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There is a part of me that loves the nighttime best. I think sometimes it's the truest part.
Scratch that. I know it's the real me.
There's a fake me, too. You've probably met her. She smiles like she's happy and has shallow, glimmering emotions that have soap-bubble lifespans. I let her take care of most of our living because she's a much better liar than I am.
We have one thing in common: we both tend to love things that hurt us.
When I'm pretending, when I'm her, I love this guy who lies more than both of me put together. He's both bright and dark, and both of those are false. At least I know who I am. He can't say that much for himself. He hurts me because he can, and he feels a little more alive when I'm crying. Sometimes I think about dropping the act and telling him who I really am, no pretenses, no costumes. Picturing his face makes me laugh.
I'll never do it, though. For someone who's not scared of anything, I'm quite the little coward.
But when I'm not pretending, when I'm not just a pretty two-dimensional doll, I can clearly hear the singing night calling for me. It reminds me of where I feel most truthful and free. When I am surrounded by darkness and blood and pain, I don't have to hold up that glittery innocent-schoolgirl mask with my aching arm. I can be real.
That's why I like him, despite everything.
Inuyasha is beautiful but fake. Naraku... just is.
I like it that way. I hate lying. Is that so wrong? Everything dies anyway. Everything suffers. Should I feel guilty for not caring who or where the death and suffering comes from? Maybe. Probably. Whatever.
He's calling me again. I can feel it where my wings should be, right there between my harshly outlined shoulderblades. You know how you can always tell when someone's watching you? Like that. His eyes, those red-rimmed eyes, are always watching me. I shiver and wish for the sun to die.
Can I go? Is it nighttime yet?
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