Third person writing sample:
Sasuke’s attacker hits like a hurricane. Not the first time in a dark alley.
“Here we belong…“
-and this Sasuke can tell you in 9.81 m/s^2 of Fuck you, in media res, scrambling to legs that held (won’t hold longer), legs that blemish and bruise and break, catchfall on a wall (don’t rhyme when you’re bleeding), catch the – catch the motion.
It’s not the first time he’s been punched.
“Born to be… to… to… be… “
Free. He’s free of his bones. Weightless.
It’s not the first time he’s heard that knot of words either. His assaulter’s lost mercy. He has lost sense, he’s lost reason, he’s lost the words and the gall and the tune, and he’s high. (It’s in his hair. It’s in his eyes, and they share them, red, swollen eyes, light cradled everywhere on a stained retina. High. So high. Sasuke can tell. Sasuke doesn’t want to.)
And Sasuke’s gagging.
Breath on his shoulder – beer, cheap, it reeks- before winter waits on chills and it’s air. Air that quivers in speckles, air that rubs his wound wrong. He has to wonder (between the third and fifth punch, and they happen, this – this happens) what this man wants.
Young man. Young man, hello. Young man, what do you want?
Young Man, I want to pull the white out of your eye socket. I want to dig my nail in the pulp. I want to see the vines clutter and worm around it.
There is a point after which men are animals, when they crash and ask for candy and amphetamines and steel, when they redeem the steel against someone else’s innards, take their money, and go. Cut the pockets. Cut the watch. Cut the tip of a tongue, if it’s fucking pierced – and they go. (No one stays. It isn’t emo, it’s common sense.)
There is a point when strangers accost strangers, pin them on bleak old club doors (and Sasuke knows, knows he shouldn’t be there, knows he’s been told so, once, twice, forever, he knows), and then ask no further questions. There is a point (punch six, to be precise), when they hope the target grows weak and wary and a little bit cold, because it’s freezing and wet - We should be sleeping now. Hibernating. We’ve ruined our – our metabolic cycle - and no one should be out. Alive. Here. Tokyo. It’s not for human beings. It’s for men like the Young Man, it’s for worms.
As a species, they have a point where they prey on strangers, beat them to a pulp, take their money, and get high. It’s not personal. It’s a limit. It’s a barrier. It’s convenient.
Sasuke supposes they have reached that point.
(He does gag this time.)
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