DEVIL'S ADVOCATE, yuta okkotsu

PROLOUGE, taste of blood

you got a taste for blood
when you licked your
own wounds

YOU have just killed a man.

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Suddenly you are 12 years old again, nothing is wrong. The universe has been kind to you.

BUT THEN THERE IS BLOOD ON THE FLOOR, you are salivating for a taste. Would it taste like a sweet kiss; on lips tinted with cherry chapstick? Or would it smear unsightly around your mouth, dripping down your chin? So you lick your own blood off dark wood; the metal is like fire, igniting your senses until your skin hisses and sizzles. You got your answer.

That day, you learnt how blood tasted; and how it felt to burn.

Today, you turn 14. You have never forgotten the scent of smoke, have never forgotten the flames, have never forgotten the iron hot on your tongue— of course you haven't, the scorch marks lining your body dont let you.

But the heat has made it's way to your heart; like how the stars will explode, the organ moulded with stardust will combust when met with pyre, leaving fiery pits of hell in it's wake.

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He pins you under his mangled carcass, his eyes are hungry for something intimate; lust swirls in the depths of his amber irises like the Milky Way. His body is filthy, covered in a gooey substance that lines his figure— gross. (But so are you; have you forgotten the maggots that stick to your skin?) If only he knew, you are starving too.

Your heart pulses, below a cage of brittle bones and scorched skin, it screams in delight; the two years without the TASTE OF BLOOD between your teeth will finally come to an end.

It's not personal, really. You don't even know his name; what you do know is that he is the eighth man you have fucked. But something about that number fuels the embers of desire licking the walls of your vessel. Eight is far too many for a child so young.

He flashes a crazed grin which tells you he wants to pick you apart with a fork and knife and eat you whole. He takes your silence as consent. (You argue that if you resisted, it would probably turn him on even more— human greed cannot be quelled so easily.) He starts with your clothes, peeling them off layer by layer. Then he reaches your skin; he is disgusted with what he sees; revulsion pools in the honey-yellow void in his eyes. Your fingernails twitch with anticipation of skin between them— willing you to gouge out those star flecked galaxies and hold them in the palms of your hands.

You decide that you are going to serve him hell on a platter and rake the periosteum off his bones; and drink his blood from a chalice.

Perhaps it's the way he examines you like you're some sort of thing; perhaps it's the way repulse shows itself on his features— but he still continues to look. (You don't blame him. Your body is retched with the echoes of war— you know that much. You feel a sort of defensiveness burble within you; you are disgusted by yourself. You will never die pretty and clean; so why is abhorrence such a surprise?) Perhaps it's the way the substance surrounds his being, awakening a sort of primal instinct you never knew you had— it oozes with depravity; it tells you to either run or scrape it off his skin.

HE, THE EIGHTH, will be the last man to thrive off your adolescence. He, the eighth, will be the first man to fall to ash under the conflagration you will soon unleash. He, the eighth, will not be the last man you give a taste of hell to. (Eight tilted sideways is infinity, after all.)

You revel in enlightenment. Pleading to the heavens for your innocence back is no use, you must descend into the madness of hell; rip apart the cosmos that look down on you with contempt, slice off the hands that etch fingerprints onto your skin, and leave the corpses of the slaughtered lying limp beneath your feet.

NOTES.

the prologue is finally done, i experimented a bit with my writing style so it isn't the best but i enjoyed writing this‼️ i'm planning to tie up a bunch of loose ends later on so sorry if this is confusing 😞