Somewhere else, maybe nearby, perhaps far away, at the same moment, laughter resounded through the crystal of a glass held by leather-coated fingers. A laughter just as hollow as the eyes of a stranger walking through the streets, maybe not as bloody, maybe not as icy, yet so alike. A spirit having lost itself in pleasure, hate and sin sitting on a stool, its only escape an amber-coloured toxin.
Every of his steps bringing him nearer to the night erasing from the sight of others the horrid vision of the stains of death tarnishing his snow white skin. The bitter curve of an arrogant smirk did not show any mercy for the upcoming, nor for the victims of the past. No pity, no regret. The pathetic grimace of a man that had never been treated otherwise than with the respect the fright he would spread through the world could bring him.
Standing up from his seat, his legs uncertain at the steps they were preparing to take, a dirty glare piercing through the heavy fumes of cigarettes and vapours of alcohol, a frown appeared on his regular features. Those whispers behind his back, those glimpses, he could not stand them. With the whip of his murderous look, all the voices faded away being replaced by the saccharine odour of fear, fear for themselves, fear for their dear ones, clinging to the particles of whisky and invading his nostrils. Better not bring the black veil of fury over his face.
The velvety darkness, at some places lightened by little drops of luminosity, lying above his head, made shadows play around his nose and chin, chilling those that would dare to lay their eyes on him. A demon escaped from the hells of fights and gang wars, not at his place, was crossing their territory, was violating their minds by his only presence. And not even was pleasure present in his calm demeanour, not even pride at the coldness emanating from the flesh gluing to his bones. Nothing but hate and void.
Finally escaping that hellhole where he would lose his mind every other day, his glance stumbling on children lightened by the orange street lights, his heart skipped a beat. All that adoration, that satisfaction the thought that one day they would be able to say: “I saw him” was bringing them, painting their little bodies was making him nauseous. A prayer directed maybe to God, perhaps to himself, sliced open the aura of destruction he had adopted. A prayer for them not to realize those dreams of resembling him, of being him.
His steps would not bring him further. They would not make him cross the street. His eyes would not permit him to turn away from them, all standing there, having waited for him to appear. All nine of them, smirking under their cloaks, so similar to his own, all of them empty and insubstantial as he was. His images in other mirrors.
“Itachi. We are ready.”
Meaningless words, meaningless world. Bodies stretching, anticipating the new confrontation. Again and again. That was their world. A meaningless world of violence and abhorrence, a meaningless world. But they did not know better. That was their life. That was what they were meant for.
The poison of the liquids he had gulped down during the evening made him stagger dangerously, alone surrounded by black and silent buildings. He could feel the air brushing his face as his body was preparing to absorb the shock of a fall he could not prevent. Yet it never came, strong arms caught him before his pretty face would smash on the cement under his feet. Three shadows have been there to help him up, to hold him.
“Sasuke …”
Their voices full of friendship, full of respect. Because real friends were scarce in that world they have been raised in to live in. Because there was nothing else left for them.
And yet, he shrugged of those arms, he pushed away that help that was leading him towards that life he did not want. He couldn’t do otherwise than to follow them, he had no other choice to get power, to get a chance to avenge himself. It was not his wish, it was a need. They were nothing but other executioners he had to bear.
Surrounded by those people he did not care for, and that cared even less about him, he felt secure again. His dreams, those illusions that turned him into a fool, those that made him sell his own blood to the devil, became almost tangible again. Again that glow traversed the blood of his eyes. Nothing was to stand in his way. Or else …
Finally, it was coming. He would not have it so easy this time. They were not enough. Just the four of them, but he didn’t really care. He was not afraid of the enchanting kiss of Fatality if the blood of that man would be smearing his soul. He was young and yet too old. He was ambitious and yet too lazy. He was courageous and yet too much of a coward. Living and yet not meant to see the upcoming year. He did not know how it would turn out. He did not pay attention to the skeletal maidens of Death following his movements and waiting for him to let the last breath escape his lips. The only thing he cared about truly was that blood he wanted to see shed by his hand.
Memories were flooding both their minds. Memories of happy scenes drowned in despair, of piggy-back rides of the past. Their pain not obvious yet present, nevertheless eating their insides with loathe. Those days of happiness destroyed by a greedy hand, a greedy hand that would not dare to regret any of those stains that would not be washed off.
All ten of them, their robes flying around their waists, hands in heavy pockets, arrogance painted on each of their hard faces, they would follow the faint traces of violence left behind by their foes, breathing in that scent the air would saturate itself with before the hearse passed on the same trail as they were at that very moment. They had chosen to do so, they have been born to do so. Some would not make it, other would. That was the rule. The only law to follow. Live or die. The Law.
His inebriety at once disappeared. He could feel him approach. That delicate perfume of rusted blood lingering in the air, brought by breezes, hitting his face so hard, making him almost cackle in bliss. Yes, he had not sacrificed for nothing. No, they had. They had chosen the right way. They would receive finally their reward. The reward of bloodshed. The only reward children raised by the streets could receive.
The adrenaline of expectation beating in his temples. One obstacle left before freedom. Before Freedom. One obstacle to shatter before nothing would be left for him to mind. That obstacle so nearby. Before Power. The time was escaping his grasp and he was letting it run. So near of it. He did not know what was going on around him, he did not let it bother him. Yes, so near. Not so far away anymore. His last kill, before Freedom, before Power.
“Become strong.” All of them had told him to become strong. But how to grow without no help, how to survive with nobody to feed him?! They have had orders, they have had expectations and yet they did not take the time to make him reach the strength. He had done everything by himself, even selling his soul to demons. This would be his hour of glory, his minute of revenge. The second before his heart would stop beating. The moment before he would lose.
Finally, yes finally. They were there. Stepping on unknown territory, expanding their aura of destruction. They have come to take, to conquer, to shatter, to break. They have come following the need to create the end of the world. The end of their world. Because that was what they had chosen. They did not know better.
Fright was not present in their eyes. They were only four. Nonetheless, only excitement could be felt emanating from their young bodies. They wanted to feel the last bite that existence they kept living had denied them. The image of the ten last judges standing barely ten meters away from them. Happiness, bliss at that last battle. Because they did know better.
Their eyes locked. Red with red. Hate with hate. They did not fidget, they just stayed immovable for a split of a second. Their hearts beating at the same rhythm. The same blood boiling their veins. The same grimace pulling their features in a mask. Their pains mingling. Their suffering expressed through the being of the other.
A step away from Freedom and Power. A step away from Revenge and Death.