Whistle - Komahina. (discontinued) !BEING REMADE!

- Cloudburst -

His footsteps were muffled by the pounding rain that came down. The nimbostratus clouds barely noticeable in the dark night. It looked like water coming out of thin air, and the thought would've been comforting if it was for the lightning that clashed every few minutes. It lightened up the sky, but in an unsettling way, not the way the sun did on a morning.

Nagito took notice of this as he walked along the sidewalk by the road. He was soaked—his book bag in one hand and his folded up umbrella in the other. He didn't bother using it. If his luck decided to turn out on the right side, he wouldn't catch a cold.

He rather liked the feeling of precipitation, anyway.

His hair stuck to his forehead and his glasses had droplets on them. He sighed as he folded them and tucked them in the collar of his shirt. His vision blurred a slight bit without it.

The walk home was a humdrum, and it wasn't Nagito's first rodeo. He was used to this, and even accepted it as just a permanent part of his life. Running his hand through his damp hair, Nagito fumbled with his keys as he struggled to fish them out of his pocket.

They chimed and clanged as he pulled them out, the iron blindingly bright as it reflected of the lightning that struck in the distance. He stuck them into the keyhole and did a twist of his wrist to open the door.

His home was generic. A one story house with a downstairs and an insane amount of windows. It looked like any other building on the outside—in short, it was bland.

The entrance consisted of a faded, dirtied 'Welcome!' mat on the floor, shoes that weren't even bothered to be organized and cluttered up to the side, a coat hanger that only had one other jacket on, and a photo frame that was sitting on a little mahogany stand.

There were two adults in the photo, one female and one male. Both had warm hued colored hair, but it was hard to tell what color it was exactly because of the worn out picture.

The sides of the material were frayed and worn, the corners turning white and bending at the edges in the frame.

The people smiled, though their eyes showed the opposite.

"Hey Mom, hey Dad," Nagito said softly as he peeled of his wet sweatshirt. He set his umbrella in a cylinder container next to the door frame and swung his book bag over his shoulder.

Kicking off his shoes to the corner and flailing the sweatshirt around a bit to at least make an effort to dry it off, he paused momentarily at the front of the frame.

"School was normal as usual, and I got some bruises again." Nagito chuckled a bit as he applied pressure to the bright purple marks on his arm. He twitched a little at the slight pain the coursed up to his elbow.

There were still a few on his legs, he was sure of, but he gave them no mind. His fingernails dug into the flesh of his arm where the bruises were, and only the slight shake of his wince brought him back to reality.

"But I'm fine! I really am. I'm used to it by now, and I've grown to find the feeling welcoming!"

There was a pause before he continued.

"You guys are probably disappointed in trash like me, not being able to do anything in life."

Nagito let out a laugh again, a short, unsettling chuckle as he paced through the hallway and up to his room. He stood right in front of it for a while, not going inside and just staring blankly at patterns and marks in the wooden door. They were all so random, and yet they seemed to fit together with no effort at all.

Even a door had a better appearance—a better life than him. It was amusing, just tracing his fingers up and down the smooth surface, pausing between each indent and bump he inevitably found.