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♌ sudama, corrupter of peppers.
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[fic] death by shoe is undignified; the letters to someone

Title:  Death By Shoe Is Undignified; The LEttERs to Someone
Pairing:  ?? Lavi/Kanda
Rating:  PG13 for language and dark themes
Disclaimer:  DGM belongs to Hoshino Katsura et al
A/N:  High School AU; unlabeled letters written in Kanji and assorted characters by unknown culprit person assailant, found by Lavi as of 15 y.o.a and translated into English and masterminded via editor's notes in a fiendish attempt to catch what it is that he had missed from the past, not fully knowing he wasn't born yet, or that these letters may be apart of his legacy.  Note: it's been giving him a winning headache ever since.  Do you know why?

---

Lavi is almost 19, so he is just 18.  Do not forget All Things are Intended.

---

[The LEttERs, ageless, discovered between two composite notebooks, about new Policies, both dated approx. C.E. 1940, borrowed from old Member;

an appropriate epitaph/preface: HELL, that defies all logic universal meaning.]

. . . . they have brought MARK today.  The Gospel is 'according to' his servant.  'According to' my calculations, war is necessary plane to see.  [might this be evil, plain to see?]

[writing has been smudged.]  Let alone, as boring as that [?] shoe.  At least it's got a fucking hole in it.  As we all know, History is anything but boring or possibly even interesting.  Call it what you will, for when a living being is called, it will come after you like an ferocious lion having been smote/smitten by its hunters.

Do you will it to come after you?  And do you think it will be hungry by the time it catches (up to) you?
What happens to [writing blotted]?



Is it created by Man?  3 tasks, that Trinity?  What of the Internal question?

///

Mother is dead today? gone.  My history is man-made.  She haunts us all.


But where did Mama go?  I will call her that no more; these things happen to Human Beings.  I.  [writing has been cut off.]

///

I read somewhere that if I use I, then I am beingbeing [sic].  So have you read it on the wall outside of the village?  You will never do that again, Father once said.  

When you milked the bitch today, did you sense that she will die too?  It will be soon, because there will be no more milk. There's no point in being useless.  That person [?] brought his alchemy again today.  He smells of urine and jewelry.  Metals. But they are not precious; there is an absurdity in preciousness that we do not touch in our lives.  That man has practically brought a temple down; he brought a temple to the house as well.  It makes him smell worse.

If he raises the dead I

///

Time?  Time is alone like a housewife.  History is made by Time Alone.

Father was doing something hard [?] by the time you arrived.  His bowels were found on the dressing screen and that little girl was found simply dead by the steam.  Details are unimportant, and unavailable at this time.

You see what happens when you leave the living unattended?  



What be is this fucking equation? That person say to me (2 plus 2 equals 5), and he laughed.  HE LEFT HIS WRITING ON A BLOODY POTRAG.  It was bled all over that place in the corner [sic].

IT laughed because you are stupid, with attitude, senseless like a chicken.  Grow up yourself, or pull your head out of the ground.  No one will miss you.

///

What if this equation works and they come alive?  Will you travel to the northern wall?  Tomorrow is another mathematic you will not begin to solve.

Except we have come to figure that History is Nothing without Death.  The math problem does not work itself out to the end; for it is not a true math problem!  Philosophy is another de- [writing smudged] report to higher forces.  The Clan jerks [?] itself (off). The math problem is worked out to the end, by them, no matter how many times the enemy fails and will fail to work it out.

To myself:
15 years on Earth today.
Death by shoe is cause for celebration. So we traveled to festival to watch the enemy striking down happy faces; it is what it is, he says
 [sic].

The question is posed at last: in Beijing, do you jump the wall to escape the city, or to save the castle?  Don't surrender yourself.

///

[3 years have passed.  There is no evidence between the last letter and this one.  Note:  he is desperate and beyond redemption.  Notice the absence of pronouns and further addition of judgement calls.  There is a name at last.]

Who claims to be an old man at 18?  History is a rotten enemy who has stolen Youth and Pleasure.  Helvetica has taken these undertakings.  Could she have stolen them?  There is no right answer to this equation, for once.  That man is gone now.  God rid [sic].  Spit on the earth for Luck, but there is no such thing.  Hel is Earth now, for she is still living. 


Where the grass is always greener, finding a certain distrust at the border.  Soldiers are armed for a war that is soon to rain down again.  Telling them to hunt for Hel only gets cold glares and a bullet hole; fighting is only child's play, history is [writing cut off].

The man gave up history to Death; so is that to take on an apprentice will ensure survival?  Is this survival?  What is this?  To walk down history's path is to embrace Death, all of its scores of lovers and thorns of lovers?  What if there is a body at death that does not embrace it?  Does history force the dead (soon to be) from its touch, and thus, shall grant life once again?

It is too late; there is no one to meet.

///

Dear Hel
Hel, your body will -
cramp, swerve, go to hell tonight -
there will be no light -

[hey dude, что ебать
вы сейчас пишете? дерьмо
Что с Вами случилось]


We (must) to die sometime.  We do not wait for Death; Death awaits you.  It waits patiently in its rocking chair.  It waits in the stream as it washes off the ashes of its slavened human bodies.  It is waiting right now to wish [sic] you away.  [writing is rendered blotches.]  Hel, I wish you nothing.  There is nothing left for pitiful humans.  That man has abandoned all hope here. 

Siberian prison is cold after all.  Time to break out.  Alert the armory about history in the making!
(But you'll never hear from me.)

///

I killed the my a second Human Being today.  It had black eyes that shook entirely.  They do things hard [word used again??] around here.  Why ask about the family if the family does not exist?  These are inane questions that pose as what they are; there are no proverbs between the lines.  You ask back then about the Clan?  You deserve to die.  I broke you out today.  I will break out every day and say that I am I.  But I am God.  We will figure this out when the time comes.

Why must humans be such sordid scrimpy creatures?

Goodbye forever, maybe.

///

[There is most likely a time gap again.]

Exactly 03.33.  I was deciding between Life and Death when I got a letter.  It says I am to go back to USSR.  Do I seem like the kind of God to play nanny to a godless child?  I 

[fuck off.  everybody knows that joke.]

I know it's not USSR anymore.  They don't fear God or the Devil anymore.  They don't fear shoes they walk in or part from or kick shins with.  Are there unfeeling creatures now?  

///


[wtfffirreparable damage.]

They have DECIDED not to wait for it [the stupid shoe?] to fall.  Does the conductor hate my hair?  I will jump off at the next stop as [writing DESTROYED].  I know the [writing illegible] are gone for good.  Bones are tired and for the dogs.  I should have never called her Wife. (2 graves have been dug.)

When I lose my breath, I lose my grasp on wisdom what I've kept by my side.  There is a boy I am slated to meet; the Clan disapproves, as per usual.  Do they figure I will spank the innocence out of him?  They should know better than that.  They disapproved of Wife∃†∈∞.  [The Clan can be so obvious.  Isn't the Clan an resolved atheist?]  I loved her.  They hated her.  I hated her.  They hated her.  Nothing ever changes.  Yet they continue to hate her and never forget cardinal sins.  Fortunately it is suddenly warm out and my goosepimples are not going away.  She's never coming back nor will I mourn her; nothing ever changes.

Nobody recognizes it; History is a living ghost, nothing but mythology ladened with dust.  Does one lose a finger to terminology?  Yes, because that is all we say.  Does one lose memorizes to the tide of war?  Yes, because that is all we make and let die.  Ordinarily, we have no choice; gods make have no choice either.  God 
≅Time.  That is all we must know for now.  

But why not equivalent, I ask myself.  Perhaps I am not wrong.

⇓50∀51 nigh.
Either way, being wrong is irrelevant to mankind:  Fate may be the God from the beginning.

And what is this here?  Losing a finger and having it sewn on whilst awake is shocking but not nearly as shocking as the train food.  I have not deboarded from this good or not good.  What is good anyway?  There is no such thing or place.  I have not forgotten the Internal Devices, nor will They allow it.  

///

I
have The
ability.

I have
gained
The ability.       Help me.  Is this the Clan's power?  I have been endowed with It, but where is the honour?  I hear the ocean and an emptiness that goes on.



///



Dear.
15.05.
I've been thinking about it.  Martyrs - you - may be God's messengers, but we - me - are his tally keepers.  I keep everything that I am entrusted; then that person digs graves for those waking up to the darkness of light.  We are shadows, to follow you wherever you wander.  If you ask, should God send them back?  WE do not go where your God tells us.

It is enough that He should have no name.



///

Can't sleep, must think.  History, Time, Death, Life, Healing; they all have a bond I cannot infiltrate.  This is why there is a Clan.  There are a limited variant of voices.  As I have said in the past, and as I have come alive now, I repeat: there is no light or dark matter.

[it can't be him??]

///

The slated boy is declothed and deloused.  You should have tossed him away, put him on the train into the white lands.  What stopped you?


Don't lose your way.

///

I will not tell a lie now; admittance is my vice.  I.

The boy.  He killed the sister in the womb.  He drained her of her (in)value, Fate?  History?  Time?  Yin?  The non-breaking space.  She must have been jaded too soon, spit out too soon, struck down in one fell swoop, too offhanded, because the unnamed Lives on.  In him.  Yin nurtured him to birth, yet he failed to protect her.  Yang may be your cover O M.  [Ohm?]
 
 
 

                                                                                                       th(e(ye)ar)s  ?

yester, Esther, Ishtar, Lover   (too deep)  too Fated?
.
.


[there was a teretier terrescar in the brittle paper, but I've restored it to its reputable former glory. what's wrong with this picture (above)?]

What if
there isn't an equation because
this is all passing =
which is it?  M [M?!] >> Nothing.

Is it possible to clear a Human of its birth?  This may never come to pass.

Either road to take, the boy is reborn.  Continue tradition.  Will he break tradition?  Will not


let work go to Hel.

///

A.  changes.  Let us exploit the human mechanism.  [I've heard this. before.  for what's ahead: 2 to 1, heshe it means?]     Theoretically, predictability is ensured over H ____ ?  Not very serious, but it is overly simplified.

May we help ourselves.  Do you believe we are beyond help?  [YOU ARE.]

Boy is without food or water or relatives.  He has not been told the truth.  Touching his face makes no difference to his grim nature.  He must already know the truth, but I did not take their poorman's currency in the form of coin for safe passage into Death.  Their cultures are mixed up; they should be dead by now.  If they should live longer, there is something wrong about them, not right.  

Note to self: study proximity of child to deprivation.  There are 2 guidelines:  in a chamber, or a simple room, locked.  Or.  [the rest was deliberately omitted by author.]

[is it possible to hate somebody you've never met?]

///

It was a SUCCESS.  The Greeks would cry EUREKA, but we have no time for that.
If we cannot stop it, we can race it to the end.  This is the new policy [?I need to study more apparently].

Being a cog, overcoming it into something like History itself, then to become a cog for the greater good once again?  Herein lies the problem that was never meant to be.  Is Fate merely a fancy word for H or T?  Is it a bargaining chip between the deities, H and T?  

Was Hell [sic] a sacrificial lamb fated to . . .
I have yet to throw away my identity.  I am a worm in the Clan.  They have snuffed me out and I have taken the boy as mine.  It's not enough to say he is betrothed to apprenticeship.  He's killed for it.

[that's NOT LAVI. he's not me.  he's not Bookman.]

[why would this be mentioned if never meant to be read again, or found by another?  these are either lies, or an unfortunate life collecting dust.  why would grampa have lied about killing people?  weren't they below them?  us?  didn't people not even fit into the equation for us?  did they not do this, using themselves for our sake?  HISTORY does its OWN dirty work!! I disclaim everything.  I can contest it cuz there is no memory of it, and I remember everything.  what?]

///


I awoke today.  Obviously I have awoken, but not in this way and not in a long time.  

There is a space I've tried to fill up.  It goes like this: 

                                                           ?(?)(??) initially incarnated\\\\resurrected d.o.i?


The invention of the typewriter comes later.  I will use it later.  If he so wishes a suicide note, then so be it.  But who would ever read it?  Who can feel sorry for him?  No one.  Does he hear the ocean when he sleeps?  The invention of the typewriter is the approach of all those facets of Life, caressing you.  It cools your warm body for you.  Then it festers in your sweat and fluids.

Entropy.  There is a trope for this; nobody can force me to [TO WHAT???].

The boy is made empty now.  Now he has learned that History has Will, We are History, therefore We have History's Will and follow it we have when we do without possession.  Furthermore, We are the Sons of Time.

///

The story of the Shoe;
Once upon a time a boy was born into a farm village;
he was poor and poorwitted - he knew not when the other
shoe would drop.  
He raised himself outside of his parents, for he knew
they would disapprove.  Moreover, that is all they did.  Until He came.
Then he showed them, and the boy, how to prosper.  He taught them
Death Is A Hoax and Life Is A Glamour Spell by mediocre demons.
But do you know who started this?
It had never been started after all, reborn again and again into 
the same body, same face; how is this possible?
Yet, you always wait for the other shoe to drop
because you must, because
it is your Fate.

If you read this in your final years again, will you remember how History kicked you aside for its own union with Time?  Do the Humans know what they're in for, when History gives rebirth to them, if they're unfortunate enough?  They are given rice, or no rice, but there remains the kernel of meaning: 

Our shoes may sheath our feet for Life, but what do we sheath?  Are we the Gods of Time, and History is our lover?  May Fate be the lovechild, may it not indefinitely.  Our Fate is to be recycled, and theirs is to see it in passing.  We always See.  Think.  Feel.

///

[No, it's not Bookman.  after hour upon hour of restlessness of research, this isn't him.  it's not his past nor present self.  the future is a sacred feminine that we can never divulge.  why am I writing this?  It's not right.  someone else contrived it; it has that odor in its pages; i'd know it anywhere.  are we being recycled??
&idk it's not v. clear; i could have killedhurtsomeone...  Bookman has always taught inscribed within me the Fate of the Clan. supposedly we have always been around, aloft, whatever, how you say испытывающий угрызения совести (conscience-smitten stricken??)!  i wish i never foudnt his.  cud i erase it from my head?...]]]]
i don't feel a thing.



/ I V X L C D M NO.

Hell, you know we are born in Real Sin, not Christian Sin.  >>(正弦)?
. . . . . . .
What do I speak of?  After all, it is not my job to sit idly by, laughing haughtily at the masses.  I have work to do.  I am the Guardian of History.  I am an incarnation of God.  I am his mentor, more than a father or grandfather or grand.  You may recognize me.  Remember me.
你好 לביא* . . . . . .




---

He had been too afraid to move.  Lavi had been too afraid to do anything.  But sit, idly, not laughing.  Bookman would come home soon. His mentor would be home sooner.  And sooner now.

---




*Hello, (Lion-cub).**


---

((Why would you do that?  Even I am not that heartless.  I.

Brace yourself.

Too late.  It's too late!  It's already begun -

It's because you cannot handle the truth.

Right.  Right.  You're right.   

You'll KILL yourself.  Lion-cub.))

---


**LaVi.
50∀51∴≠.  backward numeric: C.E. 1505 d.o.b.i.s.   backward alphabetic:  Ival ~

Evil. /////X

ikväll ≈
.se; the aforementioned [Na(Me)] under the cloak of {ℑ}darkness, never to be seen, to shut its eyes against {ℜ}Humanity.

mischka, more or less, ((loved one)), but not 'full of love' himself. it's not real tho. it's not reaL. I could have thrown away
the Evil one.
I did.  (I) WANT TO KNOW, like a mouse back into the woodwork.  Sorry, back into paperwork that's what it means.  That's what it All means.  nothing ever changes.  i am tired.

does it mean i m lost in thought? -

---

"Unloved," Kanda says.  Lavi can feel his stomach prick to needles and his arm raise for the attack.  He doesn't strike, though, he doesn't attack.

"What are you looking at?" he murmurs,



 lost in thought. some heavy shit.

"Lavi, did you - ?"

"I didn't."

"Didyoucut yourself?  You've got to be fucking kidding me."


"My hand slipped."

"From what."  Kanda tugs Lavi's arm toward him, shoving up the wristband.  Lavi hadn't the sense or decency to wrap it with a bandage; that would have given it away more.  He wants to remain unseen.  "Don't look at me like that."

Lavi flushes fuschia.  Flushes away all conspiracy theory.  "I'm not making a statement.  My hand can slip, ya know.  I am." What?
 Human.  He can't crawl back into the woodwork.


                            150506070000000   - until - !

"Are you slipping?"

"Chto?"

A crash of concern from Kanda's brow: it cramps, very lightly, but Lavi can still see it, even if he looks away.  Fancy seeing everything that has been, everything that will be?  That.  Is Sin.  No matter how Kanda shows his concern, it only raises one fact:

Lavi was once something else.  And he cannot say a thing.  Going through your life, lives, avoiding the real issue.


"Mind gettin' some gelato with me at the old Italian remake downtown?"

"You are slipping."

Whatever.  Lavi neglects to fuel the fury.  "Why wouldjoo say that?"

"What?  Here's your jumper.  It's rainy out.  What's wrong?  Do you want to get the ice cream or not.  What?  Oy.  What?!"

"Sorry I thought I heard a rat or . . .  Dermo!"  (He's stubbed his knee into the contraption Bookman is keeping for someone.)


Kanda steps back from him in their flat's corridor.  "Now you're cutting yourself."

Not so much.

Lavi shoves his wrist underneath Kanda's nose.  "It slipped!  I meant to cut my finger."  Laughter/Lavi solves most traps you might walk into from time to time.  (There are the times, there are the stories.)

Kanda stares at him as if he's just said he'd cut his finger off.

Which Lavi almost did.  Almost.  He'd wanted to, ohm, so much, which might make up the difference.

Fancy, having no fingers.  To write with, to write down lists and things that, inevitably, won't matter.  Of course, naturally, Lavi would find a way to write - to matter?; he's an engineer, the engine, right down to the gasket.  If you touch (it), so hot, he'll burst.  Whether it be hot oil or hot water, it would be up to you.

He could buckle-burst right now by Kanda's fingers brushing at the shell of him.  They are inclined to avoid each other as they do on off days.

"Yuu."
 You'll think I'm crazyloon i can't say don't make me say god i killed her in the womb. pozhaluĭsta, vy ostavite menya ona nikuda ne godit·sya U menya porazil sam pochemu?! pochemu ya ne mogu umeret???  

Most of all, how can Lavi stay around him when he's so afraid of going on without him?  It's a jumble, but he knows there's a method to it, if only he could just find it, in that jumble.  Yuu would have to understand, someday.

"Lavi.  Give me an answer, and it had better be good," Kanda shrugs his impermeable back off, "and stop laughing."

"What do you want me to say?"

Anything but the whole truth, reads Kanda's face.  Just don't be fucked up, don't fuck this up.  You're gonna try it, aren't you?

"All right."  He regroups himself, nibbling a dirty nail.  He rubs the nervous embittered itch from his nose with his bruised knuckle.

"Is that what that was?"


Lavi's nose burns at the tone.

That.


"Your 'translator's notes'?" Kanda continues, hard lines written all over his eyes.

"How many - much - did you read?"

"Only a few words."

Only.  Didn't think you had it in you, snooping like that.

"Are you . . . gonna be sick?"

"N-no.  There's no reason for that.  It's good.  I mean, it's not unloved.  Y'know."  You don't know everything - about me.

"No, I don't.  Tch."


Don't
Make
Me
Say
It.

Kanda walks to the kitchen sink, grabs Gramps' razor in his fist, and goes for the main hose in his own wrist.  Lavi nearly jacks out, but something keeps him from saving his human friend soulmate like any normal person would.  Instead, all he can do is suffer in silence, stock and still.  He makes a Kanda-like grr sound upon his lips.  "That's some heavy shit."

                                              Wake up.  LaViLaViLaViM.  Wake up now.
 Hello.  Wake up, Lion-cub.

((Hey.  
Can you hear me?))





Yuu-chan waddles around Kanda's feet in an adult way.

It seems to make Kanda change his mind.  Not like a force, but a suggestion taken.  He stands there at the sink, basking Lavi in a glare, drawing on him with his eyes, pulling down, back to his fist with the razorblade.  He might be wondering why a razorblade is by the kitchen sink in the first place.  There is a click clack where the blade drops onto porcelain.  

"There is nothing to be afraid of," Kanda demands, because it might be what Lavi has been ever so dying to hear.

Lavi doesn't answer, except with a noncommittal shrug.  - baiting, "C'mere, Yuu."  
Let us exploit the Human Mechanism.


Tags: dgrayman, fanfic, kanda yuu, lavi
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