#sparkcrown

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What was it? 

To define is to limit. 

It was clenched fists and forced bravado. It was a deep well run dry, filled to the brim instead with the deaths of other people. 

The sea of his soul gives rise to this creature; the innocuous shadow cast in the pallor of a swollen moon quivers and shakes, burgeoning black between the cracks in mortar. It was humanoid in stature, birthed from ink and ruin, as if rising to a water’s skin. 

A spine ( all bare bone and interlocked vertebrae, ) cuts through the bubbling mound and suddenly rose, arched, bowed again, straining in coming to support naked muscle and armature. Liquid spilled out between a half-formed cage of ribs and skin came to stretch over sinew filled with black, black blood. It shook and spasmed, writhed as the undead when it could barely support its own weight. The weight of the world was a heavy burden; it made it difficult to stand on just two feet. But it rose as the tide, as bare as the day he was born; fabric wraps its body where the black ichor still clung if only to further appropriate the mirror image. 

Save for the head ( still bleeding black, still growing skin and sinew over exposed bone, ) of which it clawed, appeared a shock of platinum in its shaking finger’s wake. Ink stained his face like a mask, catching flame to flake to ash, revealing pure, unfettered skin beneath as if it had always been. O’ pale doppelgänger, the moon shows him his own form down to the thread, save for one piece: its eyes opened, the bowstring is released as he straightened, and liquid gold overtakes what should be silver.

“ ‘Been awhile, ” its lips curled around every syllable, as if tasting them for the very first time. It did not move; the shadow in which it stood wrapped around it like a second skin. 

“ Last time... I only caught a glimpse of you. Do you remember? ”

One single step forward tempted two steps back. 

“ We were barely fifteen, I think.... ” Lips wrapped sudden over vicious canines, stretching into a fine, wicked grin as it fingered a motion he ought to know well: a point to its own head, right between the golden eyes. 

“ ...When you put that ‘gun’ to your head? ” It lowered the weapon, languid like honey. 

“ Too bad it wasn’t real, right? We had nothing to lose. Imagine: Mitsuru inviting us in, and we blow our brains out as a housewarming gift--- Well, she never did like when we got blood on the carpet. ” 

Its eyes narrowing under heavy lidded lashes betrayed the tone of voice. 

( id personally say yeah its just a big tv )

“ Why would you hit a building? ”

“ What if I’m 6'2”? “