( makoto couldn’t even claim that his upbringing had been “good” in the sort of way that only highlighted in contrast how very “bad” he was. he could perhaps say that his upbringing had been mundane. his parents had been functional in their roles, though he didn’t have any particularly strong memories of them being particularly affectionate or sentimental with him. they had provided opportunities and expectations—the first they cast as a gift, and the second always seemed to be its cost. makoto had struggled to see the point of even trying to please them when his older brother had already cemented himself as a golden, unattainable point of comparison long before he’d even gotten a chance to fight back. charming, sociable, brilliant, and involved, he’d been everything makoto wasn’t. he’d grown up feeling like a shadow, even before his more morbid tendencies started to make themselves known in him. he’d never thought they were a result of anything he’d experienced growing up. how could they be? he hadn’t been coddled, but he also had never been treated harshly; he’d only ever been comfortable and provided-for. how could he ever try to blame the ugliness inside of him on anything else when his brother had grown up under the same roof, from the same parents?
no, he’d known that he was wrong to his very core long, long before anyone else had noticed. it had been a seed present within him at birth, and it had already germinated and taken root enough for him to begin to see the differences between himself and others and how they saw things, how they felt about things, how they reacted to things. makoto is not heartless or without empathy, but he is strange. a lot of the things other kids around him thought of as essential, that every kid should want or have, he didn’t really see the point of. the things he decided to say always seemed the wrong things.
by the time he’d gotten old enough for puberty to intertwine that darkness with his desires, he’d come to realize that he was not only wrong but criminal. he’d read about others. he’d read books and watched programs on cannibals and serial killers, haunted by what he perceived as an inevitable future for himself. he hadn’t wanted it, but how long can one keep an innate, intrinsic darkness within them at bay? he’d tried to satiate it. he’d tried to feed it bits and pieces of what it wanted, bringing home roadkill to cut apart, indulging in personal fantasy, but it had never been enough. it only made it hungrier. if placation or denial weren’t options, then what was left? wait for his father to finally kill him, convinced of the stain he would produce on his reputation? no, when he had drawn that circle in blood on his floor, he had seen it as taking the matter into his own hands.
in hindsight, sometimes it felt foolish. desperate. but he doesn’t think he would change what he’d done, if he went back. his life since becoming a demon was hard, but at least he felt as though he had options. he saw more paths ahead of himself than just those that led to either an early grave or incarceration and execution.
he doesn’t think charlie is wrong, but he feels compelled to add, ) But the definition of “power” changes depending on where you are.
( hell’s rules were drastically different from earth’s, drastically different from those here. that’s what really bothers makoto; to know that something he could suffer to gain somewhere might be worthless wherever he might be brought next.
his shoulders grow tense at the question, but, fortunately, the second vial has slowly filled with blood. it gives him time to mull over his thoughts as he goes through the mechanical process of replacing it with the final vial and handing the second one over to charlie. he blinks, sniffing. he doesn’t think it’ll be enough blood to affect him much, but there is an odd wooziness that goes through the mind at seeing so much of it leave your body.
after a long moment, he replies in a smaller voice, ) I don’t want it to.
(I hope it doesn’t. but he feels he can never be sure. it’s the same thing that had haunted him when he was alive—a worry that he couldn’t deny himself if he was given the chance, the power, the opportunity. he’d been terrified he might one day find himself a murderer, because as much as the thought horrified him, he knew he wanted every thing that led to it just as much, if not more. ) I’ve—had to deal with a lot, because of others forcing me to be what they want me to be, or do what they want me to do. I… don’t want to become someone like that. I’d rather make a deal that we can both be happy with.
no subject
no, he’d known that he was wrong to his very core long, long before anyone else had noticed. it had been a seed present within him at birth, and it had already germinated and taken root enough for him to begin to see the differences between himself and others and how they saw things, how they felt about things, how they reacted to things. makoto is not heartless or without empathy, but he is strange. a lot of the things other kids around him thought of as essential, that every kid should want or have, he didn’t really see the point of. the things he decided to say always seemed the wrong things.
by the time he’d gotten old enough for puberty to intertwine that darkness with his desires, he’d come to realize that he was not only wrong but criminal. he’d read about others. he’d read books and watched programs on cannibals and serial killers, haunted by what he perceived as an inevitable future for himself. he hadn’t wanted it, but how long can one keep an innate, intrinsic darkness within them at bay? he’d tried to satiate it. he’d tried to feed it bits and pieces of what it wanted, bringing home roadkill to cut apart, indulging in personal fantasy, but it had never been enough. it only made it hungrier. if placation or denial weren’t options, then what was left? wait for his father to finally kill him, convinced of the stain he would produce on his reputation? no, when he had drawn that circle in blood on his floor, he had seen it as taking the matter into his own hands.
in hindsight, sometimes it felt foolish. desperate. but he doesn’t think he would change what he’d done, if he went back. his life since becoming a demon was hard, but at least he felt as though he had options. he saw more paths ahead of himself than just those that led to either an early grave or incarceration and execution.
he doesn’t think charlie is wrong, but he feels compelled to add, ) But the definition of “power” changes depending on where you are.
( hell’s rules were drastically different from earth’s, drastically different from those here. that’s what really bothers makoto; to know that something he could suffer to gain somewhere might be worthless wherever he might be brought next.
his shoulders grow tense at the question, but, fortunately, the second vial has slowly filled with blood. it gives him time to mull over his thoughts as he goes through the mechanical process of replacing it with the final vial and handing the second one over to charlie. he blinks, sniffing. he doesn’t think it’ll be enough blood to affect him much, but there is an odd wooziness that goes through the mind at seeing so much of it leave your body.
after a long moment, he replies in a smaller voice, ) I don’t want it to.
( I hope it doesn’t. but he feels he can never be sure. it’s the same thing that had haunted him when he was alive—a worry that he couldn’t deny himself if he was given the chance, the power, the opportunity. he’d been terrified he might one day find himself a murderer, because as much as the thought horrified him, he knew he wanted every thing that led to it just as much, if not more. ) I’ve—had to deal with a lot, because of others forcing me to be what they want me to be, or do what they want me to do. I… don’t want to become someone like that. I’d rather make a deal that we can both be happy with.