Madness

The gaps between the madness.

It is always the subtle scent of lilies that bring him back to some sense of lucidity, though he does not know why. He hates them for it, loathes them for being the one reminder that what he has done is so wrong. The darkness of his anger at those who lied to him, tortured him brought the monster forth to pollute his every waking moment. Most of the time, he felt nothing at all. An observer within his own skin.

Events happened in pictures; snap shots of events that he had no control over. All he had was second hand anger and bitterness, hate and fear. He remembered the flames, the lick of them as they scorched his boots, the scent of ash climbing his nose. The outrage of those he had harmed, the frozen looks of horror on their faces, the tears and open-mouthed screams, the burning flesh. The blood. So much blood. How could he have so much on his hands and live?

But the scent of lilies. Sweet and innocent, clean and white. It reminded him of his name: Sephiroth. It reminded him that all he had learned was not all that he had been. Once, there had been friends. Closer to him than family ever could be. They had been his family – the brothers he never had. A dark headed fellow obsessed with doing the right thing. Another who read Loveless to the point of obsession and a black haired young lad, youthful and enthusiastic. There had been a time once, not so long ago, where acceptance had been his.

He had always been different, always known there was something unusual about himself. In those few scant moments, it hadn’t mattered. He had smiled then too, not worried about everything that happened or didn’t happen, or might happen. He had stopped chewing his nails. He had even tolerated those he had previously despised, much to the surprise of most people around him. Had he known happiness, Sephiroth rather thought he had. Only warmth, only love, only companionship.

The best imprint though, a pair of sea green eyes in a soft face that radiated kindness. She and Zack. They were companions? More than that? All he recalled was the sweet gestures and the light touches that brought warmth flooding to his cheeks. Laughter and delight always followed; and the scent of lilies. Always the floral scent followed the green eyes. He had always thought her beautiful, though he had no language to express such. It showed in a protectiveness that he barely understood. He was sure there had been words for it once, but they were lost to him now.

Lucidity faded as another pushed him back into the spectator’s seat. She had to die. He had to stamp out the light from his darkening world. The anguish the act brought was smothered in hate, pushed beyond reason. Those eyes would never understand what he was trying to achieve. No one could. Only Mother knew. She would protect him, she would keep him safe from the world, from the memories and the pungent scent of lilies that troubled him so. The scent faded, replaced with the acrid copper tang of spilled blood and external rage. It was on his hands, only his. His self-loathing smothered all other emotion, consuming the flicker of light, the brief memory and pulling him back into the oblivion of hate.