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.

And so, they hated this child for lighting up a day that is supposed to be dark and only dark.

So they called this child a devil who had no heart, no feelings. They deprived this child of what they thought this child lacked. Love. It was just a simple, little thing, but it affected this child's life very much.

The impact was powerful enough to drive this child into a stasis, searching in the world of the unconscious what they had to do to be acknowledged as a human once again.

As soon as this child found the answer, this child started to morph itself into a different being which had everything an average human would have, would feel, would say, would hear, everything.

And as the clock ticked life away, it learned how to be someone.

It learned how to be happy, sad, mad, and learned how to express emotions in the times most appropriate.

It learned of things bad and good, evil and wonderful. It lived among the humans and blended in very perfectly, as if it was one of them.

But still, it caused misfortune.

Wherever it went, awful luck followed.

The first blizzard happened when it was six.

Feeling envy was very normal for six-year-olds, it had concluded.

So it used its power to push someone down the staircase of achievements in order to get to the top.

Blood was splattered on the floor.

And the blood that coursed through its veins and that of which was on the concrete was different, for one was the blood of a human and one was of something else.

The blood of an emotionless convict trying to be envious. This child's blood.

It passed, because humans were beings that chose to forget complexities in order to live easy lives.

Conclusion number 47 reached.

So be it.

The twelfth hurricane happened when it was eight.

Since it was still searching for what has to be, it knew it was normal for eight-year-olds to feel greedy.

So it tried to make everyone belong to itself, using the excuse that humans usually do it.

Blood had stained clothes crimson.

And the blood that coursed through its veins and that of which was on the clothes were different, for one was the blood of a human and one was of something else.

The blood of an emotionless convict trying to be greedy. This child's blood.

It passed, because humans were beings that chose to forget complexities in order to live easy lives.

Conclusion number 65 reached.

So be it.

The twenty-seventh tornado happened when it was nine.

Feeling the strings of sloth tugging at you was normal for nine-year-olds.

So, it rolled around in riches and rags, lying on its back from sunup to sundown.

Blood fell on the earth as gold cut.

And the blood that coursed through its veins and that of which were absorbed by the earth were different, for one was the blood of a human and one was of something else.

The blood of an emotionless convict trying to feel sloth. This child's blood.

It passed, because humans were beings that chose to forget complexities in order to live an easy life.

Conclusion number 81 reached.

So be it.

The thirty-sixth hailstorm happened when it was ten.

Being overtaken by gluttony often happened to ten-year-olds.

So, it tried to be a human who devoured everything along its way.

But things were slightly different this time.

It was starting to turn into a human after all those years of pretending, of trying and of attempting to be the same.

So it now felt sadness and happiness, grief over what has taken place and triumph over adversary.

And this time, it committed a sin unconsciously, the sin of gluttony, for devouring the agonies that threatened to prevail.

It was the start of what would cause the finish.

Blood watered the tree of liberty as the chains closed in.

And the blood that coursed through its veins and that of which were moistening the leaves were different, for one was the blood of a human and one was of something else.

The blood of a humane convict trying to drive away gluttony. This object's blood.

It didn't pass, because humans were beings who got themselves involved with the business of other humans to avoid bleak lifestyles.

Conclusion number 106 reached.

So be it. . .

So be it. . .

Really?

It didn't want to just let things happen. But it had no choice. It was starting to become human.

And it was starting to feel true emotions of friendship towards someone it had only labelled as a companion because it was the norm according to observations.

Even though it tried to avoid conflict above all else, it struck.

The fifty-fourth thunderstorm happened when it was eleven.

Wrath is a common emotion that blinds eleven-year-olds.

But not just eleven-year-olds.

Even adults, teens, animals, nature. It finally got around to widening its range of sight. It could see things it has never seen before, all in a different point of view. In a different hue, in a different screen.

In the perspective of a human being.

And so, it was maddened. Adorned with the brands and markings of sin, it howled at the sky as true thoughts clashed in a war inside its head.

Blood smeared on the canvas as an artist snickered.

And the blood that coursed through its veins and that of which was lying in wait on the canvas were different, for one was the blood of a human and one was of something else.

The blood of a humane convict that was blinded by wrath. This object's blood.

It didn't pass, because humans were beings who got themselves involved with the business of other humans to avoid bleak lifestyles.

Conclusion number 282 reached.

It didn't want things to turn out like this, but. . .

So be it.

The eighty-ninth disaster happened when it was twelve-years-old.

It wasn't necessarily what it is, but lust bubbled up inside of this object's mind.

Love for a stranger wasn't a common emotion shared by twelve-year-olds.

It was way too immature.

Way too improper and obscene.

It wasn't what humans usually felt.

Yet why did the feeling of admiration towards a different person prominent in her little mind?

More importantly, was she really just twelve? How many years has this child lived, for the markings etched upon her fingers and eyelashes were more abundant than that of a tyrant's?

And so, it was, once more blinded by a humane emotion it unconsciously felt, and it finally understood why the humans always said something about words being poisonous.

She had poisoned an acquaintance.

A close companion.

A friend.

And all her other friends.

She washed her hands with blood as her toxic lyrics ran free.

And the blood that coursed through her veins and that of which was splotched on her hands were different, for one was the blood of a demon while the other was of something else.

The blood of a melancholic human who lost herself in a path of crimson letters. This child's. . . This object. . . This. The blood of this human.

This human learned how to feel for herself. Pity. Agony. Despair. Emotions that shouldn't have been on the list of ideals it has written out using the ink of the tainted.

It didn't pass, because humans were beings who got themselves involved with the business of other humans to. . . No.

Because she was now one of them.

Conclusion number 282.

It remained stagnant.

It couldn't sink in.

She was human.

She bathed in the lamentation that the rain brought her, seeking shelter under the sky ridden with cracks.

And that was how the ninety-ninth tragedy happened.

Defensive mechanism was a common, undesirable attitude amongst thirteen-year-olds.

Since she was starting to be as real as could be, she felt shame and self-depreciation.

It wasn't like her. It wasn't supposed to be this way.

And so, she indulged herself in the false sense of glory that pride would bring.

She sashayed around with silks and satin, hanging stars of synthetic light around the downtrodden alley.

She became too human for her own good, and that was when it started. That was when she started to realize her honesty was nothing short of being suicidal. Her opinions on things and the comments she voiced out were smashed to the ground with nothing but rancor.

So blood coated the decorative ornaments.

And the blood that coursed through her veins and that of which coated the objects for refinement were different, for one was the blood of a whole town and one was of something else.

The blood of someone who had murdered a whole town. This innocuous convict's blood.

How many years has it been since the ninety-ninth tragedy?

Her sins kept coming with every word, every thought she expressed. All her actions caused chaos and raging seas of fire.

But even so, someone stepped into the hell she has created without actually noticing it.

And that someone smiled at a hopeless being who has become human.

So the six hundred and sixty-sixth conflict took place when she was. . . How old was it again?

Sadness was a common emotion felt by people young and old.

But it wasn't a sin, right? So why did it turn out to be one when it was she who felt it?

Why was everything going downhill after it gave her advice?

It was not. . . No, she was human.

But then again, she. . . It. . . It was faking its feelings.

Wait, was she?

She watched as that someone stood at the edge of a building of sorrow and longing.

She watched as that someone caressed the answer to her problems that only she could see;

Death.

And as the tears floated up to the sky instead of falling to the ground, she said this;

"I'm not like you."

No. Stop.

And she fell.

"I'm not as strong as you are."

She didn't fall to her death. She fell until her death.

The sun hid below the mountains, as if trying to escape the responsibility of testifying whay had taken place between the convict and the fragile spirit.

"I'm not like you."

I'm not like you. . . Did she mean. . .

She wasn't a monster like me?

"I'm not as strong as you are."

Strong?

Strong as I am?

What do you mean?

I didn't get it, I didn't. Is it because I'm not like you, I'm not a human, but something trying to become human?

Nothing but an emotionless convict trying to feel envy, greed, sloth, wrath, gluttony, lust, and pride, when its supposed to feel nothing but the sin of sadness? Bearing the marks of sin and curses and meant to do nothing but watch the people close their eyes to this pointless reality, right?

Someone once told me life had a meaning, because you were born for a purpose.

So I guess my purpose was to commit crimes and pay for them instead of dying.

It's sad. It is.

I hate it.

I hate myself, I hate the world, I hate the rain, I hate the cold, I hate the heat, I hate suicide.

As I saw black spots performing a waltz inside my head, a flash of carnation whizzed past the monochrome pattern of the falling rain that pierced my back.

Like falling, pale camellia flowers, sucked of their vitality.

"Why?"

Why. What do you mean 'why'? Do you want to know why I'm alive? Don't ask me. I don't know either.

"Why did you give up?"

Give up. . . On being human?

"Why did you leave right after coming home?"

I have a home?

And. . . I came back?

"Why?"

So that's what it meant.

Why did I, indeed, take my life in the end? Why did I, indeed, let myself be controlled by sadness that I shouldn't even be feeling in the first place?

Now, this convict has committed another crime.

I made someone cry.

Again.

I breathed.

And breathed, and breathed. Until I could no longer feel the chill of the sharp intakes of air. The rain felt like cotton landing on my rotten skin. The wind felt like a whisper tousling my lifeless locks, and the light felt like fire that burned my irises, making me start emptying all the contents of the cup of emotions I've forgotten about.

I'm still confused.

But I know one thing.

I hate it. I hate myself. I hate suicide.

And I'm a convict who is being kept together by various brands and markings of sin.

But not today, for what had held me up all these years broke me down in this single second.

See this mark? Or this one? All these in my left arm? Right arm? Forehead, neck, back, legs. . .

I've been branded.

I've committed a sin against myself.

***

Ok 2773 words including the note at the beginning wow wth