Work Text:
kim kitsuragi.
i stare at the mirror in the whirling-in-rags.
as a lieutenant, i’ve always kept my identity hidden. i never lash out. i’m always under control.
that is, until i’ve met harrier du bois.
i trace my memories since the past few days.
we haven’t made much progress on the lynching case - all we did is run around, helped the cryptozoogists find a so called insect, sung karaoke, even started a nightclub. Literally everything, except solving the case.
I lean over the bathroom mirror, hand pulling at my hair.
What has happened to me? Why is my head spinning so much? i’m always strict. why am i so distracted, i give into anything he says?
this isn’t me. This isn’t 57ths finest. This is a face of a failure.
But his eyes - when i first met him. why did i get the feeling, like this man was destined upon me? he looked like utter shit. why did i get a strange, but certain feeling of wanting to protect him until the end of my insignificant life?
i was numb. i built up walls, that concealed my true personality and made myself into a valuable asset. i surpassed my emotions by professionalism. this is what i am used to. This is who i am.
why do i feel, so strange?
my mental state was always on the urge of breaking. i’m aware of this. it’s like i’m holding with my arms onto a cliff.
if i lose my face, just once - i might fall.
into an abyss, that i’ll never get out of.
when i’m with harry, i let go of my stability. i hold his hand, instead of holding onto it. i’m risking my life.
well, does that matter, if i like him more than life itself?
i look down on my older wounds. each one resembles another punishment for losing control during work. from swaying from that cliff.
if i punished myself now for everything i did here in Martinese, i would be covered head to toe in them.
so why, do i feel good for once?
why can’t i bring to punish myself?
i feel so distracted by the thoughts of harry, i forgot how off track i’ve became.
this isn’t a good sign. i’m aware, yet, i’m falling deeper and deeper into this.
Is there a way i could stop?
I could starve my soul to death, i could bleed out on this floor here, right now.
Yet i will wake up again, and see his filthy, oh so disgusting face, his incompetence, his lack of respect for everyone, should i go on?
i hate him, i hate what he made of me, i hate that my heart aches for his touch; i hate his beautiful smile that shatters my heart everytime my gaze falls into his eyes.
i’m weak. i’ve used up my last strength, my last breath.
what would they say?
I have to force it. There is no other way of ensuring that i’ll remain the perfect partner i used to be.
I’ve done it a hundred times. what’s a couple more?
i’m doing it for him, aren’t i?
..
i stare at my bleeding wrists.
the razor with a strong smell of pine aftershave once again drops to the floor, the droplets of blood performing a quiet dance as they brace for the ground.
instead of shame, i feel like myself again.
Peaceful, sane.
i won’t let him get in my way. Love is such a simple thing.
Yet again, i bury the dead flesh under bandages.
oh, what did you expect?
i’d rather die than tell him it was my first time