#motive thread

@shslbatty --- All your fault. Those three words had anchored her mind to the same abyss of blame. The contents of her mind were a spiraling mess of bubbling hatred and heartbreak, laced by the choir of voices that could not silence their accusations. No matter where her feet led her, no matter how much she tried to nullify the relentless stream of blame, it never seemed to fall silent. Even beyond her door, caught in the safe, comforting walls of her room, among her forest of sewing needles and valley of thread and fabric, she could hear them still. Their voices resonated from the crevice between her door and the floor, hardly even muffled by the insulation pocket. She could still hear Honeya, Niji, Chōju, Maya, Norio, Yuki, Mikka, Daichi, Nyakuma, Koharu, Tamago, Ai, Akemi, Sashiko— all partaking in that same horrible string of accusations and hatred. They showed no interest in entering her room, in following her beyond the door: just in ensuring that her ears could not escape. She spent hours trying to muffle it. She slid her needle through fabric after fabric after fabric, trying to mute their voices with the feeling of being useful. If she crafted enough blankets, she could bury their voices under the fact that she was fending off the cold for her class. If she sewed enough gifts, she could blockade away their cruelty with reception of gratitude. If she worked until her consciousness left her, maybe their voices would be enveloped by the lovely blackness of sleep. But no matter how many stitches it took to create something, no matter how many times she looped the needle and thread back through the fabric, no matter how many times she found herself having to swap materials, it didn't stop. They weren't going to leave her alone, no matter how much she wished it. Sitting around and willing the voices to stop was the last thing that could ward off her nightmares. So with shaking hands and a heavy heart, she set aside her work, slid into her pumps, and opened her door. They all still stood there, with those empty eyes and grotesque smiles, still bearing the remnants of what condemned them to the grave. Stab wounds, bruises, rope marks, any manner of injuries— all still fresh and no less jarring to behold. And among their warped visages still was her little sister, staring up at her with innocent curiosity and heartbreak. Shiruku pushed through all of them and sprinted down the hall and across, crashing against door number 9 — Carmilla's bedroom door. Her fist crashed against the surface, again and again, begging the vampiress to open the door. "Satou-sama?" She called, through a strained, tear-choked voice. "It's me— Shiruku."