Martyr, Part II

You say I am a saint.

These are your words—your precious words—not mine.

You call me, with bile bitter on your tongue—the patron saint of guns. Bullets. The 'man' in marksmanship, only not, you joke, the way I view myself a motherfucking angel.

I say to you—hell yes.

My canonization was the cannon, the spearhead, the musket, the rifle, the catapult, lead, oil, flint, napalm. Crosshairs sectioning a person into quarters: head, right arm, left arm, torso. Death.

We Keehls were born with kerosene in our veins, a fact I knew since I was eight. My mother, the arsonist. My father, the hit man. That their only son—their bundle of joy, their toy so that they could play some dark depiction of God like a shadow puppet or a bloodstain—that he would grow up to become an archangel, his wings as black as your own—is that so unexpected?

Is that so wrong?

You say I am a martyr.

A martyr—one who gives up his or her life for a cause. Praise be to God.

In the pixels of your mind you construe stupidity for strength; egotism for faith.

You are more convoluted than you know, Game Boy.

Tell me, when Peter opens the gates and you first meet Catharine, whose neck gave forth not blood, but milk, will you have the gall to spit in her eye?

When you see Sebastian, stripped naked, tied to a tree and pierced with arrowheads that did not kill him, will you dare to insult him then?

Will you tear down their halos from their heads and rend them to pieces, exposing the wires and battery acid inside?

No, you won't.

You will lie, groveling, prostrate as the pilgrims you mock, begging for mercy like the dog you are.

So yes, I am a saint, and I will be a martyr, a match made in Heaven to ignite these kerosene veins.

(I will be your burning beacon)

And what will my cause be?

Not my rival in this eternal chess game. Not the cowardly puppeteer who pulls our strings. Not the hit man, nor the arsonist. Not his ghost, and not the Holy one either.
Yes, that's what I said. Not even God.

These days, I don't know what to call him. I don't suppose I ever will.

But I know what he looks like.

He'll have your red hair. And your big, stupid green eyes, the color of July back in England, mist leaving the moor like the rippling train of a wedding dress.
But her mouth. And, hopefully, her social skills. And something else—her chin maybe, or the slant of her nose.

But your smile. That much, he'll keep.

And he'll fly kites and shoot BB guns and jump off of rooftops, small hands clutching only an umbrella, open as his wide July eyes in surprise, afraid of gravity and darkness and the monsters underneath his bed.

Those will be his only fears.

Not...photographs.

Not of his tongue slipping, revealing his true name.

Not of having his friends disappear one by one (like the rosary beads his father counts when he thinks no one is looking) because of juvenile stupidity, innocent mistakes, hormones, the recklessness that should illustrate those years, not condemn them. Not end them.

Do you get the picture yet?

I will not sacrifice you. You, who are my home, no matter how you deny it, so eloquently, so passionately, so perfectly easy for me to brush aside. You, who are my church, kneeling on your flagstones, praying to God for your salvation, stained glass the color of July shattering all around me.

I will keep you locked in the four chambers of my heart, which you don't have the capability to break, even if it meant you could finally be free.

I will be your shelter, the patches in the quilt tent, the feathers in the pillow fort. (not angels' wings)

You say I am the patron saint of gunslingers.

Let me so be it, so I can blind you from their sight.

You say I am the patron saint of burn victims.

Let me so be it, so I can keep you from ever becoming one.

You say I am the patron saint of stupid fucking pricks, and fuck it, let me so be that too, so I can keep you, and him, and her, safe from their errs which so often grow, and grow, and keep growing until they threaten everyone and everything (I would know).

Let me sever my own head, so that your son can drink the milk, and I'll keep him warm with my kerosene.

Praise be to God.

A/N: What? Another chapter? But it was alone before...I lied?!

Yes, it's true. I changed it from a oneshot to a ... double shot? Like espresso. I dunno; during my vacation my Muses, especially my poetry ones, fairly screamed at me to write, and I considered writing poetry from Mello's POV. Also, ever have a Muse scream at you? Rather scary.

I'll be honest; the relationship between the two is kinda...skewed, but I like it that way. A bit like Mello missed the point in order to concentrate on the big picture. Out of character...? I would say 'no', but then again I wrote the darn thing. So if someone could fill me in? -hand wringing-
I hope I don't offend anyone with the religion in this. It was the farthest thing from my intentions. I tried not to make it the focus; but an element. (The legends of saints? Fascinating stuff. Poetry in and of itself.)

Also, this will herald my Death Note poetry collection. It's called Confessions of An Ardent Heart; Inverse. I'm so excited to start, I've been looking forward to it for the longest.

Reviews would be absolutely lovely.

x0x0 Raven