trashcan (literal trash)

Innocuous Convict ( oneshot )

Not an anime oneshot

But before i start writing this, I have one question. So I went home and drank water. My throat started burning. Question: WAS THE WATER POISONED OR WAS THE POISON IN THE CUP? ( lol what who tf is trying to kill me these events have been taking place for a while now )

This might be very confusing and seriously long btw

***

I've been branded.

See this mark? Or this one? All these in my left arm? Right arm? Forehead, neck, back, legs. . . They all have the same mark.

The mark a criminal receives whenever they commit a crime.

I have a lot of those marks, and it is much too abundant that it keeps me from falling apart instead of tearing me down.

It's a part of myself now. These things are things I can never live without instead of not being able to live with.

My sins make me up. My sins that I have committed by simply expressing my honest opinions and letting my truest emotions show.

I'm tired of it, but once it goes away, I start missing the thrill it gives me all throughout.

The blood that pumps through my body and the blood that lies on the ground are two different things, because one is of a human and one is of something else.

The blood of a convict. My blood.

I feel the patter of heaven's filthy tears on my back as I bathe in the feeling of lamentation it brings me. It awakens so many distant faces and voices that are nothing short of being irksome.

A deténte takes place in my head, thoughts settling down as that poignant opinion crashes into the core of my being like the meteor that put an end to another arc in history.

That opinion was very spot-on.

"It was your fault."

Cliché as it might sound, it was.

And it hurt me at first. But that was at first. For as I fall down into the dirt and close my eyes, not bothering to try to get up, I feel myself smile.

It was indeed my fault. And it always will be mine to carry, bear upon this back marked with countless brands of sin.

This convict is desperate to cut the thread that separates it from Hell. And as I think of how strong the storm is getting, a record explodes in my head.

A record of. . . all my crimes.

I don't know why I'm doing this, but here;

Let me tell you a story.

A child was born to a very normal community, to a normal family and a normal world all in all. Everything was so normal that no one would even notice these things around her actually existed. It was all perfect. It was an ideal form of being in existence.

But she was different.

She wasn't normal. Not at all, for she had "no heart", as worded by the other kids. And eventually, the adults.

Nature committed a crime, and struck a loved one dead. A dearly loved one. But this child didn't even know who it was. So this child didn't shed any tears, nor did this child say any words of regret.

Instead, this child laughed.

This child was trying to help in a different way which this child was comfortable with. This child had a child's own ways. Bringing light to a dark room was something a child would usually do, but the adults never understand why children are scared of the dark, so they reprimand them for sleeping with the lamps on.