Chapter: Rose III

Oh yeah ... I have to pat myself on the back, you could almost call me a regular uploader. Don't rejoice too early though, I really can't say how long this phase will last .. * sfz * The exam season will start again soon, and my time will drop considerably O_o
By the way, here you have a picture of a gentleman who reminds of one of the characters from the FF. Well, if you guess who I mean, you get 100 rubber points! * laugh *

http://membres.lycos.fr/daganas4/daganas3/bloody%20roar/XionHumain.jpg

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"Is he awake?"
I give an inarticulate groan and try again to open my eyes. I still don't succeed, and with a relatively small shock, I realize that my eyelids have been sewn onto my cheeks and that I therefore cannot open them. Not exactly nice, but it suits Narcissus.
As a trial, I try to roll my eyes a little to the right or left behind the lids and I register with a feeling of deep frustration that the yarn has probably also passed through my eyeballs."I have no idea," replies another voice, "is not easy to say in this state."
Silence is the answer, and finally I hear soft footsteps approaching me. The first person - a woman - takes the floor again. “Is that how you imagined him?” In her words there is - as far as I can tell - a certain amount of disappointment that leaves me as untouched as the cruel mutilation of my eyes. Either I am caught in too great a shock to really notice everything - or I got drugs of some kind. I don't really care as long as I can keep the pain away from me.
"I never thought about it," replies the other voice again, which I cannot assign a gender to. Probably male.
She bends down to me and I can smell the sweet smell of her skin. Am I wrong - or are these roses? Suddenly my heart beats faster and I tug harder at the thread with my lids.A sharp pain goes through me and I take a sharp breath.
"Maybe he's dreaming," she says musingly, and her warm breath brushes my face, "a nightmare, if I had to guess."
The other laughs dryly. "And even?" he then asks after a while, ignoring what she said before, "did you think he looked like this?"
I feel her gaze on me, scrutinizing, scrutinizing, disparaging, and suddenly I feel incredibly small. "No," she said after a while, "I didn't think he was so human."

The recoil of the gun pulls my arm back and I'm really amazed that my thumb is still on my hand - it felt like the barrel of the gun had just ripped it off.
My hand is aching and throbbing a little, but nevertheless an incredible feeling of power flows through me. This is exactly how God must feel when He creates life - with the tiny difference that I have just finished one.The man on the floor in front of me presses his hands over his chest in a desperate gesture and stares at me with wide eyes - me, his killer. I smile, cold-blooded and pitiless, and look at the tiny hole the bullet tore in his body with surgical interest.
A bad shot, definitely. Not directly into the heart or into the lungs, no - my hand trembled so much when I pulled the trigger that the shot landed in his abdominal cavity and tore the bowels there. Not very clean, not very beautiful, and certainly not a quick death.
What did James say? Best to aim for the head? I wasn't there yet.
"Shall I shoot again?" As a courtesy, I ask my victim, "So that it will be over sooner?"
His eyes widen and an expression that expresses more than just fear or horror is reflected in them. It burns itself indelibly into my memory, an everlasting sting of guilt, but I can't go back a long time."Flee," he gasps, "as long as you can run! Flee!"
I smile slightly and shake my head. "I haven't been able to run away from what torments me for a long time."

As the last shadows of memory fade, I am amazed to feel something cool running down my cheek. I would love to raise my hands to my face to wipe away the source of the disturbance, and only now do I notice that it is artfully tied to the chair, which in turn is also tied to my ankles. <i> Welcome to the Middle Ages, damn heretic </i>, I think dazed, <i> your own fault - whoever flies high will fall low. </i>
"Look," the voice of the indefinable being sounds through the room again, "he's crying."
I realize with astonishment that he is right - what is flowing down my cheeks are actually tears, and with a feeling of deepest depression I realize that I am crying over the loss of my humanity.
"Is he awake then?" she asks and a cool hand touches my shoulder.Although the contact is meant to be extremely gentle and perhaps even comforting, I drive back like before an electric shock and try again to open my eyes. The pain is unimaginable and I gasp.
"Shh," she says soothingly and gently strokes my hair, "don't get upset, take it easy."
<i> Take it easy </i>, I think angrily and shake off her hand, <i> how can you please stay "very calm" when you are tied to a chair in such a state ?! </i>
“What do you think, why did you sew his eyes shut?” The other asks this without any pity, just with a cool interest that makes me shudder.
"I don't know," she replies and puts her hands around my head so that I have to turn my head to her, "maybe out of fear of what we might see in it."
Her thumb gently strokes my cheek and the puncture sites, and I suppress a painful twitch as soon as she touches one of the wounds.<i> Narcissus, you sick asshole. </i>
"What do you mean what one would see?"
Her fingertips touch my closed eyelids and for a brief moment I feel almost peaceful. "Perfection."

"That is what you have to strive for," explains James, tapping the large mahogany desk behind which he is sitting with his knuckle, "Perfection. No half measures. Otherwise you have no business here."
I tilt my head in boredom and absently drum my fingers on my thigh as my gaze slides away from him, out the window and scurries over the treetops. "Are you even listening to me, Ryan?"
I slowly turn my gaze back to him and nod. "Sure. Perfection. No problem."
A predator-like smile runs across his features. "There is still something you can learn from this man, gentlemen. He's the best. His conscience died with his girlfriend, didn't it, Ryan?"
There have been times when I would have beaten anyone up for making such a statement.But I've grown up. "Correct."

I snort angrily and turn my head out of her fingers with a little more than gentle force. "You would hardly find that."
"He speaks!" she exclaims excitedly and by the sound of her footsteps I can hear how she quickly moves a few meters away - as if the mere fact that I am awake and able to articulate myself were as dangerous as someone about to explode Bomb. I am actually pretty sure that I look as safe and harmless as never before in my long existence.
"Of course I speak," I reply irritably, "is that anything special?"
They do not react to me at all but start whispering to each other in a low whisper. I still understand them very well and only now do I realize that it is night and I have to be a messenger again.
That means quick healing.
"He said we should get him immediately if he says something.""But don't you think it's too early?"
"No! Listen, I'm sorry for him too ... But what is more important to you, his life or ours?"
I have to swallow and can only guess who they are talking about. So I muster up all my courage, suppress the weakness creeping around in me and tear open my eyes with a scream, not paying attention that large parts of the lens and lid get stuck on my cheeks.
Blood flows over my iris and blocks my view, while shivers of pain run over me and I struggle for breath. <i> Heals </i>, keeps popping through my head, <i> now it's healing. </i>
The regeneration is slower, significantly slower than usual - I am probably actually on some kind of drug that reduces all my metabolic processes to a minimum, and the fading steps of two people let me know that the two of them are having their dispute - despite or because of my little one And have decided to call "the executor" after all.I growl unwillingly, angry at the slowness of my healing and the race against time into which I have maneuvered myself. With my nails I begin to scrape off the rope around my wrists thread by thread when I hear steps again - this time again in my direction, slowly, majestically. Narcissus.
I blink a few times angrily, ignoring the pain, and an unclear image emerges in front of me. Do my half-blind eyes deceive me or have I actually been crammed into a room that has been painted in a shade that is most likely to resemble vomit?
Finally my hands are free and I am busy undoing the knots around my ankles when suddenly a hand is placed on my shoulder.
"Nanana", a reproachful voice rings in my ear and someone turns my face up to them by the chin, so that my blood-smeared eyes have indistinct Narcissus features - and I realize once again how incredibly beautiful he is, especially in contrast to my current self, "we don't want to flee, do we?I thought you wanted to save your "friends"? "
With all the dignity I have left here - tied to a chair, hunched over in pain and with bleeding eyes - I try to give him a cool look, but fail miserably.
"You are pathetic, son of the sun."
And unfortunately he's right.