Title: Walls
Author: Cheysuli Night
Rated: PG
Summary: You can only keep things
inside for so long.
Akira never had an unkind work to say about anyone.
Such a stupid boy. Making such a mistake.
He never insulted anyone, no matter what they did.
You idiot.
Akira never told anyone anything they didn't want to hear.
You're wrong. That's not right. You've done something bad, such a terrible thing.
He never wished harm on anyone.
Sometimes I just feel like knocking some sense into you. Hit you over and over until the idiocy falls out.
Akira never did any of this... at least, not aloud. But sometimes he did think this. When the pressure of being the 'always cheerful,' 'forever smiling,' 'kind naive innocent' boy got to be too much. When everything seemed to be against him and he could do nothing right... he did have something bad to say, insults to yell, and pain to give. But he never acted on any of it.
Clumsy fool. You broke it again.
Someone once told him that it wasn't healthy to keep such thoughts to yourself. That they would fester and grow and infect you until they were the only thing left. And that if you couldn't tell anyone, that you could write it all down instead.
You're pathetic. Such a pitiful little boy.
Someone had given him a journal once and said that he could write whatever he wanted in it. He couldn't remember who had given it to him and, truthfully, he couldn't really bring himself to care. Because he couldn't use the journal. His thoughts were too loud to be locked away in a book.
You're such a waste. Can't do anything right.
But Akira knew that writing things down was a good idea. It was a way of talking to people without speaking. And Akira knew he could never bring himself to say these words.
What the hell were you thinking?
He couldn't bring himself to yell at people.
You fool.
He couldn't bring himself to speak against anyone.
You're wrong. This is bad. You shouldn't do this.
He couldn't bring himself to hurt anyone.
I'll kill you for that.
No matter how much he wanted to.
Pathetic.
So he wrote. But not in a journal, not on paper. He wrote his words where he could always see them, always hear them. But no one else would see. No one else ever came to this little part of his world.
His walls were filled with words in blood red ink. Insults and criticisms and cruelty. All the hatred that built up during the day went into his walls. And once the walls were filled, he'd start on the floor and then the ceiling and the furniture.
What the hell's wrong with you?
By the time his life is over, not a space would be bare. He'd fill it all. And maybe once he was gone, someone would see.
What have you done?
Maybe once his life was over, someone would see his words. Maybe someone would understand. And maybe...
I'll kill you.
... they could stand at his grave and tell him if he hadn't been talking to himself all along.