Categories > Games > Final Fantasy 7
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The Art of Dying
Death is not a beautiful thing like many would like to believe, and there is nothing noble about dying for love. If indeed love does exist. I would believe it to simply be a by-product of one's infatuation, nothing worth sacrificing one's life for. Yes, there is nothing poetic about a dying lover, a pathetic martyr of a vain cause. But he did it well. Perhaps it was simply because he understood death; he had watched it so many times before his own. He understood the art of dying. But he didn't truly know death until it was upon him. Standing there in shock, as his hand came away red. The look of sheer terror in those dark eyes as he vomited blood. The way he murmured my name before crumpling to the floor.
I hadn't intended to kill him. Wound him perhaps, maim, destroy. But the bullet had unfortunately pierced his poor broken heart. Poor Vincent and his poor ravaged heart ... what a pathetic existence. He had given nothing to world, only taken. And yet he had preached his staunch morals to me.
Yes, it was because of her. That pretty, bright young woman. Vincent had seen her only as a mate, but I ... I had a purpose for her. We were creating a god, a new species, and she was to be our Eve.
There were no objections on her behalf. She was a scientist, after all. Willing to make sacrifices to better humanity. He could have never seen that, never understood, and so he played the part of the tragic hero, whose fatal flaw was nothing more than that he had loved the wrong woman.
But once again, there is no such thing as love. Only animal lust. Desire to procreate.
And though I cannot blame him for desiring her, I can hate him for it. I can hate him for threatening to steal away my goal in life. I can hate him for interfering. I can hate him for trying to sway Lucrecia's mind. I can hate him for simply having lived, but I cannot hate him in death, for he died so well.
I had wanted him to beg. To cry and plead with me not to end his life. But he robbed me of that. Though the tears were there as he slipped into shock, they were not shed for his own miserable existence, only for her. Why? Because he couldn't save her from me? Bullshit. He couldn't save her from herself ... but it's better to blindly place the blame. And perhaps I am no better than he. Perhaps that's why I find such pleasure in watching the blood congeal around his body. I needed a scapegoat. Someone to place the blame on for everything that I had been denied. Someone to beat for each time Lucrecia faltered. Someone to turn into the monster I had been accused of being.
Vincent, so flawless. A perfect specimen. Tall, slender, albeit frail. Someone to blame ... someone to take out all the frustrations of life.
I wonder what he would look like writhing in agony beneath my scalpel as I pealed away that smooth flesh. Would he beg me then? Beg me to stop. Beg me to kill him. Ah yes, Vincent, you're already dead. Such a pity. Such a pity, indeed.
But even that could be remedied.
Perhaps, I could maim you and then send you back to her. Scarred, disfigured. Let's see if she wants you then. Oh no ... she wouldn't, because you wouldn't fit into the world I'm building for her. You wouldn't be her pretty pet any longer. And that would hurt you worse than a thousand scalpels. Maim you body and soul.
He'd beg for death then. But I wouldn't be so merciful. I'd ensure that he would never find peace in death. I would damn him to this dying world, and let him suffer for eternity until insanity finally frees his mind.
My pet project. My precious specimen. Perhaps, I should let Lucrecia in on my little secret. She'd weep then. Weep and do nothing, because he is already dead. He is nothing but a shell of the man he was, but that will change. I'll not grant him the peace and bliss of death. Instead, I will damn him to his memories, which shall become nothing more than twisted perversions of their former selves. Yes, and he shall become like those memories. A parody of what he was. A caricature of what I wanted to view him as. Pretty Vincent, cold and dead ... but soon he'll scream, he'll beg for death, he'll weep the bitterest tears of agony. And I will enjoy each moment. Revel in each cry, and savour each tear. He will break under my will, and I will keep his soul forever, locked away in darkness, pleading for a death he shall never receive.
Vincent, my pet, you understood death too well, and made even that seem beautiful. For that I shall make your existence hell.
fin
The Art of Dying
Death is not a beautiful thing like many would like to believe, and there is nothing noble about dying for love. If indeed love does exist. I would believe it to simply be a by-product of one's infatuation, nothing worth sacrificing one's life for. Yes, there is nothing poetic about a dying lover, a pathetic martyr of a vain cause. But he did it well. Perhaps it was simply because he understood death; he had watched it so many times before his own. He understood the art of dying. But he didn't truly know death until it was upon him. Standing there in shock, as his hand came away red. The look of sheer terror in those dark eyes as he vomited blood. The way he murmured my name before crumpling to the floor.
I hadn't intended to kill him. Wound him perhaps, maim, destroy. But the bullet had unfortunately pierced his poor broken heart. Poor Vincent and his poor ravaged heart ... what a pathetic existence. He had given nothing to world, only taken. And yet he had preached his staunch morals to me.
Yes, it was because of her. That pretty, bright young woman. Vincent had seen her only as a mate, but I ... I had a purpose for her. We were creating a god, a new species, and she was to be our Eve.
There were no objections on her behalf. She was a scientist, after all. Willing to make sacrifices to better humanity. He could have never seen that, never understood, and so he played the part of the tragic hero, whose fatal flaw was nothing more than that he had loved the wrong woman.
But once again, there is no such thing as love. Only animal lust. Desire to procreate.
And though I cannot blame him for desiring her, I can hate him for it. I can hate him for threatening to steal away my goal in life. I can hate him for interfering. I can hate him for trying to sway Lucrecia's mind. I can hate him for simply having lived, but I cannot hate him in death, for he died so well.
I had wanted him to beg. To cry and plead with me not to end his life. But he robbed me of that. Though the tears were there as he slipped into shock, they were not shed for his own miserable existence, only for her. Why? Because he couldn't save her from me? Bullshit. He couldn't save her from herself ... but it's better to blindly place the blame. And perhaps I am no better than he. Perhaps that's why I find such pleasure in watching the blood congeal around his body. I needed a scapegoat. Someone to place the blame on for everything that I had been denied. Someone to beat for each time Lucrecia faltered. Someone to turn into the monster I had been accused of being.
Vincent, so flawless. A perfect specimen. Tall, slender, albeit frail. Someone to blame ... someone to take out all the frustrations of life.
I wonder what he would look like writhing in agony beneath my scalpel as I pealed away that smooth flesh. Would he beg me then? Beg me to stop. Beg me to kill him. Ah yes, Vincent, you're already dead. Such a pity. Such a pity, indeed.
But even that could be remedied.
Perhaps, I could maim you and then send you back to her. Scarred, disfigured. Let's see if she wants you then. Oh no ... she wouldn't, because you wouldn't fit into the world I'm building for her. You wouldn't be her pretty pet any longer. And that would hurt you worse than a thousand scalpels. Maim you body and soul.
He'd beg for death then. But I wouldn't be so merciful. I'd ensure that he would never find peace in death. I would damn him to this dying world, and let him suffer for eternity until insanity finally frees his mind.
My pet project. My precious specimen. Perhaps, I should let Lucrecia in on my little secret. She'd weep then. Weep and do nothing, because he is already dead. He is nothing but a shell of the man he was, but that will change. I'll not grant him the peace and bliss of death. Instead, I will damn him to his memories, which shall become nothing more than twisted perversions of their former selves. Yes, and he shall become like those memories. A parody of what he was. A caricature of what I wanted to view him as. Pretty Vincent, cold and dead ... but soon he'll scream, he'll beg for death, he'll weep the bitterest tears of agony. And I will enjoy each moment. Revel in each cry, and savour each tear. He will break under my will, and I will keep his soul forever, locked away in darkness, pleading for a death he shall never receive.
Vincent, my pet, you understood death too well, and made even that seem beautiful. For that I shall make your existence hell.
fin
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