Jojo over heaven

37
9
As the person reading this notebook, as my "yet-unfound friend you,
whose identity I still do not know, I have one question. Do you remember how
many slices of bread you've eaten in your life?
I do not.
In order to maintain this immortal body, the number of lives I've had to
"eat" is uncountable. Not that I ever attempted to count them in the first place.
Fortunately, the lifeblood of young women restores my body the most
efficiently, so the largest portion of the lives that have been sacrificed to me has
been that type. Though I cannot say that measurement is certain.
Of course, no human knows how many slices of bread they've eaten----
But I remember the taste of my first one.
My first slice of bread.
The first life I took.
Dario Brando...... My father.
That was truly an unsavory piece of bread.
In modern terms, it tastes like eating styrofoam.
Secretly killing a person via an Eastern poison truly did not give a
fulfilling sensation. Even when my father died, I really felt no sense of
accomplishment.
There wasn't even any sense of accomplishment.
All I felt was a twinge of doubt.
"Was it really necessary to kill him?
"Was there really any necessity for me, Dio, to dirty my hands?"
That is what I thought.
It was in vain.
With all he drank, he would not have lived for much longer even if I'd
just left him to his own devices. His body had already deteriorated to the degree
where he needed to take medicine daily.