I WILL SCREAM UNTIL MY LUNGS ACHE

weeb 2: hontou?! anata breaking up with watashi desu ka?!

weeb 1: hai, demo we can still be tomodachi

weeb 2: hontou?! anata breaking up with watashi desu ka?!

weeb 1: hai, demo we can still be tomodachi

I know it means “no need, I handle this”

But fuck this. I need someone who cares.

what happened to his nose!!!

音波っぱ〜♪

are you

Ok, here’s what I wrote on the fly.  'Probably revisited for spelling checks.

What if Medic is the way he is because of his wife? Hear me out for a mo, if this doesn’t pique your interest in the next paragraph, you can stop reading and cuss me out for being a boring slop.

So, Medic and his wife had a rather uneventful marriage.  They met during the end of the only war they know. You know, that war. They met, they have a chat, found themselves compatible, and they get married after the war.   In America, life was a bit difficult at the start, but aside from that little niggle, everything was same-old, same-old. Medic’s brilliance and finesse as a surgeon earns him nothing but the easiest career leap, like a fit horse made to leap over an ice cream stick. His partner was a typical housewife.  She would serve him buttered bread every morning, cook, clean, and talk to him about his work and the other daily things that had happened. On the weekends they would walk through the park, maybe find a bench and read together, or feed the pigeons and ducks.

Then she died.

Okay.

No one dies a peaceful death, but no one had to die unexpectedly like her.

If by some ‘uncanny chance’ that you had found out about his wife’s death and asked him what had happened, Medic cannot remember. Was it an external evil that had come to her? Like a vicious burglar that came, stole and killed? Was it an extremely rare, freak medical condition that had come to her in mere seconds? Maybe she killed herself?

We don’t know.  No one knows. All we know is that Medic came home as usual. You can’t tell what the fuck had fucking happened, you can’t tell from her face, her nose, her arms, nothing. We don’t know. All we know is, Medic found her dead at home. His wife, the average woman he married died a slightly uncommon death.

To you, his wife is just another lame human being on Earth, who the fuck cares, just another person. Medic saw his wife dead. The young woman who kept him alive during the war, with her words that was like luxury silk passing through her pink petal lips. A woman who made and kept all her promises to him even if they sounded unbelievable to the gods. When the American winters made his hands clench into fists, and she would take them to her and hold them for a welcomed eternity. Every morning and every first meal of his day, there would always be a single slice of bread and a cool glass of water waiting for him.  Two sides of crust would be cut off for the birds in the park in the near future. She would always put a bit more butter than needed, because they were not poor anymore, and butter was one of the first luxuries they could afford after their move.  Only once, she had put a bit too much butter, and she saw from the way he ate a micro second slower, that she should add a little less. During the weekends, she would look her best for him, for every visit to the park, library, outing, you name it, she was always presentable and neat. To him, her hair was a very dark brown, not het black or chestnut brown, but just the right colour for him.  It would wave like a gentle melody in the breeze, and he could smell her sweet perfume tease his senses. She was a simple woman who barely wore jewellery, because even the greenest emerald gems would weep when they saw the soft glow of her eyes.  They would flood the mind with green waves of beauty, getting lost in an unimaginable nirvana of colours. Her skin was pale like untarnished marble, soft yet firm, and her waist was a perfect fit for his hands. Her hips and thighs were womanly and youthful, covered by a simple elegant skirt, her beautiful breasts daintily shielded from everyone’s prying eyes with a virgin white, collared shirt. She was all his to take, and she never once asked him about herself.  The only world that existed for both of them was his, and she would not embarrass him and force him to answer such questions, because it never came to her. And then she died. She was on the floor, that much we know.  She was wearing her favourite dress that day, it was sunshine and blooodstained. Her green eyes still had a weak shimmer of the person that had once been breathing, that gave him breath.

We don’t know how she died, because all we know is, Medic found her dead, and he checked everything about her. He checked her hair, her face, her eyes, her hands, calves, hips, everything. Her breast, her ribs, her heartbeat. Her stomach, her liver, her kidneys. Her reproductive organs, her fingers, the soles of her feet. Her forehead, her skull, her brains. Her veins, her bones, her marrow. Her skin, her hair, and each and every cell he could find on her body. Everything was fine, he checked.

By now you can guess, that he checked everything about her, until he had lost his own soul too. We will never know how she died, because even the bones were destroyed into bloody splinters with bits of meat hanging onto them. How can a skull not be it’s shape anymore? Medic searched like a drowning man for air, he searched for her living being, until he literally tore her apart. Nothing was alive, nothing.  She- It was so cold, he was stupified.  He was utterly blank because he could not believe that what was, will never be. 'How did she-? How can she-?’ he started thinking again. It’s just not possible, you know.  To him, it was just, simply, very, absolutely impossible that she’s dead. She’s not dead, who even said she was dead? There’s no such word! He just needed to put her back together again, that will work.