Send me 🔪 to put a knife to my muse’s throat and see how they react.

REVERENT  IS  THIS  CHILD,  INNOCENT  &&.  NAIVE,  trusting,  it’s  a  fools  endeavour  &&.  he  should  have  HEEDED  those  words  novels  so  often  enounced  for  him  but  OH  how’s  he’s  PROVEN  that  This  FATE  was  always  his  to  retain.

FEAR  pools  upon  his  chin  in  opalescent  droplets,  TEARS  &&.  SWEAT  &&.  TERROR.  to  WRITHE  pleading  for  preservation  but  be  met  with  NILL  but  BARBARITY  for  she  now,  beauteous  &&.  ethereal,  from  a  world  not  his  own,  is  of  GNASHING  TEETH  &&.  profanities  abundant.  

                                            (  …  should  i  cry  ? ? ?  )

he  remembers  each  impact,  curled  palms  battering  against  an  arched  spine,  quaking,  WAILING;  please  stop,  please  stop  !!!  &&.  cries  for  mercy  befall  his  lips  before  even  he  is  so  fortunate  as  to  bear  witness  to  them;  warm  &&.  salty,  anguish  runs  in  ceaseless  rivulets  …  HE  WAS  GOING  TO  DIE  !  !  !  

hasty  nails  DIG  into  pliable  flesh,  the  boy’s  head  TILTED  backward.  he  can  smell  BLOOD,  he  can  TASTE  blood  ! ! !   this  was  what  DEATH  felt  like  …  he’d  only  ever  read  of  it’s  excruciating  encompassment  but  as  his  vision  flickered,  as  he  meandered  precariously  close  to  unconsciousness  he  realised  one  thing  …  this  pain  …  there  was  nothing  poetic  within  it …  only  the  overwhelming  pace  at  which  it  enveloped  him.  

REMINISCENCE  OF  THAT  WHICH  HAS  NO  NAME,  nor  does  it  dwell  within  realms  of  clarity,  fragmented  &&.  nebulous.  it  is  to  remember  a  place  but  be  unable  to  place  its  name,  to  hear  the  whisper  of  a  name  upon  the  lips  of  another  but  the  face  to  which  it  belongs  being  indefinite . . .  it  has  him  uneasy,  despite  the  seemingly  content  smiles  that  curls  his  lips.  

        (  he  doesn't  want  them  to  know,  he  wants  to  protect  them  from  that  SELF.  )

KEN  KANEKI . . .  self  reprimand  tells  him  he  should  not  need  to  know,  that  their  worlds  are  no  longer  tethered  together,  that  he  was,  infact,  HUMAN;  even  without  veracity,  he  was  an  INVESTIGATOR,  the  two  were  but  a  monochromatic  contrast.  If  KEN  KANEKI  was  the  darkness,  dwelling  in  a  world  which  made  HUMANS  tremble  with  trepidation  then  HAISE  SASAKI  was  the  LIGHT,  salvation,  a  protector . . .  that  was  what  made  them  so  vastly  different.

pallid  hands  cup  his  cheeks,  allowing  his  focus  to  drift,  now  HEARING  &&.  SEEING  his  present,  not  captive  to  those  thoughts  that  pervaded  &&.  consumed  as  so  often  they  did.  at  first,  he  did  not  notice  them,  did  not  notice  her  but,  politely,  does  he  accept  touka's  offering.  his  smile  softens  but  his  gaze  is  unsettled,  wary,  then  it  shifts,  finding  a  transient  respose  in  Shini's  own.  (  he  cannot  place  this  feeling  of  disquietude,  no,  perhaps,  he  does  not  want  to. )  sasaki  raises  his  hand,  a  genial  wave,  appreciation,  thankfulness,  nothing  more  &&.  nothing  less,  as  he  is  reprimanded  by  shirazu  for  sleeping  on  the  job.  it's  met  with  a  brisk  apology,  sheepishly  running  his  fingers  through  soft  locks . . .  he  meets  his  own  reflection  in  that  brew  for  a  moment  &&.  feels  his  heart  skip  a  beat . . .  because  he  could  have  sworn  that  which  he  saw,  if  only  for  the  briefest  of  moments  was  not  his  own.