What. Language are you even speaking right now. What does any of that even /mean/.

what the hell,

     ————   five word prompts

hand outstretched, reaching for the wounded as if joseph’s harnessed some sort of pity for him. ultimately, said appendages decide against their steadfast, impulsive reactions. betrayed by his own damned emotions once again : too much heart for a detective. it would be his downfall; sooner or later, this full heart of his would lead him to a slow and painful demise. at least he’s recoiled before he’d made any actual contact with the other’s broken skin. ❝ i’d hardly call that a scratch. ❞ man of honor, he truly believed none should experience pain and suffering at the hands of another. not even a criminal. alas, with free will ... man’s natural state of brutality would follow suit. granted, the justice system would carry its weight, keep order and peace ——— but was he entitled to said justice. a criminal who lived outside the law, that is. whoever hurt him, would they receive punishment? is there retribution here? perhaps by illegal means, aizen would have his revenge. but that means naught in the eyes of a law abiding cop. 

in actuality, dehumanizing a person by thinking them to be defined only by their heinous actions; thinking them to be a monster because of what they’ve done … is not what joseph vowed at the academy all those years ago. every man, woman, and child deserved justice. whoever they may be. and so the law would abide. but … can he say that this man —— a murderer, a criminal, —— deserved justice? would he say it? 

he lingers nearer, soles carry him just close enough to smell the fresh scent of blood. he’d never forget the stench. the first time the smell reached his nose, he was a youthful, wide - eyed cadet, and he was sick to his stomach. rot and rust, it twisted his stomach until he went home and vomit. he was immune to the smell by now, however, from assessing crime scenes. it took years for him to get used to limp bodies, corpses, and immense bloodshed. still … this was different. his training on the field; on the front-lines aided him none. he felt that same urge to vomit. at the thought, his heart skipped a few beats, but he manages to speak up : ❝you’ll only bleed out if you aren’t taken to a hospital. ❞ 

and he kneels, assessing the wound despite the other abreast him that cared for their leader. hand provides a decent amount of pressure, gauze after gauze soaked in blood. but it’s not enough. anyone can see. ❝ it’s your artery … you’ll hemorrhage. ❞ and die. the words dangle at the edge of his tongue, awaiting sweet release. but it doesn’t come. they’re swallowed.