Okay, first things first, this fic has absolutely nothing to do with Misunderstood or Accident. This is a dark fic, and there is a character death in it. Just a warning.

This is actually an experiment. I have read stories with this style of writing, but I had never tried it before. So if the fic confuses you, please refer to the author's notes at the end. If it still confuses you, just message me.

Please continue reading.

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Falling

Please believe me when I say I am falling.

My body is shattered, broken beyond imagination. It is impossible to perceive the pain I feel now, the incompleteness of my physical being. Every bone is broken, every muscle torn; every nerve disabled, every organ destroyed. No one knows just how much damage my body has taken, no one, not even myself. No one knows how much torture I am in, no one, not even myself. I am numb, frozen, lying motionless here, unable to move, unable to flee from the suspicious glares and hatred. I am paralyzed like a butterfly in a spider's web. I am trapped. I am lost. I do not care.

My soul is torn, violated. It has been drained of everything I can offer, my loyalty, my strength, my love. Now I have nothing, nothing but scars and empty whispers, nothing but a sense of lost, a feeling that I am missing something, something so vitally important I should be dead without it. But I do not care.

That is it, of course. I have forgotten. I have forgotten a lot of things. I seem to remember the sun, but I do not. I know it is glaringly hot at times, and soft and warm at others. But those words mean nothing to me. What is glaring or soft, what is hot or warm, I do not recall. I seem to remember the wind, but I do not. I know that is it bitingly cold at times, and gentle and cooling at others. But those words mean nothing to me. What is biting or gentle, what is cold or cooling, I do not recall. I seem to remember the nights, but I do not. I know it is frighteningly dark at times, and mysteriously calming at others. But those words mean nothing to me. What is frightening or mysterious, what is dark or calming, I do not recall. What do they mean to me now, the broken creature lying in a glass box? Nothing. They mean nothing. I have nothing.

I am violated. My soul has been used over and over again. Like a puppet, they pull at my strings, making me dance, making me laugh, making me tear at my own throat. Inside, I cry. Sometimes, they rip into me, clawing, giggling insanely, seeking everything I have to offer. I am helpless. I cannot fight back. I cannot run. I am trapped. They use me, over and over again until I have nothing left. They took my soul. I wonder if they know. They took my soul. It cannot be repaired. It cannot be saved. It is broken. Like a puppet that has been used for too long, it is broken, disfigured, useless. I am useless, discarded, left in a corner to fester and vanish. It hurts. I hurt inside. It hurts so badly.

I am lost. It is odd to be lost, when my body can't even move. But I am. I am lost, helpless, defenseless. Every second of my life, I wander. The maze holds me in always, dark towering walls looming over me. I touch them sometimes. It is soft, like the flesh of a rotten corpse. Sometimes it tries to take me, suck me in. But I flee. It is useless to flee. I get more lost. It is lonely being lost. I have never hated loneliness. I still don't. I am numb to it. I have nothing to say to anyone. My tongue has been torn out in the name of justice. No one listens if I speak anyway. They have already heard what I have to say. I no longer have anything else they want. I am useless. Like a puppet. I am useless.

I wish I could cry. I wish real tears would stream down my face. With it, I will fall. I will fall as I am now. It is wonderful to fall, yet it isn't. Falling is a process, not the end. This I still remember. So I fall. But I never reach the end. I just fall. Falling on and on and on and on. It is to eternity I fall. Yet I do not feel the impact of the fallen. I do not feel the end, the last excruciating burst of pain before oblivion claims the remains of me. It is not near. When I open my eyes, I see nothing. I have seen nothing for eternity. Eternity is hateful. It is a monster. It is my monster now.

Sometimes my real eyes open. It is not often, but it happens. Sometimes my real eyes open, and I see people beside me. They bend over me. They look at me. They are always looking at me. I wonder what they see. They are so close to me always. I wonder what they are looking at. Do they see my face, still the same as it was before justice has been laid on me, or do they see my soul, a wraith, emotionless, a nonentity? They should know, should they not? They did this to me. But maybe they do not. Do not understand. They broke my body. They did not know what would happen to my soul. Or maybe they did. Maybe it was my soul they wanted to break. I do not care now. It does not matter to me anymore. I think I have forgotten how to hate. I think I have forgotten how to love.

They want me dead. I know that. I see it everyday as they look down one, as they soothe their powers over me, swearing they are trying to heal my body. But I know. I know much more than they think I do. I open my eyes, I look deep into theirs, and I see their souls bared before me. I see the dark seeds of hatred blossoming, pushing through their conscience, pulsing to the surface. I see the vengeance they desire, a twisted, ugly beast, rearing up, tearing at the walls they have placed around it – flimsy, shaking walls. I see the way they sometimes look at the mask clamped over my face, the only instrument supporting my failed lungs, and I see temptation gesturing to them sensuously.

Sometimes I feel it. The way they run their fingers over my eyes, the way their fingers tense ever so slightly and push ever so gently against the only organ in my body that has not been destroyed. I feel their smiles as I squeeze my eyes closed; I hear them snort when they realize I am unwilling to give up the light. The light is the only thing I have left. Sometimes I feel it. The way they grasp my broken limbs, lifting it up gently, but holding so tightly the shattered bones creak and shift beneath my flesh. I feel their vicious glee when they look deep into my eyes and see pain shining dully like a dying star. Then sometimes they only stroke me, gently running their fingers up and down my scarred skin. Like I was a dog. A dog about to be put down. Sometimes, they touch my hair, still full and soft and vibrant. Sometimes they show me my hair and face. They are unscarred and beautiful. Gleaming silver and white in the darkness. It is only when I open my mouth that I see the one scar they granted on my face.

They tell me I am beautiful. I know that. Words like that should make me happy. I know that too. But I am not. I feel nothing at the sight of my beauty. No. Not nothing. I feel a gentle tug at my heart. I feel water running down my face. Not real tears. Water. Because I feel nothing that would make me cry real tears. I wonder why they run then. I wonder why my heart feels heavy. I wonder why my face is always so wet. I wonder why they laugh as they wipe my face. I wish I could laugh. But I can't. I can't laugh. I can't draw enough breath to.

I wish they would just do it. Pull the plug, remove the mask, puncture the plastic tubes, sit back and watch death claim me as I struggle, twitching, shaking, gasping like a fish out of water. Watch as my face turns blue, my lips turn white, and my tongue hangs out as my choke to death on my own body fluids. I sometimes wish they would do it, if it would make them feel better, if it would stop them from staring and hating – and wishing. But I don't. I don't wish for them to kill me, I don't wish for my death to come. I am a coward. I have always been.

Always. I have always been. I remember the past. Bits and pieces. I remember bits and pieces of my past. I know why I am here. I know why I am the way I am now. I remember what they told me. They told me I have sinned greatly. They told me I was a traitor. They told me I was evil. I know that. I remember that. But I do not understand. Some days I think I do. But I never do. It never makes sense. I can't remember what I have done. I can't remember how I have sinned. I can't remember who I have betrayed. I can't remember what is evil. I couldn't remember, not even as they tore into my body, even as they smashed every bone in it. I tried to tell them. I tried to tell them I could not remember. They cut my tongue off. They destroyed my words. But I couldn't remember. I couldn't remember still.

But I remember my name. I remember where I was born. I remember growing up. I remember nothing else. Always, I fear I will forget even such things, so I repeat them to myself over and over again. Over and over again, as I wander the maze, touching the walls; over and over again. My name, where I was born, that I had grew up. My name, where I was born, that I had grew up. My name, where I was born, that I had grew up. My name, where I was born, that I had grew up. Over and over again. I would not lose these. I cannot lose these. If I lose these, I have nothing left. I repeat them to myself over and over again, even as I continue to fall. Over and over again, as I stare into the nothingness before me. Over and over again. I must not forget. I cannot forget.

But each day I do. Some days, I do not recall my name. I would wander the maze, digging frantically into my damaged mind. I would remember it had something to do with my hair. I would remember that I was named because of my hair. But I could never remember my name. I try to reach out to touch my hair, to try to remember what it was about my hair that gave me my name. But my arms cannot move. My arms are broken. They are broken. I try to scream, to cry for help. But I cannot. My tongue is torn. It is torn. I have no words I can say.

Then I would remember. Silver. Like the metal, so precious and expensive, a luxury for the rich. Silver. Like the colour, so cold yet so beautiful. I would remember. And I would sob in joy. But then I realize I can't. My tongue is torn. It is torn. My eyes no longer weep. I cannot cry. And the joy vanishes. I do not even remember it was there. And over and over again I go, repeating my memories to myself. My name, where I was born, that I had grew up. My name, where I was born, that I had grew up. My name, where I was born, that I had grew up.

Sometimes she comes to my side. I do not remember her. I do not remember her name. But she is always there. She always stands above me, looking down at me. She is always so distant. But she always looks. Her hair is beautiful, I notice. It is gold. It glows. I think it is beautiful. But I do not feel anything tugging at my heart, nor does my face grow wet. Her hair is beautiful, but I truly feel nothing. Her eyes are beautiful too. They are blue. I think they are blue. They remind me of… something. I cannot remember. Maybe it is water. But her eyes are always dry, always harsh as she looks down at me. Sometimes she speaks. I cannot hear her. She speaks so softly.

I tried to speak to her. I tried to tell her things. I don't know why I tried. Maybe it was because she had beautiful hair. I tried to tell her that. That she had beautiful hair. I tried to tell her that she had beautiful eyes. I tried to tell her that I should not be lying here. That it must have been a mistake. I tried to tell her I was falling, but I could not reach the end. I tried to tell her I was lost. But she never understood. She just stood there, staring down at me. I do not blame her. I had lost my tongue. She cannot understand me. I cannot understand her. She is merely part of the maze. I continue to wander.

Once, she touched me. Gently. She had touched me gently. Her hand lying on my broken chest. She stroked my chest. I wondered if she wanted my death as well. I looked at her. I opened my real eyes and looked at her. She was close. She was so close. I could feel her hair touching me. It was beautiful and soft. It was never more beautiful. She used her lips to touch mine. I know what that was. I know it was a kiss. I know kisses are supposed to be nice. I did not feel anything. She tried to push her tongue into my mouth. I did not let her. I did not want her tongue. I wanted my own. I wanted to be able to tell her that her hair was beautiful. I don't think anyone ever told her.

She cried. I remember she cried. I watched as tears, real tears, ran down her face. She grasped me close to her. It hurt. All my broken bones were crushed to her. I almost died. I most certainly fainted. When I woke up, my face was wet. But it was not tears or water this time. It was blood. I could taste it in my mouth, I could feel it running down my nose into my mask, I could feel it dripping out of my ears, I could feel it dripping out of my eyes. She was standing at my side again, looking down on me. Her eyes were dry. She was no longer crying.

I think I was. Not real tears. Water. Only water. Because it hurt so bad.

She never came back. That was okay. I did not want her to come back. I did not want to be hurt again. She had hurt me so badly. I could not breathe. I wonder why she did that. Perhaps she wanted to kill me as well. I wonder why. I did not see vengeance or hatred. I did not see temptation. I saw… I saw tears. I remember I saw tears. She had cried. Maybe the tears had hid the beasts in her from me. I am not sure. I hope not. I do not miss her. I do not want her back. But she had beautiful hair. She should not have beasts beneath her beautiful hair and eyes. I do not think she does. She is beautiful. She has no beasts.

One day, a lot of people came to see me. They stood around me. They made me open my real eyes, made me look at them. I tried to tell them it was useless. I could only see that they were in white and black. I could not see their faces. But they could not understand either. That was okay. I did not blame them. I had no tongue. They talked to me. They did not talk softly. I could hear them. They told me that I had to apologize. I did not understand. I tried to ask them what I had to apologize for. I could not. They told me that my punishment was almost over. But I had to apologize. I did not understand. I know I was being punished. I did not know what I had to apologize for. I tried to tell them. They would not listen. I knew. It wasn't that I had no tongue. They would not listen if I told them. Even if I could tell them. They know my sins, they know my betrayal, they know my evilness. I wish they would tell me. I did not know.

I could see them clearly. I remembered them. A long time ago, they had been my friends and then my enemies. I remember them. They killed him. They killed him. Then they caught me. They did not kill me. They said they needed to satisfy justice. So they punished me. I can't remember why they punished me. I can't remember what justice they had to satisfy. I can't remember what justice is. I can't remember what justice means. Like I can't remember what evil is. I can't remember what evil means. I could only stare at them. I hoped that I could tell what justice and evil were by looking at them. But I did not understand.

I did not understand. They saw I did not understand. I think they saw I did not understand. There was nothing on them to tell me what I wanted to know. There was nothing on them that could tell me what I needed to know. They saw I did not understand. I think they may not have wanted me to understand. Because they took away my eyes. Now I could not see. I could no longer see my face or my hair. I could no longer see her beautiful hair. I could no longer see her beautiful eyes. I had lost my eyes. Now I only had the maze. Now I could only fall to eternity. They had taken the light away. There was no longer anything for me to gaze upon. There was no longer anything for me to see. I could not scream. I could not move. I could not see. I could only fall.

So I did.

But this time I was really falling. I could not see the end but that's because I could not see. I did not have eyes. I had lost my eyes. But I knew there was an end. Because I could feel the wind, the real wind whipping against my broken body, and I could hear shouts of alarm all around me as I fell. That is how I knew when I reached the end. It wasn't the pain because they hadn't been any, only a soft, comforting darkness. It had been the screams of justice not being served that told me when I reached the end.

That wasn't my problem. I did not know what justice was.

But I knew the end.

I knew it when I had stopped falling. When I had finally fallen.

I remembered though. I remembered what the sun was like. It was bright and lovely sometimes, but hot and harsh at others. I remembered what the wind was like. It was gentle and soft at times, but harsh and unforgiving at others. I remembered what the nights were like. They were merry and filled with the smell of sake at times, but dark and suffocating at others. I remembered my name. I remembered where I was born. I remembered that I had grown up, and I remembered how I had grown up. I remembered her. I remembered her name. I remembered who she was. I remembered her smile and her laughter, and the way she seemed to brighten up the entire room when she came in. I remembered her tears, and the way each drop seemed to shatter my heart as they fell from her beautiful face. I remember her kisses, and I remember that they were nice. I remember her touches, and I remember that they were soothing. I remember her hugs, and I remember that they weren't painful. I remembered that I had loved her with all my heart and soul.

I remembered.

Real tears fell down my face. But I laughed. I laughed so merrily as I finally stepped out of the maze, complete and free.

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Author's Notes: I would prefer not to explain too much, because I believe it takes a lot of the mystery and emotion out of this fic. Just note that the "I" is Ichimaru Gin, as most people would have guessed by now, and that this fic takes place after Aizen had been killed and Gin had been brought back to Seireitei to be punished. I think that should make sense now. The punishment can be guessed, I hope.

Alright, now I hope that you guys can tell me if I did okay with this fic or not, in reference to the writing style and all especially. Because I really love this style of writing, but this is the first time I had the guts to try something like this. Critism is definitely accepted, but try not to be too mean, okay?

Thanks for reading this fic.