Reality is Better than Fantasy

Hinata wonders what it is like to kill someone.

She is eleven, still in the academy and still too weak (though she hates that word) to kill anyone. She can imagine, though, and imagine she does, giving her a far more sinister reason to smile in her sleep than anyone ever could guess.

She can imagine the feeling of her hand going through human flesh, the layers of softness yielding inwards as her flattened palm pushes further still, her fingers extended long and straight in front of it. It is those fingers that would first encounter the blood, wonderfully sticky red ichor that would coat everything and make it slick with life and loss of it. She can imagine the blood gushing out to soak her own shirt, pulling it taut and wet against her skin as she pushes her hand in even further. This time, she would encounter bone, hard rib-bone that simply shatters beneath her power, small chips and shards bouncing off the adjacent ribs and each other. The anticipation nearing deathly, she burrows her hand—which would be covered up to the elbow in blood so thick it is impossible to see anything beneath it—even deeper in.

She would gasp from the sheer pleasure alone as she found her target, her wildly beating and fiercely alive target. It would be the heart, that wonderful thing whose beat she would be able to feel coursing through the body she has impaled with her own hand. Her fingers would grasp that heart gently, delicately even, as though it were expensive china or a newborn baby's head, and then would crush it, would squeeze it and burst it open, lifeblood escaping that newly shattered ruin in massive spurts. She would bend down and lick the lifeblood from the destroyed heart, climaxing as the heady copper tang consumed her, letting her reach heaven and change hell and then dragging her back to this—this—

Years later, Hinata will finally kill someone with her own hands, and she will have to admit that reality is better than fantasy could ever be.