Chapter 2: Guilty Conscience

Warnings: none really, slightly depressing and maybe a little confusing (but then meant to be (wink)). Contains a mixture of third person and first person POV, I believe.

Disclaimer: No do not own Beyblade.

Normal writing, "Speaking", "(action within speaking or thoughts)"

Thoughts or emphasized words

/flashbacks of actions or sounds/

A/N: Promise those points above are not that hard to follow ;)

A/N2: I am still getting used to this website, so if my formatting keeps changing it is because I haven't found one I like yet.

"A man's conscience and his judgement is the same thing; and as the judgement, so also the conscience, may be erroneous."

By Thomas Hobbes

Tuesday evening 21:00 hours, one and half hours since incident.

A shadow moved swiftly through the open air of the cityscape, the wind rustling its looser extremities every now and then; whipping soft wet strands into the shadow's face as it blew from behind. This creature coated in darkness continually stumbled…fell…and jerked as its numb limbs refused to function; feet tripping themselves on the hard ground, scraped folded hands pushing up off that rough surface, bruises sprouting from vertical surroundings as the being bounced off of them.

Although not warm, this night was not cold. Yet this sole being shook as though the icy fingers of winter were encroaching upon him. His soaked clothes and cold sticky hands that were once so warm left our shadow with a strange sense of irony. He had once been so warm…just like the fluid adhering to his clothes…his skin. But like that liquid he was now bereft of any warmth…

…and with a devastating feeling he would never be warm again.

He liked the sun, often liked to sit and absorb its rays on the bank by the river…but he didn't think that would be something he could enjoy again anytime soon, if at all. Still, there were other warmth's in this world: the warmth of contact by another, the fervour that bubbles up because of laughter, joy, happiness…the knowledge of someone giving love or care…except… it was stupid for him to even consider really…that someone could love him now…so empty of joy was he, he did not believe he would ever laugh…or smile again…so numb from the cold - though unsure of whether it was the air itself or stemming from inside himself – he did not care if he ever felt again, if all he could feel was like he did right now.

Desolate, lonely, cold, in pain…indescribable amounts of pain…pain of his gut clenching and unclenching like it was desperately trying not to spill its contents, pain from his body, pain from his head as his vision blurred in and out of darkness, pain from his heart as the horror of what he had done…what he had caused…settled in his soul…imprinted on his memory…echoing in his mind…

It was his fault. His.

He would gladly accept a reprieve from the torrent of emotions and memories swirling within him but he knew there was no escape…not yet. The thought of 'not ever' made him choke on his already shortened breath as he continued to try to run away from the source of his anguish.

A source that had also lost its warmth and would definitely never get it back. A part of that source would never supply him with warmth in this lifetime again…and he could not help but think that nobody would want to fill that lost position.

For why would anyone want to touch him?

No one would touch him now…no one would share their warmth…their love…their light.

Not with someone so dirty…so cold…so tainted or corrupted as he was now.

He cried as everything sank in. He cried with fear, sorrow, anger, shame, guilt and an overall despair for this night. He wanted to scream with all these things in mind…only he could not get past his lack of breath, nor the stitches forming in his chest, nor the lump that was searing against his throat…

…nor the old sounds that seemed to override his newly made ones and would therefore somehow be the only sounds heard, even if he did manage to find the voice to scream.

For a moment the shadow entered a beam of light, whether streetlight or moonlight it did not matter, because for a moment the shadow disappeared to be replaced by a young terrified lad. He could only guess what he looked like to any that saw him; silently hoping no one did while silently wishing someone would save him.

A long dark trench coat that trailed as much on the floor as on him – if his mind had not been 'somewhere else' it probably would have registered by now that this coat was at least part of the reason he continued to trip up – covered his body from the neck down. It was not fastened over the dark soaked and ruined clothes clinging to the boy's body. A flap of lighter material could be seen on his torso, the skin of which seemed to show greater percentage to the light than the t-shirt itself; a darker jacket worn over the torn lighter t-shirt also showed signs of staining, though the evidence was not as clear as the dark drying patches on the light blue of his jeans, noticeably his knees, shin and ankle areas. The lad, accustomed to wearing a bright red cap on his dark blue hair was without it this night, but he didn't seem to mind, nor did he mind the fact that his hair had somewhat come loose of its binding. It was getting in his way far more than it usually did after all. His blue gloves were ripped and soiled and only his trainers were clean in comparison to even his skin… yet after his first stumble out here, the lad was still a little surprised that he had remembered to put shoes on to venture out in the first place…a small respite in the monotonous My Fault

Cold…/sounds of metal on metal/

Dead…/sound of metal on flesh/

Red…/sound of body hitting wood/

…echoing inside his head, that was incredibly short lived…



Sorry this is so short.