#tychebred

                                             ＂I know that. ＂

To crave what he receives – MASOCHISM at its finest, as he dances with his guilt & blood is only kept from his cheeks with a handkerchief of a snotty sleeve. The many horrors he has seen, tortures he’s endured… no longer does the torture come from THEM, it lives inside of him. Crawling from the depths of his heart, where he’d hidden it (himself) long ago, they sing. Laments, they scream & he drowns within himself. ( IT’S YOUR FAULT, IT’S YOUR FAULT ), they never tire. Ceaseless nightmares of the memories he PLEADS to forget, reminding him, ( who is it that was he ? who is it that you KILLED? IT’S YOUR FAULT! Please don’t forget. ) & he never will. He never does.

His flesh is cold, hairs clinging to the air of a temperature so moderate & yet he’s sweating. He knows this lesson well, but his mind whispers, ( but do you not want what it is you receive ? ) & he doesn’t know the answer. Whispering through the air he stands within, crawling, like spiders, from the ground. Trees rustling, birds chirping, & oh, how he wishes for that freedom. That is what he knows. That is all he knows. 

One foot forward, two feet back. A lifelong cycle & never will reach the peak. Not at this rate, not at this pace. He wonders each night his head hits a pillow, a floor board, the back of a wooden chair, or his neck against his chest, he thinks: is it me? it must be… for what cruelty would bound & leap for a chance at innocence? What is it I have done ?

& so he doesn’t hate it. He curses himself, punishing for a crime he knows not OF… not one in particular, anyway. Convinced he is at fault, that this reason is his own to bear, he walks with the world hoisted upon his shoulders, just waiting for it to crumble; who is he who corrupts everything he touches? 

He takes his sins & wears them ( yet you cannot even do that much, for a monster would heal & hide what mistakes they’ve made ) & because of this reason, he allows this torment. He welcomes the demons of his mind & his father’s & he wishes he could THANK him for this ‘ gift ’. Too bad it is too late, & again does he bear the fault. 

Father, father, without you, who would he be ? Could he find the distaste which he already knows & rid of it ? Would he place this sick wanting atop the highest shelf, never to reach it once more ?  –  ( Silly boy, what goes up must surely fall. ) 

a softer world sentence starters   ;   accepting .

      ❛  that might be the case for some people.  ❜ LITERAL EMPHASIS ON SAYING OTHERS DON’T HAVE THIS FIRM BELIEF  , dismissing the integrity of what photos truly expose. for a detective, they are hardcore evidence into   UNRAVELING MISDEEDS AND CHAOS   to shine in its motives. even so they can’t highlight ‘everything’ in life and offer their own deceptions. characters, the faces depicted in memories … memories might be the   INNOCENT   way to describe photos ( especially ones she tries to retain only in thought ). it burns into thought for people whenever grasping the thin paper, refusing to believe what is portrayed.         what they believe to what they see is tested        ; a common sense for any human who wishes to acknowledge ‘their testimony is reality’. hence the lilac woman never bothers into coping with such statements in order to avoid   PRECONCEPTIONS  .

     RUMORS CIRCULATED THE VILLAGE, little whispers, just here and there. But word travels, and it wasn’t long until the shinobi had caught wind. SASUKE UCHIHA——spotted outside the village, and of course, Naruto wasn’t the only one who had stumbled upon these whispers. ‘ Absolutely not, stay in the village until you’re assigned a mission! ‘ The command echoing in his mind for what felt to be CENTURIES, but how could he just be expected to SIT AROUND and WAIT? ( he’s expected to do just that, but anyone who knew the shinobi would be certain that he’d attempt to weasel his way outta this one ) Thus he awaits the coming of nightfall, the village sound asleep as peace is more or less a blessing to it’s residents. Midnight falls, a full moon radiant as the young shinobi sneaks from his dwelling, making his way past any stalking eyes, and finding himself out of the village’s gates in no time flat. HEH, too easy! He’d be back before ol’ Tsunade ( or anyone ) even realized that he was gone! 

He’s swift, ( ‘sasuke, where are you?’ ) his legs carrying his light body, and he feels as if he is soaring towards his UNKNOWN destination ( ‘sasuke! come home!’ ) His mind lost in thought ( his concentration is poor due to the little rest he managed to steal after a day of training ), his focus sharpening as a silhouette is spotted in the distance amongst that of a small camp fire. His teeth grit, fist clenching behind him and he attempts to shout, but no words manage to escape, that wretched name TRAPPED in the back of his throat. He merely settles for action, his pace becoming swift, and he seems to almost teleport to the earth below, anger written plain across his face, and a clenched fist wrapped around the other’s collar. 

MARK ZUKERBURG.

    “ Komaeda– “

Grabs his arm before he can, flitting a concerned glance his way. Despite her joking tone, he seems to think she’s serious when she says he needs more baths. er hand gently takes his face, the concern paving way for amusement and she laughs; pulls him back and hums gently.

    “ senpai-- now is really not the time for this. “

Though she is grateful it’s just them; the eyes within the resistance are far too prying, far too worried for her and her current mental state. Junko is a big girl-- and while frail, she is not willing to die without cause. Glancing to Komaeda, she frowns slightly at the height difference ( if only to take her mind off the death. ) and grabs his arm. Light but commanding. Something feels wrong, but she can’t tell what exactly is bothering her about this. Is it that it’s too quiet, or that they’re alone?

Shifts back, dragging him.

     HIS ICED gaze sharpens; a bitter expression forming against his will as the Captain leans his head upward to merely exchange glances with the other. 

     ❝So...❞ He begins, ❝—How’s the weather up there?❞ Oh, he’s hilarious. The human who is surely several hundred years younger than him must think himself superior due to his height, but not today, no, because Captain Hitsugaya would be getting the last laugh.

❛ eh? mou, komaedasan... ❜

the tone in her voice almost mimics a pout, but there is something bitter woven into each syllable. something bitter, something ugly, something despair-inducing (hah!)... it’s more than just a pout; it’s absolutely UNFORGIVABLE, hmm? that’s his opinion of her, isn’t it? after all this time, after all she’s done to take care of him, he’s still... breathe, mikan.

in spite of her shaky knees and aching heart, something wretched within her insists to continue. to worsen the situation, to exacerbate her sentence; to add another “sin” for komaeda to tack onto his list of irredeemable atrocities, she’s sure... and so, with an absent-minded tone and a gaze fixed on anything but the person she’s talking to, tsumiki continues her musings.

                       ❛ aren’t you being a little presumptuous...? i mean... you’re not exactly in a position to talk, you know. ...what gives you the right to say if someone’s beyond forgiveness, hm...? really, i wonder... ❜