If you have not read Fists and Lipsticks1 © yet,
you may not understand some parts in the second story.

I highly recommend that you read the first part by going to my profile for the link.

But doing so is NOT a demand either,
so if you have chosen to start from here,
you’re free to PM me for any questions / clarifications

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Silent readers are welcomed.

Plagiarists aren’t.

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It is not a demand, but reviews are greatly appreciated.

Thank you for reading! -hiro

P R O L O G U E

This homecoming was not meant to find the soul I’ve lost – the soul that has drifted away from my being until such time when I’ve utterly become oblivious to the very thing I sought. Such friendly soul molded by compassion and gleeful smiles, with a heart once open to receive the warmth of love, and the identity I had, but never gotten the chance to unmask.

If finding this lost soul entails a rewind to the past – back to that day when I was given no choice but to run away and escape… to the past when these fists would only bleed, not strike… to the past where I witnessed and touched death, only to feel my fingertips shudder in despair…

I’d rather not.

I swore to never again cry with tears of blood.

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Eight years…

.

…such long wait for this sweet revenge.

.

I walked towards my closet fixed with mirrors on both doors, painting my twenty-five-year old reflection. I wore a beautiful pink evening gown, diamonds dangling on my ears, perfected by the familiar silver crescent necklace on my neck. My lustrous black hair was fashioned into voguish curls, this face unblemished and seemingly tame like that of a doll leaning on a child’s breast, safe on her clutch as she slumbers… then strikes like a venomous snake in the middle of the night when least expected.

I pulled the double doors open. I remember eight years ago when I had high school uniforms, racing gears, pretty dresses, and casual skinny jeans inside my wardrobe. However, after seeing it in the news the day after I left for Switzerland, I found out that all these items have been obliterated, pulverized into dust, ash, and carbon – crushed into pieces to be blown away by the burst of wind, washed away by the fierce rains, then forgotten. The place okaa-san and I have grown to call ‘home’ has been erased in Tokyo’s map that night of furious inferno started by the Spectra, just like how they deleted every source of happiness I had left.

I came back with calloused hands I’ve acquired from wielding sharp blades. My eyesight has become like that of an eagle – could target with accuracy. I have studied the wonders of gun powders and radars. I have mastered the art of stealth and deception. I have learned to dance to the tune of death.

From my wardrobe, I took out a gun, a belt of bullets, and a dirk from the decks of weapons to choose from.

As I closed the door, I saw once again my reflection on the mirror. Something was missing on my face. I realized that my lips were too pale.

And so, I strolled towards my dresser. I placed the gun, the bullets, and the dirk on top of the table temporarily and took out a small box. I pulled out my pink lipstick and started applying it onto my lips. I looked perfect now. I reached for the cap of the lipstick, but then I suddenly noticed something.

My eyes fell upon the belt of bullets. Soon, I found myself reaching for one piece. I held the lipstick on one hand and the bullet on the other. I was amazed of how similarly they looked.

Letting out a chuckle, I said, “Bullets are like lipsticks.”

I reached for my gun and loaded the bullets into the barrel. After rolling it ready up until all it needed was a little pull on the trigger to fire, I wore my pink evening gloves that matched my gown up to my elbows, continuing my simile with a grin –

.

“They smear like blood.”

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I came back with this new heart which thrives on hate.

Now, all that’s left is to make them burn in my reprisal.

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