#hinateadeath

[MUSIC]

A pair of wide open blue eyes meet yours when you enter the room. There were only two people in this digital hell with eyes that blue or hair that red; now only one remained. It’s only afterward that thought runs through your mind that you fully register the scene around those eyes.

The contorted form of Hinatea Kudo lays slumped against the far wall, her face frozen in a permanent expression of agonized terror, devoid of the apathy that shielded her pride and her heart. She’s devoid of anything that she would take pride in -- it’s only all too clear that the girl was clad in only her pajamas, what with her hair tied into a messy bun on top of her head and the bat slippers on her feet. Hinatea doesn’t even appear to be wearing her makeup -- and oh, had she been so careful not to be seen without it for so many years, only to be broken on sparse occasions before this.

This wasn’t how she wanted to have died -- not at all. No one wanted to die in a way that made them more vulnerable than they had ever appeared while alive, or in a bathroom where their blood could roll along the grout between tiles as it was now.

Oddly shaped freckles and drops of blood cover her skin -- as does writing, placed carefully, oh so carefully, onto her, as though she were a canvas for someone’s twisted idea of poetry. Twisted wasn’t a strong enough word to describe the robbery of life, but it was a rather fitting adjective for the state of her body: her arms were unnaturally posed in positions that would not be natural for a human -- her leg right leg is debased at her hip, and then the knee is broken against how it is supposed to fold, breaking her skin and exposing her femur; her right arm, in kind, is twisted behind her at a painful angle, as though someone invisible was holding it behind her back with the intent to harm her; and lastly, her left arm was, entirely, dislocated from it’s shoulder joint, and it’s elbow brutally broken, skin pierced by bone that was shattered in the process.

The worst of all, though, is her neck. Her neck -- the skin is folded and stretched alongside almost being torn torn from the muscle, and… Can you see bone…? As for her face, blood is trickling past her bloodless lips, and, after glancing over those wide, petrified eyes, you see another word on the freckled skin of her forehead.

You step away, trying to focus, but this is… This is so much to take in. What’s around her? What can you look at that isn’t her mangled form?

Behind her, on the wall she’s propped up against, hearts are painted in nothing other but her blood. A singular word is spelled out -- what is it? Do you recognize it? Or are you more distracted by the shattered mirror to her right?

The contorted form of Hinatea Kudo lays slumped against the far wall, her face frozen in a permanent expression of agonized terror, devoid of the apathy that shielded her pride and her heart. She’s devoid of anything that she would take pride in -- it’s only all too clear that the girl was clad in only her pajamas, what with her hair tied into a messy bun on top of her head and the bat slippers on her feet. Hinatea doesn’t even appear to be wearing her makeup -- and oh, had she been so careful not to be seen without it for so many years, only to be broken on sparse occasions before this.

This wasn’t how she wanted to have died -- not at all. No one wanted to die in a way that made them more vulnerable than they had ever appeared while alive, or in a bathroom where their blood could roll along the grout between tiles as it was now.

Oddly shaped freckles and drops of blood cover her skin -- as does writing, placed carefully, oh so carefully, onto her, as though she were a canvas for someone’s twisted idea of poetry. Twisted wasn’t a strong enough word to describe the robbery of life, but it was a rather fitting adjective for the state of her body: her arms were unnaturally posed in positions that would not be natural for a human -- her leg right leg is debased at her hip, and then the knee is broken against how it is supposed to fold, breaking her skin and exposing her femur; her right arm, in kind, is twisted behind her at a painful angle, as though someone invisible was holding it behind her back with the intent to harm her; and lastly, her left arm was, entirely, dislocated from it’s shoulder joint, and it’s elbow brutally broken, skin pierced by bone that was shattered in the process.

The worst of all, though, is her neck. Her neck -- the skin is folded and stretched alongside almost being torn torn from the muscle, and… Can you see bone…? As for her face, blood is trickling past her bloodless lips, and, after glancing over those wide, petrified eyes, you see another word on the freckled skin of her forehead.

You step away, trying to focus, but this is… This is so much to take in. What’s around her? What can you look at that isn’t her mangled form?

Behind her, on the wall she’s propped up against, hearts are painted in nothing other but her blood. A singular word is spelled out -- what is it? Do you recognize it? Or are you more distracted by the shattered mirror to her right?

Who wanted to hurt Hinatea, and who wanted to hurt her this much? She was blunt and brash, perhaps even rude, but she’d never hurt anyone enough to deserve this -- had she?