddenly loosened, fingers withdrawing from around his throat, little beads of blood slowly pooling out of every puncture hole he made. He was soon breathing again, as fresh tears jumped to the corners of his eyes while lungs expanded in gasping breaths.
No, he really couldn’t live with that.
He crawled off the bed, body trembling so violently that he couldn’t stand on his own. Dragging himself over to the standing mirror, he stared at his reflection, his eyes dark, and his vision blurred. Lifting his hands up to stare at them, while swallowing a lump in his throat, he stared at the thin rivulets of blood sliding down his fingers, before he clenched them into tight fist balls.
Because if he had been successful throwing it all away…
“Why…” he whispered sorrowfully, as he looked to his reflection, tears cascading down his face as he struggled to breathe. His breath was shaky, voice wracked with sobs as he continued to watch, shaking his head and narrowing his eyes. Before him, his reflection also had tears, but was laughing at him. He couldn’t really do it. He was weak. And he was mocked for it too, the laughter loud and echoing in his ears. He tightened a fist more, the other loosening as it pressed itself to his bleeding throat and giving it a gentle squeeze. A roar would rip itself from within the that punctured neck, as that balled up fist connected with the mirror a second later, the glass webbing itself around that fist as it cracked and bloomed before him.
Then he wouldn’t even be alive anymore to experience its success.
“Why won’t you just die?!” He cried out a moment later in a hoarse voice that echoed throughout the room, the laughter still echoing in his mind as he curled himself up into a little ball before his reflection.
Because if I died, you would die right along with me.
Matsumoto Takanori hated the man that everyone knew as Ruki.
Matsumoto Takanori hated the man that became himself.
The salt blinded him though, waves rising and falling sending just a little more water into his lungs. He was choking, being smothered by the cold surrounding him while the very heat within threatened to burst him wide open. There was no escape either way; he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, and he was slowly growing dizzier with the obsessive thoughts obscuring his sense of judgment.
He hated him with a passion, the feeling which had originally began with an uneasy discomfort at the pit of his stomach having grown considerably. It was now an agonizingly painful obsession that he was constantly reminded of. From a throb within his heart to an itch just beneath the skin that had him clawing for relief, it often left him trapped within a bubble of reality that he couldn’t participate in. He could only watch, hand pressed against the clear surface that slowly rubbed the layers of skin raw until there was only muscle and tendon. It was like directly applying a chemical base to yourself; you didn’t feel the pain just yet, but it was growing and slowly eating you alive. You only realized the damage after it’s already been done, the full force of the pain hitting you like deadweight, shocking you into a state of incapacitation while the world continued to revolve in blissful ignorance.
All it took was for two hands to reach out, to intertwine their fingers together and slowly squeeze. In order to breathe again he had to smother him out of his life. He had to erase that smile, and deafen himself to the laughter that constantly rang in his ears. He had to blind himself to the tears, and look past the struggle. He had such an innocent face and a passion for life. He was successful and well liked, fans screaming for him whenever he stepped onto the stage. He had band mates who loved him and were always supporting his actions and decisions, respecting him to the very fullest. He had a world slowly growing within his hands, molded and expanded to how he wanted it. He nearly had it all with the potential to gain possession of the rest.
And he couldn’t stand it.
It was so close now, the sobbing cries becoming quieter with every second. Fingers were digging deeper and deeper, skin punctured against those nails as they dug, almost wanting to reach the windpipe itself to simply crush it. It hurt so much, but he couldn’t take it anymore. He had to free himself from this imprisoning feeling that would only serve to hurt someone else if he didn’t take care of it. The struggles were becoming fainter, the signs of his body soon giving up becoming apparent. He was smiling, smiling yet crying with just knowing that within a few more seconds, it would be all over. No more lack of control, no more struggles, no more hatred-he was finally taking everything into his own hands. Taking it, and throwing it all away…
Was it something he could really live with?
His grip suddenly loosened, fingers withdrawing from around his throat, little beads of blood slowly pooling out of every puncture hole he made. He was soon breathing again, as fresh tears jumped to the corners of his eyes while lungs expanded in gasping breaths.
No, he really couldn’t live with that.
He crawled off the bed, body trembling so violently that he couldn’t stand on his own. Dragging himself over to the standing mirror, he stared at his reflection, his eyes dark, and his vision blurred. Lifting his hands up to stare at them, while swallowing a lump in his throat, he stared at the thin rivulets of blood sliding down his fingers, before he clenched them into tight fist balls.
Because if he had been successful throwing it all away…
“Why…” he whispered sorrowfully, as he looked to his reflection, tears cascading down his face as he struggled to breathe. His breath was shaky, voice wracked with sobs as he continued to watch, shaking his head and narrowing his eyes. Before him, his reflection also had tears, but was laughing at him. He couldn’t really do it. He was weak. And he was mocked for it too, the laughter loud and echoing in his ears. He tightened a fist more, the other loosening as it pressed itself to his bleeding throat and giving it a gentle squeeze. A roar would rip itself from within the that punctured neck, as that balled up fist connected with the mirror a second later, the glass webbing itself around that fist as it cracked and bloomed before him.
Then he wouldn’t even be alive anymore to experience its success.
“Why won’t you just die?!” He cried out a moment later in a hoarse voice that echoed throughout the room, the laughter still echoing in his mind as he curled himself up into a little ball before his reflection.
Because if I died, you would die right along with me.
Matsumoto Takanori hated the man that everyone knew as Ruki.
Matsumoto Takanori hated the man that became himself.