I feel so lame using this as my ti
tle but m'afraid it's here to stay |D

I was watching some video and it had such a sad story to it. At least I thought it was. Because I don't know Japanese so my interpretation could be off.
I feel embaras.sed writing this, mainly because I don't do a lot of these sort of love stories nor do I like them. Ah the irony.

Oni Wo Aisuru Hito

“What a horrid boy.” They all said, “Such a nasty thing and look at that nasty little mask of his! I heard he killed his mother and she had given him her soul so that he could survive. Horrid isn’t it?”

They all crowded around the small boy all dressed in white with the face of the devil. He was bare-footed and had dirty yellow hair; his head was bowed low and his skin was so very pale. I was so scared of him that I did not notice how small he was or how thin and all I did was urge my mother to go away and leave the boy.

Before I go to sleep I would take off my beautiful butterfly mask and then look in the mirror, I shudder to think of the face behind the boy’s mask. I am glad I am not him.

When I was fifteen, no longer a child but the budding blossom of beauty, I saw the boy again. His head still hung low as the torrent of insults came towards him. I heard his father does not look at him and that he spends much time wandering out of his house. When I encountered him I had returned from a trip with my friends and saw him outside of my house, watching me from the gate. I spat ridicules at him as my mother had done, mocked his ugly mask and drove him away.

“You should just die.”

I said that and more. I was disgusted by him and his hideous mask. He dipped his head and walked away. I would like to say I was relieved that he left, that I no longer saw him after that day. But my words lingered on my tongue like some vile poison and I could not help but feel revolted by myself. My mother saw him as he walked away and pulled me in, forbidding me from going near him, fearing she may lose me to him.

That night I took off my beautiful butterfly mask and stared at my face and told myself he deserved the face he would have beneath that hideous mask. But this did not comfort me as much as I hoped it would.

When I was twenty, with all the men of the town competing for my affections, I saw him once more. My mother had brought me to select a dress for a dance and as I gazed out of the boutique’s window I saw a glimpse of his mask. Rumours have it that his father had banned him from returning from the house and now he wanders through the streets alone and aimless. Over his pale, white body he now wears a red coat and his hair no longer looks a dirty yellow but a light –almost golden- brown. “Dirty thing.” My mother muttered scornfully when she caught sight of him, “Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, mother.”

When we returned home and I held the shimmering, silken gown against my body I looked at the mirror and took off my beautiful butterfly mask. I wondered what his face looked like.

The next night was the ball. After dancing and being courted by several young men I walked home alone for I was tired and wished to retire early that night. As I walked down the streets to my house I saw him once more, down on his knees and beaten mercilessly by a group of people. Women cried for him to return her child and the men yelled angrily when he did not reply. When they were done, they left comforting the woman; one man kicked his side and spat at him before following the rest. I walked to him and saw his torn and blood-stained clothes. Slowly he looked up at me and I gazed back at him. I held out my hand. I did not know why. He stared at it, confused but longing, before hesitantly extending out his hand and holding mine. His hands were cold.

No, I knew why I held my hand out. The moment the chill seeped into my fingers.

That night my mother did lose me to him and she will never have her hold on me anymore. I love this secret of ours and cherished every minute. I love the thrill of escaping into the night just to hold his hand. I loved each and every thought of him that lingers even after he disappears with the night. I love the warmth of his eyes.

Perhaps that is why this heart hurts so much.

I gazed out of the window in my room, his mask held tightly in my left hand. I felt sick. I felt pain. I felt myself confused and frustrated and not knowing anything and this in itself confused me even more. I can no longer feel his ice cold hands or secret smiles. For he is gone and I could no longer follow him. I tore off my beautiful butterfly mask and looked in the mirror. I held the devil’s mask to my face.

Now I walk along the streets, fled my house to the world unknown. I will not allow them to hold me once more nor will I return to a life of ignorance. I am reduced to a begging witch which people scorn. Looking for what I do not know. Or perhaps I do but choose not to admit it.

Until the cold seeps into my fingers.