She had always hated humans. But who could truly blame her, after all that she had been through? She remembered too well; the shackles upon wrists, ankles, around her waist, around her neck -- restricting her from all kinds of movements as they tormented her, tested her, treated her like an animal. She was but a child, born to a family who abandoned her swiftly after discovering that she was anything but normal. It likely begun from the fact that her skin carried none of the fleshy tone humans had, and instead bore a shade similar to flowers -- a sweet pink, only it soon became a colour she hated. It was the very colour of her skin that turned her into a monster in the eyes of people. Even if she could hide how the scleras of her eyes were the depths of darkness reflecting the souls of the very humans who tormented her, the horns that grew from her skull could be hidden under a hood; but her skin.......it was the thing that was impossible to obscure from view without remaining constantly wrapped. She was not even allowed the comfort of being in her own skin.
Forever.
Her name felt like a curse, each echo of it promised torments yet to come, and far more abuse that would surely follow. She did not obey, defiant gaze always staring them down -- but they would strike, as always. A punching bag she was, an experimental toy for the sadistic and cruel. Who could blame them for the fear of the unknown? Even she feared herself -- yet she desired no harm to be done upon her, and abhorred every moment of their taunting that stripped her dignity and sense of self so swiftly. They spat at her, as though the slimy sensation of mucus would remain for long as her own defense mechanism kicked it -- dissolving the foul mixture along with the cuffs. But they always had newer ones. They always had concoctions they force down her throat or into her bloodstream.
Even though she held a humanoid form, even though she had outrageous skin and abilities, even though she had horns, even though her eyes reflected the darkness of one’s soul, still her blood bleeds red.
But she was still a monster to them.
Was she truly a monster?
No longer could she recall the innocent days where she darted across flower fields, scattering butterflies and joining them in dance as she twirled among the blooms. As far as little legs could take her, she would always wander in obscene locations, away from prying eyes, away from muttering lips. Her slice of heaven was sufficient, she only needed the warmth of her parents and her meadows. She belonged. And that was sufficient.
But love had scattered, the remains of her parents naught but ashes in the wind. They had abandoned her, destroyed the only home she had, left her behind whilst she had been searching for the perfect blooms for the dining table. All she desired was acceptance and love; and even her own parents have declined her the right to that.
To have survived all that was done to her........... She was probably a m o n s t e r.
Even monsters had preferences, likes and dislikes. She comforted herself by turning it into a fervent chant -- that her desires were acceptable even if she was a monster, even if she had blood upon her hands. She never asked for any of it, all she desired was a corner of the world for her own, to be allowed peace and sanity in the midst of flowers, but the riots followed her as she wander, red bloody riots that ultimately ended in death and agony. She survived, as did a monster. But at what cost? No matter how she shielded herself from the world, from the humans, someone was bound to discover her lack of humanity. Daily she would scrub pink into crimson, shrug on heavy attire and gloves to hide all that she was.
That was all she could do.
Hide. Pretend. Masquerade.
But still she yearned for flowers and blooms, to be surrounded by the sweet scent of blossoms -- to return to a time where nothing else mattered, to a time when she was but a child savouring the beauty of the world. No longer did she hold the same innocence, but desperately did her heart yearn. Thus she wandered, seeking out a place for herself, seeking out the petals to grace her garden with. She would travel far and wide till she was satisfied with her collection, and perhaps, merely perhaps, she would find a like-minded soul, or simply a person who could look past the monstrous reputation she had garnered, and her demonic appearance.
The Wretched Demon was but a woman who wanted to belong. Somewhere. Anywhere.
She was weary. Exhausted. Lonely. Days turned into months, and months into years, somewhere along the line, she had lost count of the time she spent without a home in constant wander. Her collection had been satisfactory, but the hunt for a companion proved most difficult. Most flee upon sight, and whilst some children were open to her strange appearance, she could not find it within herself to snatch an innocent child and taint their future with her unfortunate lifestyle.
Perhaps a monster did not deserve companionship.
It was her last attempt. Her last town. If she failed to find any who could possibility tolerate the ghastly life of a demon’s slave, she would return to the home she had sculpted; alone. She had grown into adulthood during her travels, and it felt like centuries had passed since she last stopped and lived life a little -- but the life of a demon was not to be had in public. She would return. She would return to be alone, and she would die alone. With death, all of the torment, all of the nightmares, all of the solitude would end.
If she could even die.
“I will pay ten gold coins for each flower anyone can retrieve from the cliff in perfect condition.”
They all knew which blooms she referred to. The flower that grew within the cracks of the cliffs, surviving on little and struggling against the rigid conditions. The dastardly sea breeze a terrible storm on fragile stems, the harsh sunbeams beating down on pale petals -- a hardy flower with much to its name, an unknown properties that little cared for. It was far too much trouble to access, far too much danger to retrieve. There were few with the skills to attempt, and those who once did had failed, forcing families and loved ones to gather them in pieces.
Even the heaviest pouch of gold coins could not lull them to their deaths.
There was but one with the foolish mind to attempt. They had warned him, the new person in town, that the cliffs were far too dangerous. There was little handholds, it was impossible to anchor anything, and if one fell, they would surely perish upon the jagged spikes that rose from the ocean to meet anyone foolish enough to try -- as though the blossoms were protected by the Gods themselves. Those who try would fail and perish.
Yet still he accepted the task, marching off upon bare feet towards certain death. She deemed him a boy, and shook her head at his eagerness to please, or was it for riches that he threw his life away for? Almost did she regret, that a possibly innocent soul would be lost to this world, but if it was for the gold he could impale himself on the sharp rocks for all she cared.
All she wanted was her flowers. The very flowers that reflected her; a woman who seemed weak and fragile by mere appearance itself, the very shade that dusted her skin glowing from the petals, and the harshness the blossoms grew in and still survived. The Devil’s Trap. The flora that would grew in the wild in singularity, alone. She understood why, the conditions for survival was tough, to grow by another’s side was to fight for the limited nutrients. Perhaps that was why, like the flower, she would be alone.
Like the boy who darted off to retrieve her flower.
No one watched him, thus she offered him the attention of his last moments, eyes following the bounce of tousled tresses and the cheery grin. Once, once upon a time she wore the same expression as she visited the meadows for her family, doing something for the people that mattered -- but she was a complete strange to him. What a shame. It was likely for the gold.
He, however, had no such thoughts. He had little need for money, for he lived in damning circumstances. There was no need for a roof over his head; the very thought of it still churned his stomach in a manner he could not put a word to. He was not as smart as most his age would be, but for a boy who never went to school, and lived on the streets, what could be expected? But he understood, even though her statement was simple and straightforward -- that the flower meant something to her. Strange as it may be, perhaps it was something of sentimental meaning, perhaps it was something her boyfriend gave her. It mattered little, except that she would most likely be delighted by the flowers. He would tell her later, that he did not need ten gold coins for each flower. Maybe just one, to buy him some food. But he would aim to gather as many as possible.
He had to do it the human way. Anyone would find it suspicious if he relied on his ability and marked deep gorges into the surface of the cliff. It would have made it much easier, but life was not about being easy, life for him was blending in with the humans. ( Even if he failed to realize that the near approaching future would mark him as anything but human. What else could survive? )
He wiggled past thorny bushes that snared him in their embrace, stealing snags of his attire as though they were not sparse enough, snatching at his skin but leaving no marks behind. Sullen about the ripped fabric, but refusing to give up, he pushed on. The daunting cliff taunted him, an overbearing presence that towered beyond his vision’s reach, but still the determined male only pumped fist into the air and began his ascend. Feet struggled for grip, most rocks promising to carve and mark a bloody path. But he remained resilient and only faltered where the flowers lay beyond reach. The climb had been arduous and long but he had managed, somehow, to the final stretch ( quite literally ).
Not one. Not two. He would have a bouquet for her. The drive he did not fully understand, but he wondered if he would catch a glimpse of her face. Would the image match the vocals? Her voice, soft and soothing, seemed lonely. She sounded refined, like a lady, but traveled alone with little, like him. There was something about the woman that called out to him, that tugged what laid within; a dream’s beckon promising relief.
But he likely placed too much thought in it. A fancy lady had no business caring for a thing like him. All he could do for her was to retrieve the pretty flowers. As many as he could, before the gentle cradle of flowers would mean his undeniable fall. There was only so much he could do with a single hand without crushing the flowers he held in his embrace.
But whilst the wind whistled past his ears and he watched the descending sun in the background, he silently questioned his purpose in life. Was he to spend eternity running errands? For a glimpse of a smile? For gratitude? For acceptance? Was that all there was to him? Was that all a monster could have?
He curled around the blossoms and prepared for the impact. Despite the toughened skin, still he felt the pain, but none could match the horrified gaze of villagers who happened to turn in his direction and instead of watching him pierced apart, saw the man’s attire, and only his attire, ripped apart before he fell to his feet.
His time in this town had been short, but he had no chance of remaining now.
The walk back to town seemed like an endless road, and each turn he made he willed himself to toughen his spirit, to become a man who would take the hits and not retaliate, to steel his heart for the cruel words -- m o n s t e r !
Perhaps it was by luck, perhaps he simply moved swifter than they did, perhaps they thought it only a mirage, perhaps they had been so utterly shocked they could not react; but somehow he managed to return to the lady with her bouquet in hand without any interruptions. Like a stable boy greeting his Princess, he almost bowed but stopped himself at the presence of a hand halting his motion.
He did not mean to stare. But he swore the sweet shade was of no glove but natural origin, a pretty pink no different from the flowers he still held. Was that why she desired them? Was she......?
Lifting his head, he searched for answers in her eyes, golden eyes gleaming from under the hood. He noted no whites like humans did, and combined the information with the colour of her skin. Was she............?
She only moved to clasp his cheek in her hand, glove dangling from a pocket. At some point she had vibrated with excitement, keen eyes having watched his journey. She could not maintain vision as he fell out of view, but the unmarred ( but dirty ) figure trotting up the path towards her indicated enough for her to quiver in anticipation. She remained silent, but desiring more confirmation, did what she avoided her entire life. Bare hand upon bare cheek, she caressed the surprisingly warm skin. Would he scream in agony, or would he understand? She waited, for the secretions that burned all but herself, the secretions that had scarred so many, yet provided her an escape from her torment. She watched him, yet her mind screamed for her to leave immediately before she had to once more, lay waste to the entire village and all eyewitness. But as the liquid coated his cheeks, he reacted none, only addressed her with the unwavering gaze. It did nothing to him, which meant, he was like her, different. Special. Abandoned. Hated. Unwanted. Abhorred.
“Come with me.”
“Where would we go?”
“To my home. Away from here. Away from all the humans who would stop at nothing to lynch us. Where it is safe and you no longer will have to bear their hateful gaze and frightened accusations.”
“Okay. My name is Kirishima. What’s yours?” She understood how it felt to be like him, he was certain, they were the same. Outcasts of the society due to their differences; the abilities that defined them casting them into eternal judgement. Only monsters could survive their harsh circumstances. Only monsters like him. Right?
When one becomes two, the world changes, and they learn about what belonging means.
“...The Wretched Demon.”
“That’s not a name.”
“It’s what they call me.”
“What do you call yourself then?”
“.........A m o n s t e r ..”
Somehow, he had a feeling that her scars ran far deeper than his.
