Blurred crimson {kousei}

Two lashes against trembling skin and I cringe at the screams. One moan of agony and father's fist is in my face, his belt lashes along my thigh, his footprint is embedded across my stomach and, and-

(I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I can't breathe)

- I inhale.

There is a chattering in my heart, a skip in a beat, a grinding in my teeth. I don't know his name, for all I know he could be the scum of the earth; a thief, a rapist, an arsonist but there is no trace of 'what-if' and 'although' in turning gears and logic quickly spiralling down the drain. I just see crimson melded with agony - a deadly combination. It shows, every forced breath of air that escapes his lungs from impact reverberates through the town square and I wonder how he's even still managing to draw breath through his teeth.

I see ruined flesh, the peacekeepers sees a canvas for brutal brush strokes.

His eyes are a mystery, facial features hidden behind a mask of authority and body clad in white - blank- there is no trace of humanity bar the grunts drowned by gasps and cries of agony. The tendrils of the whips of nine tendrils becomes a beacon for fresh waves of red. Blurred lines of red quickly morphing into blurred lines of morality; he bleeds and I feel composure slipping through these soft finger tips. But the man in white feels no such thing, for every groan and cry from the criminal brings forth a stroke that sounds twice as hard and four times as painful. No remorse in those actions, no mercy from the wicked. It does not matter how righteous the flesh canvas was; the men in white are his gods now.

(just like father was mine before I ran)

You would think that they bleed nothing but ichor with the way he draws red strokes with no sympathy or hesitation.

- I exhale.

Frantically glancing and looking in the corners of my eyes, there can be no room to relax. These public whippings have a multi-layered devastating effect.

This. Men in white who have nothing but ichor runs through their veins while reminding us that red runs through ours. The memories that come with it -

(screaming, crying, dying)

- I refuse to continue remembering.

And then there is the possibility of fragments of the past catching up to me. Father barging through the ground and closing his hand around my throat or Merc finding me with tears in his eyes ('Finn, why did you leave me?)' So I keep my hood to avoid fragments of the past piercing my skin, they won't be my judge, jury and executioners anymore. I did not break the chains and regain my self-worth only to be dragged back to obscurity while a man suffers on a public stage. I just need to remain hidden, undetected until I can finally make it back home, my new home.

I sigh, one more crack to break the silence. Then he

falls.

(and his heavy fists break a rib, and I simply

collapse.)

Something tells me it will take a lot more than a doctor to repair him in the same way bones can be mended by bandages along with a gentle hand. There are countless violations along his back, a network of inch deep crimson brush strokes forming a maze of lines across his back - please can he not die. Since when were pleads ever valid?

I turn a heavy shoulder to the white and crimson and join the dispersing crowd, keeping my head down and my hood up. It's not long before I'm snaking through a network of houses and shops, keeping as low a profile as possible and keeping my head down from the truth. It's cold, I need to get inside quick just so I can breathe, eat, relax, forget. I break into a clearing, and spot the fencing and -

"huh?"

I hear sobbing.

A female voice, not mother, not a cousin.

So I lift my eyes and spot a stranger leaning against the fence - blonde hair forming curtains to her grief but the tears are crystal clear. I'm too familiar with a shaking body wracking with sobs; I'm forever too sensitive, forever too weak. I sigh, I move behind her but I do not place a gentle hand on her shoulder for comfort, they remain in my pockets because I almost don't understand the weeping. I know why she's sobbing, we both just witnessed the same public event.

"I get that it's distressing, but I don't think he can appreciate your tears of distress or concern from whatever table he's bleeding on at the moment."

The final lash reverberates through the front of skull and I resist the urge to internally wince at his boot connecting with my trembling flesh one last time,

Seconds of waiting all spiral down to one moment.

"S-sorry."

Meaningless sentiment that barely break above a whisper along with words of remorse can't break through my outer exterior anymore. After years of beat down, moments of breakdown and remorse loses the old kick it has to the mind of a five year old. The past would never fall to one knee and beg for forgiveness because in reality, there is nothing to be sorry for. Just as a figment of purity and sentiment stood before me has nothing to apologize for, it's a pointless notion to be stuttering and apologizing to me. Her only crime is allowing sensitivity to run through her heart and mistaking tall tales for hollow truths when they stare her in the eye.

The word draws a grin across my lips but the only sound that escapes is a hollow chuckle. I suppose I shouldn't have much room to judge, my tears ran dry years ago and it was from much worse than a whip lashing across my back for ten minutes. A part of me still cringes when I look down and see shades of black and blue rather than hollow ribs holding a heart and a pair of lungs. I don't have anymore tears to give.

But he still resides in every shadow, every bar, every mirror like a reflection of my broken past. Trembling fingers that can drop everything and anything but the shattered wounds smeared across an impressionable canvas; they just won't chip away and fade. When we were all forced to behold deep crimson strokes falling across the criminal's back, a part of my could've sworn my father could've done just as good a job turning agony into art. After all, he used to strut around every house and every bar like he had ichor running through his veins as well.

('I'm sorry I hit you.')

'S-sorry'

A year ago I would've nodded and turned a shoulder to her, confused about her apology but accepting of the sentiment. I was always blinded to the truth, now I'm simply deaf to tales spun by webs of politeness and lies. No one's ever truly sorry, that's why we never truly shatter when faced with what she's done. That's why he still held a bottle in his left fist when I left and empty space in his right when I left. That's why she speaks words of remorse out of habit when there's nothing to rue. "Don't be, I suppose no one can look at that and still be okay," I pause, leaving out the so am I and sigh, "I'm Finn by the way, and you are?"

(am I okay?)

A year ago, she would've been a reflection of my state of mind, now she's only a reminder of the bitter past.