Futatsu MARU wo tsukete choppiri OTONA sa
In this world, there is only one color that is blacker than black: that specific hue being the blood red of the revolutionary; the color that spills from the fatal gashes of his open wounds. A few memorable words will be uttered at the unveiling of this notoriously sacred shade of dark, and he can die honorably. This would be assuming that the 'he' was a character in a movie. Things never work out according to our high-strung scruples.
I can't exactly say that I know this fact from direct experience, but I can't exactly say that I don't, either.
My baby's just been born inside of me. This morning I finally saw a small bulge in my figure as I stared at my naked form in the mirror. He's a boy, I can feel it, and without a doubt he'll be beautiful like his father. If we play our cards right, me and Joseph, then they will never find out about my little boy. Setona and her fiancé, Anthony, offered to help us in any way they can. So did Hiro. The Five won't let my baby be stolen!
But I digress, as you may or may not know is a bad habit of mine. Following the original intent of this monologue, the blood drawn from the revolutionary was forcibly inscribed in my subconscious mind last night as I was attempting to escape to the sweetness of dreams.
This dream - nightmare - showed the one closest to me; my lover, my everything. He's a brilliant and strong man, my lover is. Joseph's the kind of man I can just sit with and talk for hours without a troubled thought. Really, he's the kind of person who'll dance when you want to dance, cry when you are, laugh with you, not hurt anyone for anything . . .
My parents hate him though, because as a result of some curse of a prophecy that was shoved down my throat since the day I was born. At the age of fifteen I was put on a no-boy diet, which I, pregnant, clearly could not adhere to. I apologize if you find me too passionate as I talk about the matter.
Anyway, I dreamt they shot him.
Right in the head.
Right in the beautiful snow.
Right in front of my son . . . .