Madness At Noon {COMPLETED}

The Caretaker of the Gentleman 5/5

Author's note: This chapter gets a little tricky. Writing about psychopaths has been one of the greatest challenges I've ever faced. We are reaching the end of the story and I have written and rewritten the end at least 4 times, deleting about 70 pages, all in hopes of trying to find the end that fits just right. The final confrontation between Noon and Shinji is kicking my butt. I'm fighting back... but currently, I'm on page 0.... so we'll see how it goes next week... if there is a next week.... I'm sure it'll all work out great! *twitchtwitch*

I added on this section to The Caretaker of the Gentleman. Pay attention to the different types of font (regular, italics, etc.) because it is changing perspectives all over the place.

Thank you for putting up with me this far *bows*

How long

have I

been asleep?

Seventeen days, she tells me.

How

pathetic.

Bedside care was not befitting of my name.

Mistress Noon was made for

made

made

made for

"The world is cruel. And beautiful." I cannot get those words out of my head. I have heard so many stories about this woman. They say she has lived for a thousand years, immortal, unkillable. They say she is the Devil's spawn, his wife, or both, and can shoot lasers from her eyes or summon blood rain from a storm on a night with no moon. Rumors explode concerning my master, claiming that he is her husband, her son, or her lover from a past life that she has been chasing and killing since the dawn of Man because of some unspeakable crime he committed against her. Some say she can be killed with a bucket of water while others think to use a stake or a silver bullet. Still more believe that no weapon made by man can kill her and so look to the stars for materials alien or divine.

The whole world argues whether Mistress Noon is romantic, psychotic, troubled, or just misunderstood.

They say she fears no man, woman, or god.

They say she fears one man. And in those stories, that one man is not the Gentleman.

This body crumbles with every step, each rattling breath, but left in this flesh there is an eternity tearing its talons into the cruel passage of time. None can have me, none can take me; I am Noon and I will live to see blood paint me red, red, red.

Foolish child, simple child, child belonging to a better world. Dawn's skin was soft and warm, still unmarred by the scars of war. She hesitated at the front door, not letting me pass, not setting me free.

The dark stain on the makeshift tourniquet on her leg grew with every heartbeat. But there was something more. Some heavy sorrow over her face, something terrible laying on the tip of her tongue. She looked like a woman who walked through a nightmare knowing that waking up will not save her.

Pitiful child. The Gentleman was not going to die. She did not need to have his death written so clearly on her face.

He will live.

He will live.

He will live.

He will live.

And I will

They are idiots. The people who gabble around water coolers and bar counters, swapping ridiculous stories about a woman they know nothing about. The Gentleman repeated the line over and over again: Noon is an analgesia, not an alexithymia. Though she cannot feel outward pain, she does, in her own twisted way, feel.