Post by The Crimson Ghost! on Feb 5, 2009 17:01:06 GMT -5
(Again, this is not televised)
You think I have forgotten you, Deathman, but I haven't. I never, ever will. You look at me, thinking the hatchet buried, thinking me broken at your side, but you couldn't be more wrong. But I'll play along for longer, and no one will be the wiser.
That night he slept, but no peace came. He remembered someone else's life, his mind lying to him, trying to torment him. he screamed and clawed at his own throat, but to his subconcious's horror, he lived still. The only thing to do would be to ride the storm, and forget in the morning.
[shadow=red,left,300]It was tax season, and his store-bought cigarrettes did not alleviate the stress that crunching numbers often brought. He would hear crashing and shouting up above, and smiled softly at the knowledge of where she was, even as his heart thumped out of his chest. He promised himself that he would exercise tomorrow, ignoring the small voice yelling at him for the lie. No matter how he looked at the figures, it was always the same. He would be hurting, and would have to beg his ignoramus boss for more hours. Imperialist jerk, what did he think this was, the feudal era?! He got worked up and had to begin breathing, pulse in his pale, chubby neck rising. Soon, he heart footsteps comming down, and glanced over at his wife, covered with sweat, garbed in black Keikogi along with hakama, and her hair was up in a pony tail. The baggy kendo clothing belied her form and shape, which was enough to drive many a spirit to unrest. He fucking loved her, and as she smiled at him, dark red bokken slung over her shoulder, he wanted her. He raised from his fancy American-styled work station, and took her hands in his, kissing her softly. Unlike previous women he dated, she didn't shy away meekly, but rather embraced him, worked up from her workout(heh.).
Hours later, he held her in his arms, covered with blankets on the hard wood floor, basking in the sweltering heat, drifting into unconciousness. He put out the death-stick in an ashtray beside him, and thanked the fates for this joy.
Years later, he held her in his arms, voice gone from hours of crying, not having once inhaled a breath of air, clutching her tight enough to cause pain, were she living. In his chest was a terrible pain, and he silently cursed the world for taking her and not him. She was dead. She was his world and she was fucking dead, dead because of him, your fucking stupid your so fucking stupid she's dead you fuck you stupid fuck-
The imposter was gone, and he was himself again. He clutched the dark-red bokken in his arms, it having sent many an opponent into slumber. It had never been broken, and was made from the finest Oaks. It would destroy the foolish pervert before him. He brought the wood down, but to his horror, before it could bloody the pretty face of Chris Austin, it was clutched away by a monster, who hid his face from the world(only a coward hides. He know this with an uncomfortable certainty, though he cannot know why.), and was destroyed, to lay at his feet. His horror knew no words or depths, and the world up to this moment had been a blur, a fantasy. She was dead.[/shadow]
Aragato came back to life screaming, trying to tear off his own face with his hands. After an hour of clutching his own forehead, he could relax his fists enough to unclench them, and shakily bring them down to his gaze, to inspect them. He didn't know why he hated Deathman, only know that he did. That Deathman had done the unthinkable, and now he must pay. He looked over in his room, his personal room that GiW paid for, that underneath his katana was the dark-red bokken, a replica of his original. It worked alright, but it would never replace the first. He didn't understand(yes you do, you liar. She's dead.), but only knew that he would have to work his way up to him. Starting with the new one, Dylan James. He claimed to be Hardcore(much like the annoying one he saw backstage sometimes.), but Aragato knew that these white men always talked a good game. He clenched his hands back into fists. Oh yes, he would show this "James" who the hardcore one was. He stood, and went out into the world, with terrible resolve.
OOC: Hmm, I loved reading this one, but in a fit of retardedness I posted my Aragato and Komosube rp seperately at Toxic Intent...durr! I even did it once after this, but since then I've learned. So, kind of cool. ;D
You think I have forgotten you, Deathman, but I haven't. I never, ever will. You look at me, thinking the hatchet buried, thinking me broken at your side, but you couldn't be more wrong. But I'll play along for longer, and no one will be the wiser.
That night he slept, but no peace came. He remembered someone else's life, his mind lying to him, trying to torment him. he screamed and clawed at his own throat, but to his subconcious's horror, he lived still. The only thing to do would be to ride the storm, and forget in the morning.
[shadow=red,left,300]It was tax season, and his store-bought cigarrettes did not alleviate the stress that crunching numbers often brought. He would hear crashing and shouting up above, and smiled softly at the knowledge of where she was, even as his heart thumped out of his chest. He promised himself that he would exercise tomorrow, ignoring the small voice yelling at him for the lie. No matter how he looked at the figures, it was always the same. He would be hurting, and would have to beg his ignoramus boss for more hours. Imperialist jerk, what did he think this was, the feudal era?! He got worked up and had to begin breathing, pulse in his pale, chubby neck rising. Soon, he heart footsteps comming down, and glanced over at his wife, covered with sweat, garbed in black Keikogi along with hakama, and her hair was up in a pony tail. The baggy kendo clothing belied her form and shape, which was enough to drive many a spirit to unrest. He fucking loved her, and as she smiled at him, dark red bokken slung over her shoulder, he wanted her. He raised from his fancy American-styled work station, and took her hands in his, kissing her softly. Unlike previous women he dated, she didn't shy away meekly, but rather embraced him, worked up from her workout(heh.).
Hours later, he held her in his arms, covered with blankets on the hard wood floor, basking in the sweltering heat, drifting into unconciousness. He put out the death-stick in an ashtray beside him, and thanked the fates for this joy.
Years later, he held her in his arms, voice gone from hours of crying, not having once inhaled a breath of air, clutching her tight enough to cause pain, were she living. In his chest was a terrible pain, and he silently cursed the world for taking her and not him. She was dead. She was his world and she was fucking dead, dead because of him, your fucking stupid your so fucking stupid she's dead you fuck you stupid fuck-
The imposter was gone, and he was himself again. He clutched the dark-red bokken in his arms, it having sent many an opponent into slumber. It had never been broken, and was made from the finest Oaks. It would destroy the foolish pervert before him. He brought the wood down, but to his horror, before it could bloody the pretty face of Chris Austin, it was clutched away by a monster, who hid his face from the world(only a coward hides. He know this with an uncomfortable certainty, though he cannot know why.), and was destroyed, to lay at his feet. His horror knew no words or depths, and the world up to this moment had been a blur, a fantasy. She was dead.[/shadow]
Aragato came back to life screaming, trying to tear off his own face with his hands. After an hour of clutching his own forehead, he could relax his fists enough to unclench them, and shakily bring them down to his gaze, to inspect them. He didn't know why he hated Deathman, only know that he did. That Deathman had done the unthinkable, and now he must pay. He looked over in his room, his personal room that GiW paid for, that underneath his katana was the dark-red bokken, a replica of his original. It worked alright, but it would never replace the first. He didn't understand(yes you do, you liar. She's dead.), but only knew that he would have to work his way up to him. Starting with the new one, Dylan James. He claimed to be Hardcore(much like the annoying one he saw backstage sometimes.), but Aragato knew that these white men always talked a good game. He clenched his hands back into fists. Oh yes, he would show this "James" who the hardcore one was. He stood, and went out into the world, with terrible resolve.
OOC: Hmm, I loved reading this one, but in a fit of retardedness I posted my Aragato and Komosube rp seperately at Toxic Intent...durr! I even did it once after this, but since then I've learned. So, kind of cool. ;D
